A Knight's Persuasion (30 page)

“I have Veronique’s coveted bag of finger bones.” Juliana held out her sleeve to show him. “I took them from a guard. They may be useful in our fight against her.”

“As disgusting as those bones are, you may well be right.” Edouard motioned her through the doorway. “Come. We must not delay our escape.”

Without bothering to soften his footfalls, he hurried into the stairwell, his sword at the ready. Either he wasn’t concerned about being attacked or he believed he could best whomever they encountered.

She followed, keeping a tight hold on her weapon. A moment later, she heard the muffled scrape of his boots as he halted. After racing down several more stairs, she came upon him squatting beside the man she’d left lying by the wall.

“He’s still unconscious,” Edouard said. “’Tis an ugly bruise on his head. He will have a rotten headache, and will be looking to get even with you.”

“Then we had best be gone from here.”

Edouard grinned up at her. “My thoughts exactly.” He unfastened the dagger from the guard’s belt and slipped it under his tunic. “Come on.”

With Edouard in the lead, they hurried down the rest of the stairs and out into the passageway. Glancing to the left and right, Edouard said, “Where is the other guard?”

Juliana looked to where she’d felled the sentry. Dread clutched her innards. “He was there,” she pointed to the floor. “I heard him moaning before I attacked the other man.” Looking down the passage, she said, “Do you think he has gone to warn the others?”

“Aye.” Edouard blew out a breath. “We must hurry. Which way?”

“To the right,” Juliana said. “I know of a lesser used stairwell. It leads down to the far corner of the bailey.”

“Good.” He loped forward, and she did her best to keep up with his brisk strides. How keenly she sensed his wish to be free of captivity and do whatever he could to save his sire.

The sword became heavier in her grasp. Her arm muscles ached, but she ignored the discomfort. She wouldn’t slow Edouard down or be a burden to him.

When voices carried from a connecting passage, he threw up a hand and urged her to flatten back against the shadowed wall; three men-at-arms strode past the opening. Edouard quietly confirmed the rest of the directions with her, and then, after glancing both ways to ensure the route was clear, forged on.

At last, they came to the dimly lit stairwell. Cobwebs floated from the stone ceiling, while the stench of burning pitch wafted on the faint breeze coming up from below.

He raised a cautioning hand and listened. His fingers flexed on his sword, suggesting he looked forward to the confrontation to free his men.

“What is your plan, once we reach the bailey?” she asked.

He rolled his shoulders, doubtless to ease tension gathered there. She tried not to notice how his tunic stretched taut over his upper torso.

“Do you know the location of the postern?” he asked.

Most castles had an alternate door in the thick, surrounding wall, a means of escape in case of mutiny or siege. “’Tis in the keep’s back wall,” she said, dropping the tip of her sword to the floor to rest her tired arms.

He glanced back at her, then frowned, as though realizing her discomfort. Reaching under his tunic, he withdrew the dagger he’d taken from the guard and offered it to her. “Leave the sword. Take this knife instead.”

“Thank you.” She set the sword by the wall and unsheathed the dagger.

“Listen well, Juliana. I want you to stay hidden till ’tis safe for you to slip through the postern. Once you are out, I want you to run from here. Find help. Go to Branton Keep. Tell my father, if he does not already know, all that has occurred here.”

His harsh tone made her quake inside. “I will. And you?”

“I will fight to free Kaine and the others. Then, mayhap, we can encourage other folk at this keep to rise up against Veronique and her lackeys.”

Worry pressed against Juliana’s breastbone. “’Tis a risky plan. There are so few of you, while Veronique has many mercenaries working for her.”

“My men are strong and capable.” Edouard headed down into the stairwell. “If we can take Veronique or Tye captive, we will have more of a chance of gaining the castle folk’s help. They may be too afraid to challenge her—unless they have the right leadership.”

“You,” she said, and began to descend the stairs.

Glancing back to meet her gaze, he nodded.

How brave and determined he looked. Yet he could well be killed.

She didn’t dare tell him, the son of a renowned crusading warrior, not to do battle; ’twas Edouard’s destiny. That fighting spirit ran in his blood. Still, she couldn’t quell a rush of bone-deep terror. “I am afraid for you, Edouard,” she said softly.

He shrugged a little too swiftly. “Fear not. If I fail to win control of the keep, Veronique and her mercenaries will not kill me. I am of no use to them dead.”

There were fates worse than death. They might cut his body so badly, he’d long for death. “Edouard, why not come with me to Branton Keep? You will be safe from Veronique and Tye’s wickedness. Without you as a valuable hostage . . .”

He halted, three steps below her, and slowly faced her. “I considered it. But my men need me. The good folk at Waddesford Keep need me. My sire would never run from such a fight. I will not, either.”

How her heart ached with concern for him, but she mustn’t hold him back. She nodded and followed him the last few steps down to the stout oak door.

On the bottom step, he smiled up at her, his gaze bold and determined. “Stay safe, Juliana. I will see you anon.” He depressed the iron handle, shoved open the door, and stepped through to the bailey beyond.

***

While she walked in the keep’s shadows toward the far wall, Juliana forced herself to slow her strides. ’Twas utter torment. Foreboding tightened her limbs, shortened her breath, and raised goose bumps on her arms. The importance of what she must do, and the consequences for Edouard and so many others if she failed, rendered her light-headed.

Her grip tightened on the handle of the dagger, held straight down at her side. By now the guards she’d fought had likely alerted their fellow mercenaries. At any moment, she might hear shouts, running footfalls, and commands to halt.

Get away as fast as you can. Once you have gone through the postern, you must run. Run!

She reached up to smooth her windblown hair, and the bones in the cloth bag clattered. If Veronique discovered that Juliana had stolen her beloved bones . . .

Juliana shoved aside the unfinished musing; she didn’t care to guess what punishment the cruel woman might inflict. Yet trailing after that thought was a glimmer of insight. What might Veronique agree to, if, in desperation, she thought she might never see those bones again? Any advantage must be used in a fight against an enemy as evil as Veronique.

Daring to veer from her original plan, Juliana crossed to the garden. Looking over the tangled mess of herbs before her, she spied several large stones, once arranged as a decorative element in the middle bed. Crossing to them, she crouched, lifted one stone partway using the knife for leverage, dug a small cavity beneath, and set the bag in the hole. She dropped the stone back into place and scattered the extra dirt amongst the plants. After brushing her hands on the grass, she picked up her weapon, rose, and resumed her careful stroll toward the postern.

A shout drew her gaze to the wall walk to her left. Several men-at-arms ran along the battlement. One of them shouted again to a warrior farther down. She strained to hear over her footfalls, but she couldn’t make out what he said.

He could well be relaying word of her and Edouard’s escape.

Get away. Hurry!

She quickened her strides. Not far now. Shutting out the harsh voices floating down to her, she searched the wall a short distance ahead for the gate.

Somewhere behind her, she heard footfalls.

“You will search the entire bailey,” Veronique was saying, her voice growing louder as she neared. “If you fail to find Edouard and Juliana, I will slice off your ballocks. To start!”

Judging by the footsteps, there were at least five men with Veronique. Fear seized Juliana. With a gasp, she broke into a run. Pain, radiating from her wound, lanced through her head, but she kept running.

“There!” Veronique shrieked. “Get her!”

Unable to suppress her panic, Juliana looked back while she raced on. Veronique, her face twisted with fury, pointed a crooked finger at her. Barreling toward Juliana were four burly men, including the guard Juliana had tricked by insisting he’d dropped a bone.

Run, Juliana
.

Run!

***

Squinting against the afternoon sunshine, Edouard glanced about to get his bearings. His gaze, drawn by the clash of swords somewhere to his left, slid past the dovecotes, kitchens, and stables, toward the gatehouse. The fight, though, was taking place beyond his range of view.

Castle folk crowded into the bailey to watch the skirmish. Some of the women were dabbing at their eyes. The battle sounds made Edouard’s muscles tauten, caused the blood to pump faster in his veins. He tasted the fight, its essence akin to a strong liquor on his tongue.

Keeping his back to the keep and trying not to draw attention from the onlookers, Edouard kept walking until the fight came into view. As he took in the grisly scene, the discordant ring of steel sharp in his ears, he choked down an agonized roar.

At least ten mercenaries fought with Tye. Two of Edouard’s men—the one he’d sent on ahead to Waddesford Keep to alert them of Juliana’s injury, and the warrior who’d ridden with him and Kaine into the keep—lay bloodied and motionless on the ground. They were dead; he knew by the blankness of their eyes.

Kaine was still fighting. Sweat glistening on his face, he bared his teeth and met a brutal strike from Tye. While Kaine struggled, his strength clearly ebbing, Tye’s motions appeared lazy and effortless, like a smug feline toying with a doomed bird.

Light flashed off Tye’s sword and he lunged, his blade grazing Kaine’s left leg. Gasping, Kaine stumbled back, dodging another close blow from a mercenary. A crimson streak formed on Kaine’s woolen hose.

“Soon enough, you will join your friends in death.” Tye laughed. “You are one man against eleven.”

Several of the mercenaries chortled.

The malevolence in Tye’s grin raised Edouard’s fury to lethal pitch. Raising his sword, Edouard marched from the shadows, dirt crunching beneath his boots. “You, Tye, are the man to die.”

Shock flickered over Kaine’s face. “Edouard!”

Tye suddenly appeared taller, more alert, than a moment ago, as his attention focused on Edouard. “Brother.” He spoke the greeting as though ’twas a curse.

“I am not your brother,” Edouard growled, continuing his relentless pace. Thrusting his sword toward the sky, he shouted: “Hear me, good folk of Waddesford Keep! I am Edouard de Lanceau. I am the loyal son of your liege, Moydenshire’s great lord, Geoffrey de Lanceau.”

A murmur rippled through the throng by the stables.

“All those who hear my name,” Edouard yelled, “stand with me. Fight! Help me rid Waddesford of this
scourge
.”

“You are a fool,” Tye sneered. “You will not find supporters here.”

“Fight with me, good folk,” Edouard roared. “I command you, on my lord father’s behalf!”

“He speaks true!” Kaine yelled. “He is Lord de Lanceau’s son. Fight!”

Edouard sensed movement behind him. He turned to see two stable hands stepping forward from the crowd, wielding pitch forks. Mercenaries left Tye’s side to intercept them.

“Fight!” Edouard bellowed again. “The rest of you, join me!”

More murmurs. A few more men walked forward in a show of allegiance. Hope flared within Edouard.

“Dead men, all of them.” Tye signaled to the other mercenaries. With wicked grins, all but one stalked toward the crowd. Women screamed.

“Now,”—Tye’s sword glinted as he adjusted his hold—“to deal with you, Brother.” He lunged.

The blade flew toward Edouard, a bright streak of steel. The thrill of the challenge raced through him as he met the assault.
Clang
.
Clang
. The force of the blows hammered through his bones and muscles, warning him of Tye’s impressive strength and skill. Damnation, but Tye would not triumph!

Putting all his weight behind his thrust, Edouard struck again, forcing Tye to take two steps back.

“Milord, beware,” Kaine called, before he clashed swords with the mercenary who had remained with Tye.

A shrill cackle drifted from across the bailey: Veronique. Ignoring the bitter rage that sound stirred inside him, Edouard kept his gaze on Tye’s face. If he could overpower Tye, take him hostage with the onlookers witnessing, more folk would likely take up the fight against the traitors.

Poised for attack, Tye blew away a lock of hair trailing into his face. “You cannot win, Brother. The men who tried to join your cause are finished. You are already defeated.”

With a mutinous growl, Edouard lunged.

Tye leapt away, following with a slash that barely missed Edouard’s thigh. He tsked. “I am surprised your skill is so inferior to mine. Did Father not ensure you were properly trained?”

Edouard forced himself to ignore the taunt. He watched for an opportunity to attack. No doubt, he’d fight better with the sword specially designed for him, the one stripped from him days ago. But he’d fight well enough with this blade.

“Lean in a little closer, next time you strike,” Tye goaded, matching Edouard’s wary stance. “You might come close to cutting me then. Or are you not strong enough to put the power behind the steel?”

Edouard scowled. Ah, God, he could not wait to run his blade right through Tye’s gut.

A choked cry carried from somewhere behind him: a woman, suffering intense pain.

Juliana? He ground his teeth. Nay. By now, she’d be safely through the postern.

Tye glanced at a point beyond Edouard, then chuckled. “Brother, I think you had best lower your sword and surrender.”

“Edouard!” Kaine rasped.

Edouard risked a backward glance. And froze.