A Knight's Reward (29 page)

Closing his eyes, he focused on a vision of Gisela, standing as he’d last seen her in her shop. So beautiful, despite the fear in her eyes. Fear, aye, but also iron resolve.

As the rope whistled again, bringing more excruciating pain, the image in his mind sharpened. Her flaxen hair streaming behind her like a banner, Gisela stood with her hands clenched around the hilt of a glinting sword. Determination blazing in her eyes, she raised her weapon.

She lunged toward a fire-breathing dragon.

***

“Only a few more leagues to go,” the baker called over his shoulder, his voice barely audible over the creaking and rumbling of the wagon.

Seated in the back, Gisela nodded at him. As she jostled from side to side, her gaze shifted to the pinpoints of light ahead—the torches on the battlements of Branton Keep.

Apprehension shuddered through her, colder than the night breeze tousling her hair and numbing her hands. She glanced down at Ewan, curled up beside her. Sound asleep, he lay with his head resting on a folded blanket in her lap. Sir Smug peeped out from under his arm. In the moonlight, Ewan’s face looked utterly peaceful, his mouth slightly open, his lashes dark feathers against his cheeks.

My sweet child. How I love you. Know that I will always love you, even if we cannot be together as before
.

Tears dampened Gisela’s eyes while she tucked the coarse blanket, provided by the baker, more carefully about her son’s shoulders. How she cherished these quiet moments with him, the contentment of holding him close.

The wagon bounced down into a rut, then out again with a loud
squeak
. Ewan stirred and mumbled in his sleep, but did not wake.

The baker muttered under his breath before clucking to his horse. “Easy now, lovey. I know ye are tired, but we are almost there.” Then, as if noticing flour on the clean garments he had donned before their journey, he swatted at his sleeve.

They passed a stand of trees, standing like silent guards beside the road, and then a stretch of field dotted with slumbering sheep. Stones rattled under the wagon’s wheels as they took the road toward the castle.

Square and imposing, Branton Keep loomed ahead. Moonlight swept over the fortress, lighting sections of the thick stone walls while hiding others. A moat surrounding the castle glistened a cold, steel gray.

Shouts echoed into the night. The guards at the gatehouse had noted their approach.

The baker moaned and shook his head. “’Twill be the coldest, darkest dungeon cell fer me. I am certain of it. Once de Lanceau ’ears ’ow I ’it ’is spy—”

Gisela smothered a sigh. “At this moment, finding Dominic is far more important.”

“Aye, true. But—”

“There is no need to mention the fight in the stable.”

“Aye, but—”

God above!
“If the matter arises, I will say you mistook Dominic for one of the thugs responsible for the break-ins in Clovebury. Moreover, I will insist how very noble you were to drive the roads at night. Being a man of honor, loyal to your lord, you understood the urgency of my plea tonight and did not hesitate to help. Especially when you learned Dominic’s life could be in jeopardy.”

“Oh.” He pushed back his shoulders, pride now in the tilt of his head. He sat straighter on the wagon’s front seat. After a few silent moments, he glanced back at her, worry again creasing his brow. “Do ye think ’e will believe ye?”

Gisela shrugged aside a twinge of doubt. She smiled. “From all I have heard, de Lanceau is a reasonable man. He will appreciate what you have done for Dominic.”

Shouts carried from the keep’s battlements. Men were relaying orders. Moving figures dotted the wall walk now. Archers, most likely, aiming their bows and arrows at them.

The enormity of what she must do pressed down upon Gisela, as tangible as Ewan’s sleeping weight upon her legs. Anxiety threatened to rip her confidence into tiny, irreparable shreds.

Yet, what she was about to do was
right
. She must focus on her conviction, not her unease.

“Halt!” a man’s voice boomed into the night.

The baker muttered worried words and slowed the wagon. It ground to a stop a short walk from the edge of the moat.

Gisela sensed the suspicious stares of the sentries in the gatehouse, as well as the men on the battlements. Her pulse thundered against her ribs, but with gentle hands, she moved Ewan off her lap to lie in the wagon bed.

“Mama?” He rubbed his eyes with his fists.

“I love you,” she whispered, kissing his brow. Blinking away tears, she stood.

“Who goes there?” the voice boomed again.

“I . . . I am but a . . . a s-simple man from C-Clovebury,” the baker said.

Gisela braced her hands on the wagon’s wooden side, sat for a moment on the makeshift ledge, and slid down to the ground. Mutters rippled through the darkness above. Holding her head high, she called, “I am Gisela Anne Balewyne. I must speak with Lord de Lanceau.”

More muttering.

“You are a noblewoman?” the voice asked. “An acquaintance of his lordship?”

“Nay, a tailor from Clovebury.”

A curse echoed, followed by disbelieving laughter. “A commoner, then?”

As humble as a daisy growing in the hedgerow
. “Aye,” she said.

“Lord de Lanceau is abed.” The speaker sounded annoyed. “Return in the morning.”

Gisela drew a nervous breath. She had expected such a response. Looking up at the battlements near the gatehouse—where the voice originated—she said, “I am here on an important matter. It concerns Dominic de Terre.”

Shocked mutters this time.

“What do you know of Dominic?”

He is the father of my son. The man I will love until the day I die
. “He is in danger.”

“How do you know?”

She glanced about. Shadows loomed like monsters, waiting to lunge. From behind her came the
creak
of the wagon. She sensed Ewan’s gaze upon her and knew he peered over the wagon’s side, watching all that transpired.

Squaring her shoulders, she said, “What I have to say must be relayed to Lord de Lanceau. In private.”

“She is a stubborn wench,” another man groused.

“What might she know about Dominic?” the first voice said, sounding concerned. “Mayhap she speaks true.”

Frustration churned inside her, making her stomach gurgle. “Every moment you delay is a moment lost. Please! Dominic may . . .
die
.” Her voice cracked with the agony of that word.

Weariness and the strain of the night’s events brought a rush of scalding tears. “Nay,” she said under her breath, fingering away the tears. “I will not cry. I will not!”

A small, warm hand caught hold of hers. Ewan stood beside her, holding his toy sword. “I love you, Mama.”

A sob stuck in her throat. “Button.”

Her little boy scowled at the castle. “Those men will let you in. I will break down the drawbridge. Just watch me—”

“Thank you, Ewan. ’Tis a very gallant offer, but—”

A metallic
squeal
erupted from the keep. A moment later, the drawbridge began to lower.

Relief almost knocked Gisela to her knees.

Ewan dashed forward, pulling her along after him. “Hurry, Mama.” Looking back at her, his eyes bright, he whispered, “We are going inside a keep.”

“I . . . ah . . . will await ye here,” the baker called after them.

Gisela beckoned to him. “Come on.”

Bowing his head, the baker mumbled what sounded like a frantic prayer. With a reluctant flick of the reins, he urged the horse onward.

Gisela tripped on a half-buried rock, caught her balance, and matched Ewan’s stride. The scents of old stone and water wafted from ahead, a reminder of how very near she was to facing de Lanceau.

Suppressing a shudder, she stood with Ewan in the shadow of the keep and watched the drawbridge lower to the dirt bank. Boots rapped on the wooden planks as four men-at-arms strode out to meet them.

The leader, a young man with corn-silk blond hair, gave her an assessing glance-over. He held a primed crossbow. From his expression, she didn’t doubt he knew how to use the weapon.

“You may enter,” he said, gesturing to the darkness beneath the gatehouse. His voice revealed him as the man who had questioned her from the battlements.

Gisela nodded and, holding tight to Ewan’s hand, stepped onto the drawbridge. Moments later, she heard the
clip-clop
of hooves and rumble of wagon wheels as the baker followed.

Ewan glanced to and fro, his mouth open in awe, while they walked under the teeth of the portcullis into the gatehouse’s dank shadows and on into the torch-lit bailey. “Mama,” he whispered. “There are many warriors here.”

Indeed, there were. All watching her and Ewan. When Gisela murmured, “Aye,” the blond man glanced at her. His mouth curved into a faint smile.

After handing his crossbow to another guard, he escorted them into the keep’s enclosed forebuilding, up the stone stairs, and into the great hall. At the top of the steps, Gisela hesitated, the expansive, shadowed hall more imposing than she’d ever imagined.

Across the room, a low fire flickered in the hearth far larger than the one in her home. Men, women, and children—the castle’s servants—slept on pallets on the rush-strewn floor; where she and Ewan would sleep, if they lived at the keep. Soft snores carried, along with the restless stirring of dogs. When Gisela and Ewan started down the space between the pallets, mongrels dozing between the warm bodies pricked up their ears and watched them.

The blond man started up a flight of wooden stairs leading to an upper level. His boots made a dull
thud
on the planks.

“Mama,” Ewan whispered, “where are we going?”

Glancing back at them, the man said quietly, “To see Lord de Lanceau, of course.”

“Why must we go upstairs? Will we visit his bedchamber?” Ewan’s hushed voice grew louder with each word. “What does a lord wear to bed? Does he have special nightclothes? Does he sleep in his undergarments?”

Gisela’s face burned. “Ewan, hush.”

“But, Mama—”

“Rather than speak with you in the hall, which would mean waking the servants,” the man said, clearly trying hard not to grin, “he will receive you in another chamber.”

Gisela murmured her thanks, grateful Ewan had heeded her request for silence. Yet, with each step, her trepidation grew. Each stair brought her closer and closer to the moment she must admit her deceptions, and, also, her responsibility for what had happened to Dominic. If she’d been honest with him about the hidden silks the first time he’d mentioned the shipment, he wouldn’t be in danger now.

Smoke from the fire hovered at the upper level, making her eyes burn. As she and Ewan crossed the narrow landing and stepped into the corridor beyond, she prayed Dominic was all right.
I love you, Dominic. More than you can ever know. I will do all I can to save you
.

The blond man led them past an imposing set of doors. Farther down the passage illuminated by torches along the wall, he motioned them into a chamber. “Wait here.”

Gisela stepped inside. A red woolen blanket stretched across the floor. A small, wooden wagon, carved animals, a wooden castle, and soldiers lay scattered across the blanket, as though whoever had arranged them had left in mid-play. Her gaze fell upon a cloth dragon, lying on top of a large oak chest, an instant before Ewan gasped, twisted his hand free, and rushed over to it.

He picked up the toy. “Mama, look!”

She crossed to her son’s side. “’Tis a magnificent beast.” The dragon’s embroidered scales were exquisitely rendered with gold thread. De Lanceau’s lady wife, Elizabeth, was said to be a very talented embroiderer.

The
click
of a closing door, then booted footfalls, carried in the passage.

Oh, God, give me strength for what I must say and do
.

Linking her clammy hands together, she faced the doorway. A tall man halted just outside, raking his fingers through his brown, sleep-tousled hair. Frowning at the blond man, who stood just inside the chamber, he said, “Aldwin.”

“Milord.” Aldwin tipped his head toward Gisela.

As de Lanceau’s steel-gray gaze shifted to her, Gisela shivered. She dropped to her knees on the blanket, pulling Ewan down beside her. “Lord de Lanceau,” she said, staring at the blanket’s rolled edge.

The rap of boots on the plank floor told her he approached.

“You are?” he asked.

“Gisela Anne Balewyne,” she said, unable to keep from shaking. “This”—she pointed—”is my son, Ewan.”

“Gisela,” de Lanceau murmured with considerable surprise. Her name seemed familiar to him, as though someone had recently spoken of her. “Dominic mentioned you in his earlier missive,” he added.

“H-he did?” Oh, God. What had Dominic said? Had he known, when he sent the missive, about the silk hidden beneath her floorboards? Unable to suppress a stab of anxiety, she raised her lashes to glance up at de Lanceau.

He met her gaze. His handsome face, bronzed by days spent in the sun, eased into a smile. Extending his hand, he said, “Please, rise. I have spent enough time on that floor to know ’tis not very comfortable.”

Gisela blinked. “But, milord—”

Before she could say more, he caught her hand and drew her to her feet.

“Can I stay down here?” Ewan squinted up at them. His sword pushed to one side, he glanced longingly at the wooden toys.

“
May
I, milord,” Gisela quickly corrected. “I do apologize, Lord de Lanceau, for his lack of propriety. We are not used to speaking with noblemen of your importance . . . I mean, well . . . we are very common folk.”

Inwardly, she cringed. Could she have sounded more like a witless fool?

To her astonishment, de Lanceau’s smile did not falter. “My lady wife and I also have a son, named Edouard. He is younger than your Ewan. Young boys can be most . . . stubborn.” Shaking his head, his expression becoming grave, he said, “Now, I am told you bring word of Dominic.”

She nodded. “I fear his life is in danger. This evening, he was beaten and dragged away—”