A Knight's Vengeance (47 page)

The older lord jerked his sword up, and the sharp edge skidded across the front of Geoffrey's aging armor. Mail links cracked.
Snapped.
As the weapon's tip sliced through the padded gambeson and tunic to bare flesh, Geoffrey gasped. He stumbled, feeling the hot trickle of blood. It spattered on his hand.

He saw his father dying.
The pool of blood on the dirty straw.

God's holy blood, I will avenge you.

In a haze of agony, he looked up to see Brackendale grinning. The older lord raised his sword and aimed it at Geoffrey's broken mail. Blocking out the pain, drawing upon his fury, Geoffrey leapt forward. Slash after
slash,
he drove Brackendale across the bailey, parting the crowds of soldiers.

The silver-haired lord grunted, weakening under the onslaught. Geoffrey did not relent. Perspiration ran down his face. Blood dripped onto the ground.

Brackendale stumbled. Uncertainty flashed in his eyes.

Seizing the advantage, Geoffrey lunged forward, just as the older lord regained his footing. The weapon cut across Brackendale's thigh. He cried out. Geoffrey stepped forward, hooked his boot behind Brackendale's injured leg, and shoved him backward.

The older lord crashed to the ground.

"Father!"

Geoffrey struggled to shut out Elizabeth's wail and the stinging emotion accompanying it. He raked hair from his eyes and glared down at his enemy, lying dazed at his feet.

Vengeance at last.

With a pained grunt, Brackendale groped for his sword that had skidded beyond his reach. Geoffrey shoved the tip of his blade against Brackendale's neck. Fear darkened the older man's eyes, and anticipation of death.

"Geoffrey, spare him," Elizabeth screamed.

Something twisted deep in Geoffrey's chest.

His soul.

He had dreamed of this glorious moment for eighteen years. With one thrust of his sword, Lord Brackendale would be dead, Geoffrey's father avenged, and Wode free for the claiming.

Geoffrey had anticipated a rush of triumph. Yet he felt no glory. No joy. No exhilaration. His heart constricted with a soul-deep ache. If he killed the man lying helpless at his feet, Elizabeth would never forgive him. She would hate him.

He would lose her.

His hand wavered. He thought of her now, watching the grisly spectacle. He envisioned her tear-streaked face as she waited for him to deliver the mortal blow. He sensed her anguish. He tasted her fear.

God's blood, he did not want to lose her.

Geoffrey flexed his fingers on his sword.

He had no choice.

"Grant me Wode," he said in a voice loud enough for all to hear, "and I will spare you."

Brackendale choked for breath.

"You will also give me Elizabeth, as my betrothed."

Shocked murmurs rippled through the throng around them. The older lord's eyes flared.
"Never!"

With deliberate slowness, Geoffrey pressed the blade forward, drawing a streak of blood.
A final warning.
"I do not want to kill you, but I will. Do you agree?"

Brackendale hesitated, his gaze hard and bitter.

His head jerked in a nod.

"I want your word of honor, as a knight," Geoffrey demanded.

"You have it," Brackendale muttered. He tried to move his bleeding leg and winced.

"I will withdraw my sword, and you will stand and confirm our agreement to all who have witnessed," Geoffrey ground out. "If you betray me, I will kill you. Understand?"

"Aye," the older lord spat.

Geoffrey lifted his blade to return it to its scabbard.

A snap broke the
bailey's
near silence. In the space of an indrawn breath, he recognized the sound—a crossbow bowstring as the weapon's trigger released.

The bolt whistled like a demon unleashed.

His mind yelled for him to move. It was too late.

The steel-tipped bolt pierced his left shoulder. Mail, flesh, and sinew splintered.

A scream tore from the depths of his soul and shattered his world into a crimson haze.

The bolt's impact sent him reeling back against the stone wall in a spray of blood. The jolt jarred the bolt deeper into his chest.

He screamed again.

Gasping, he stared down at his ruined shoulder. He clutched at the ugly, gaping wound. His numb fingers tried to hold together the broken links of mail and mangled flesh, to staunch the flow of his life's blood.

He sank to his knees.

A figure emerged from the darkness smothering him. A woman with bewitching blue eyes and hair that shimmered like black silk. The woman he loved.

"Elizabeth," he moaned.

Pain flared.

Darkness claimed him.

*
    
*
    
*

"Naaaaayyyyyyyy
! "

Elizabeth heard a woman's shrill scream. She did not recognize her own cry until it trailed off and died on her lips.

Wrenching free of the guards detaining her, she ran to Geoffrey's side. He lay crumpled in a heap against the blood-smeared wall, the wooden end of the bolt protruding from his mail. His face was as pale as death. Blood ran down his hauberk and pooled around him on the ground.

She knelt in the dirt and smoothed hair from his brow. Tears streamed down her cheeks and she wiped the wetness away with her sleeve. Her belly clenched into a sickening knot. How could this have happened?

Dominic dropped to his knees beside her. "He lives, milady?" he asked, his voice ragged.

"I do not know," Elizabeth whispered.

The knight took Geoffrey's limp hand and felt for a pulse.
"A faint heartbeat.
Too faint, I fear." Anguish deepened the worried lines around his mouth. He squeezed her fingers, shoved to a stand, and stared across the bailey. "You bastard!" he roared.

Blinking away tears, Elizabeth followed his gaze to the young man standing against the far wall, holding a crossbow. His golden hair, the hue of corn silk, gleamed in the sun. Oh, God.

Her stomach lurched. Bile flooded her mouth. She fought the urge to curl over and retch.

Aldwin had shot Geoffrey.

With assistance from several knights, her father struggled to his feet. He glanced down at Geoffrey's prone body and at her; then he leveled his glare on the squire. "What have you
done?"

Arthur's shout reverberated in the sudden silence. He limped across the bailey, his wounded leg thumping on the ground.

Aldwin stood firm.

"Why did you fire the crossbow?"

"I saved your life, milord." Sweat beaded on Aldwin's forehead.

"Idiot!
My life was not in danger."

The squire flushed. "I saw—"

"De Lanceau intended to sheath his sword. You think me a coward, boy?" Arthur bellowed. "You wished to dishonor me before God and all these witnesses?"

"N-Nay, milord."

"Then why did you interfere?"

Aldwin's face turned scarlet. "I—" he said tightly and looked straight at Elizabeth. "I shot him for my lady."

"Nay!" she cried.

"For Elizabeth?"
Her father scowled.

"
Aye,
and I would do so again." The squire's eyes flashed with conviction. "I did it for her tainted honor, and for
all the
evils de Lanceau forced upon her. I would rather die than see my lady forced to wed that monster. He is not worthy of her virtue, intelligence, or her great beauty. He will never hurt her again."

"Aldwin," Elizabeth moaned.
"Nay.
Nay!"

Arthur stared at Aldwin. When at last he spoke, his voice shook with rage. "Let it be known Geoffrey de Lanceau is now rightful lord of Wode and all the lands surrounding it
. '
Tis an honor he won in battle, before God and witnesses."

"Milord," Aldwin pleaded.

"Get him out of my sight," Arthur barked to the knights behind him. Aldwin was hauled from the bailey, his cries echoing off the stone walls.