A Knight's Vengeance Read online

  A Knight’s Vengeance

  Knight’s Series Book 1

  by

  Catherine Kean

  Dedication:

  For my dear friend Alicia Clarke, who loved this book from its very first draft. Your friendship and endless encouragement are very special to me. Thank you.

  Published by Catherine Kean

  P.O. Box 917624

  Longwood, FL 32791-7624

  Visit Catherine’s website at http://www.catherinekean.com

  Copyright © 2011 by Catherine Kean

  All elements of this book are fictional.

  The author reserves all rights to this ebook.

  This ebook may not be re-sold or reproduced in any way.

  This novel is a reissue and was previously published in mass market paperback.

  Cover design by Kimberly Killion, Hot Damn Designs

  Acknowledgements:

  So many people graciously shared their enthusiasm and kindness each step of my writing journey.

  For fabulous, insightful critiques and editing suggestions, I thank many times over my friends and awesome critique partners Nancy Robards Thompson, Teresa Elliott Brown, and Elizabeth Grainger. I don’t know what I’d do without you!

  My sincerest thanks also to my friend Cheryl Duhaime, who never fails to say “I can’t wait to read the rest;” to my dad, David Lord, who read and made suggestions on an early draft; to my mother, Shirley Lord, whose nurturing, creative soul runs rich and deep; and to my sister, Amanda Lord, who read this story at least twice and gave me constructive feedback.

  Most of all, I must thank my husband Mike, who supported my quest to become a published author. His generous heart bears the hallmarks of a true hero.

  Contents

  Preface

  Prologue

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  More from Catherine Kean

  Prologue

  Moydenshire, England, 1174

  “Father,” Geoffrey de Lanceau moaned. Wrenching his gaze from the dark outlines of the horse and animals nearby, he knelt beside the man sprawled on the stable’s filthy straw.

  The metallic scent of blood seared Geoffrey’s nostrils. In the feeble torchlight, his father’s face bore the waxy pallor of death.

  Tears blurred Geoffrey’s vision. His mind whirled with memories of flaming arrows. Thundering horses. His father’s agonized roar as a sword slashed his chest. Biting down on his hand, Geoffrey fought the sobs that tore up from his belly.

  Outside, the wind wailed past the stable’s walls. The lone torch inside hissed and spat. Light glimmered on the silk surcoat crushed into the straw. The embroidered garment, symbol of his family’s noble heritage, was soiled and torn.

  Helplessness welled up inside Geoffrey like boiling pitch. As the acidic taste of bile filled his mouth, he curled his hands into fists.

  He would not fail to save his father.

  He had rescued his sire from the siege and found refuge. Now, he would save his father’s life. He would prove himself worthy to be the son of Edouard de Lanceau, a knight whose heroism had been lauded in chansons de geste and praised in the king’s court.

  Until the king branded Edouard a traitor.

  Until the king ordered Lord Arthur Brackendale to besiege the keep at Wode and kill Edouard.

  Confusion and fear snaked down Geoffrey’s spine. His sire was not a traitor.

  “Geoffrey?” The rasped voice sounded pitifully faint.

  “Please, lie still.” Geoffrey pressed his palms to his father’s stained shirt. Fresh blood oozed between his fingers. “Need a healer. Poultices. Must stitch the wounds—”

  “No . . . time,” Edouard whispered.

  Geoffrey trembled. “Do not speak. Save your strength. The Earl of Druentwode—”

  “—will protect . . . you now . . . as his own kin. I would do . . . same . . . for his sons.”

  “Nay!”

  Edouard’s mouth twisted into a pained smile. “Promise me . . . you will care for . . . your brother.”

  “Live! You must live. Thomas and I do not want to be orphans.” Despair lodged in Geoffrey’s throat like a stone. “When Mother died, you swore we—”

  “Promise . . . me.”

  With a choked cry, Geoffrey wrenched his hands away. Panic and anger swarmed in his belly like flies. “Do not die a traitor. Live, Father. Prove Lord Brackendale’s siege was wrong. Prove you did not betray our king.”

  Anguish shimmered in Edouard’s gray eyes. “Ah, my son.”

  The tender words clawed at Geoffrey. “I cannot make the vow.” The tears he had tried so hard to hold back streamed down his cheeks. “I cannot wield a sword. I have no armor. I am naught but a boy.”

  “Not boy.” Edouard groped for Geoffrey’s hand and squeezed it. “You are heir to the de Lanceau estates. I ask you again—”

  His father’s tone held urgency. With a shuddered sigh, Geoffrey nodded. He curled his small fingers into his sire’s and held tight. “I promise. ’Tis a vow sealed in blood.”

  Edouard groaned. Gasped. His breath expelled on a rush, faded to a gurgle, then . . . only the wind’s eerie shriek.

  “Father?” Geoffrey looked down at his sire’s pale, lifeless hand. In the shadows, animals stirred.

  Rats scurried across the fouled straw, eyes bright in the torchlight.

  “Father?” Geoffrey’s voice rose to a wail. He freed his hand and blinked away tears. Screaming, he slammed his fist against the dirt floor.

  With trembling fingers, he reached out and closed his father’s sightless eyes.

  Geoffrey sobbed, shoved to his feet, and staggered to the doorway. Rage and grief burned like hellfire in the pit of his stomach. “I will avenge you, Father,” he cried toward the night sky shrouded with fog. “God’s holy blood, I will avenge you!”

  Chapter One

  Eighteen years later

  “A love potion, dove? An elixir ta ease yer lonely heart?”

  “Not this day, thank you.” Lady Elizabeth Brackendale strolled past the one-eyed peddler waving flasks and vials. As she sidestepped a mound of manure, she sighed. Love potion, indeed. Her heart’s afflictions could not be cured in that manner.

  Behind her, she heard the voices and booted footsteps of her lady-in-waiting and two armed guards. What a nuisance the men-at-arms were, an unwelcome reminder of the perilous future.

  Elizabeth shivered, skirted two men arguing over a spilled crate of onions, and walked further into the crowded market square. She would not spoil this rare, glorious day that her father had allowed her to leave Wode’s fortified walls. She would not worry about the lord rumored to be plotting vengeance against her sire, a rogue named Geoffrey de Lanceau.

  Her father would deal with him.

  Tipping her face into the breeze, she inhaled a waft of ripe vegetables, wood smoke, and horse. Ahead, men unloaded cartloads of cloth and spices, jugglers performed for a laughing crowd, and merchants hawked their wares. What a glorious mélange of smells, sights, and sounds. How she had missed her visits to the market.

  Apprehension, cold as bone fingers, trailed down her spine. If only battle were not looming in the days ahead. If anything happened to her f
ather . . .

  She shoved the thought aside. When necessary, he would summon his armies, crush de Lanceau, and peace would again rule Moydenshire. Her father could not fail with Baron Sedgewick of Avenley and his armies at his side.

  Baron Sedgewick. Her betrothed.

  In seven days, her husband.

  Fluttering strips of cloth lured her toward a stall. Blinking away tears, she paused and fingered a blood red ribbon. Resentment flared, sharper than her worry. She could not wed the baron. She would not! How could she marry and leave her father’s side with de Lanceau still a threat? How could she marry a man she did not love, but loathed?

  She must persuade her father to break the engagement.

  Or, she would find a way to escape it.

  “Three pieces of silver? I suggest you reconsider.”

  Recognizing the voice, Elizabeth dared a sidelong glance. Mildred Cottlepod, her gray-haired lady-in-waiting, scowled at a hunchbacked crone who sold healing herbs. Elizabeth’s gaze slid to her guards. They leaned against crates of squawking chickens while pointing to the jugglers who boasted of an impossible feat.

  Onlookers shouted bets. Coins clinked.

  The guards laughed and reached for their money purses.

  Elizabeth sucked in a breath. Could she slip away? How wondrous, to elude her guards’ watchful gazes for a while. Since de Lanceau had taken up residence in his crown-awarded keep two months ago, they had become her permanent shadows.

  Heat stung Elizabeth’s cheeks, and her fingers tightened around the ribbon. She was a grown woman, not a witless simpleton who needed constant supervision.

  No harm would come to her in this peaceful town protected by her father’s fortress. Without her guards hovering nearby, mayhap she could think of a way to convince her sire to annul the betrothal.

  And, she could choose the thread she needed to finish the embroidery on the orphans’ chemises and shirts, for she had promised the nuns she would be donating gifts of clothes and sweetmeats to the children. Her lips flattened on a painful, buried memory. She would not forget the thread, or the promise she had made, one year ago, when her mother and infant sister had died.

  “Ye like it, milady?” said a gruff voice.

  “Pardon?” She swung around, and came face to face with the stall’s proprietor.

  He jabbed a grubby finger at the bit of silk in her hand.

  “’Tis lovely.” She dropped a silver coin into his palm, far more than the ribbon cost, but no doubt he had a wife and children to feed. He flashed her a toothless grin. She smiled back and glanced at her guards. They were engrossed in the bet.

  Lifting up her bliaut to keep it out of the dirt, she darted into the market square.

  A thrill rippled through her. Freedom, at last.

  The merchant who stocked the nicest thread was just past—

  “Milady.” A man’s voice carried over the honk, honk of geese flapping to get out of her way.

  Had her guards seen her?

  Ignoring the shouts and clop of hooves behind her, she sidestepped a puddle and quickened her steps.

  “Milady, look out!”

  Elizabeth whirled around. A wagon laden with wooden casks rumbled straight for her.

  The driver yelled for her to get out of the way. He jerked hard on the horse’s reins. The wild-eyed beast tossed its head, snorted, and refused to obey its master’s command.

  Elizabeth lunged to the side, expecting to feel the stinging weight of the animal’s hooves. A muscled arm snaked around her waist. She shrieked an instant before she was yanked to safety. The cart hurtled past.

  Elizabeth coughed. Waving her hands, she tried to disperse the dust that burned her eyes and clung to her cloak, hair, and skin. Her legs wobbled. She prayed the stranger who had saved her would not release his hold, or she would topple face first on the ground. She closed her eyes against a wave of dizziness.

  “You fool. Were you trying to get yourself killed?”

  Her coughing subsided. She recognized the deep, rich voice that had called out moments ago. Fool? Who would dare to chastise her so? She, the daughter of Lord Arthur Brackendale.

  Equally annoying, she had sagged into the stranger’s arms like a swooning maiden. Her cheek pressed against his warm chest.

  Elizabeth took a steadying breath, calmed by the rhythmic thud beneath her ear, the pulse of life. This man did not deserve her anger, but her gratitude. He had risked himself great harm to save her from a painful death.

  “Kind sir, I owe you my thanks,” she said.

  His arms, curved around her waist, relaxed. He must have sensed her strength returning. “A moment more, and you would have been crushed beneath the wagon’s wheels,” he said. “A pity, indeed, if such a fair damsel were broken like a child’s toy.”

  His breath stirred the hair at her forehead. Goosebumps shot down her arms. She did not like the sensation, or the trace of humor warming his voice.

  “I did not see the wagon,” Elizabeth said.

  “Nor did you heed my warning.”

  He spoke in the same tone as her father when he told her of her betrothal, but her sire had gentled his words by insisting the arrangement was for her safety, to ensure she and Wode never fell into de Lanceau’s clutches. She scowled. Her whole life it seemed of late was governed by this rogue de Lanceau.

  She tipped up her chin. Her savior was a tall man. Shoulder muscles stretched his gray wool tunic. She steeled herself against his enticing, musky scent. “You are bold to speak to me in such a manner.”

  “Not half as bold, milady, as you appear to be.”

  Elizabeth groaned, for he spoke true. Her hands curled into his tunic. The ribbon poked between her fingers.

  “Or half so bold again,” he continued with a velvety drawl, “as if I had stolen a kiss from your sweet lips.”

  Her breath caught in her throat, trapped like a robin in a hawk’s talons. She wrenched free of his hold. The ribbon slipped from her grasp and drifted toward the ground.

  “You would not dare kiss me.”

  The stranger chuckled, and Elizabeth glared up at him. Her gaze locked with eyes the color of cold steel. Magnificent, captivating eyes, framed by dark lashes. His gaze glinted with amusement. And challenge.

  Unease shot through Elizabeth. Where were her guards?

  The stranger’s stare did not waver. His eyebrows arched with unquestionable arrogance, and her heart beat like a frantic bird’s wings. Why did he not lower his gaze and show her due respect? He must realize her position. Her sky blue gown was tailored to the latest court fashion and sewn from the finest English wool, unlike his plain, homespun gray tunic and hose.

  “You are a fool to challenge me,” she said, hoping to hear the loud roar that signaled the end of the jugglers’ act.

  The stranger smiled. “I am the fool? I did not run into a wagon’s path.” His grin widened to reveal straight, white teeth without a spot of decay. “Mayhap your attention was claimed by more important thoughts, such as the whispered endearments of an eager suitor?”

  She gasped, aware that curious townsfolk had gathered around them. Insolent knave. How dare he mock her before an audience, and her father’s people? “Do you not know who I am?”

  “A lady, forsooth.” His gaze traveled the length of her cloak. “Come to market to buy a pretty trinket?”

  Pride warmed her voice. “My father is lord of the keep which stands upon yonder hill, and the lands surrounding it for many leagues.”

  Surprise and anger flashed in the man’s eyes. “You are Brackendale’s daughter?”

  She had expected awe, not the fury and stark pain that ravaged his features. He looked wounded, cut to his soul. She wondered at the source of his anguish, even as the emotion vanished and his lips thinned into a bitter, controlled smile.

  Over the crowd’s murmurs, she heard shouts and the thunder of approaching footsteps.

  “Your faithful guards, milady.”

  Elizabeth smothered a relieved
sigh. “Good. My father will enjoy meeting a rogue who thought to kiss me.”

  “Alas, I must miss that meeting, and bid you good day.”

  Without warning, he caught her fingers. He bent at the waist, an elegant movement better suited to a chivalrous knight than a knave, and shiny brown hair fell over his face. Light as a feather, his lips brushed the back of her hand.

  Heat skittered across Elizabeth’s skin, spiraled through her arm, and pooled in her belly. The odd sensation was both exciting and frightening.

  She yanked her fingers free, and he smiled.

  “Until we meet again, milady.” Without the slightest attempt at a bow, he turned and strode into the crowd.

  A hand clutched Elizabeth’s arm. “By the blessed Virgin,” Mildred said, wide-eyed, her wrinkled fingers at her throat. “Are you all right?”

  Elizabeth nodded. Her flesh still tingled, as though his mouth continued to ply its sensual wickedness upon her.

  Indeed, her whole body tingled.

  “The man who saved you—”

  “A rogue.” Elizabeth glared at her guards. “Find him.”

  Drawing his sword, one of the men-at-arms hurried off in pursuit. The other bellowed for the throng to disperse.

  As Elizabeth forced her breath to slow and fought the heat in her cheeks, the stranger’s parting words spun through her mind.

  Until we meet again, milady.

  Were the words a promise? Or a threat?

  ***

  Geoffrey de Lanceau leaned against the mildewed wattle-and-daub wall of Totter’s Ale House, his arms crossed over his chest and his gaze on the lady. He had easily eluded the guard. In his childhood, Geoffrey had scampered through Wode’s narrow streets and alleys many times, and he had not forgotten them.

  The matron fussed over her charge like a hen clucking at a chick. The lady’s hands clenched into fists, her chin thrust up, and even from a distance, he saw the spark of her eyes. A willful damsel. She did not like to be scolded, even if she deserved a tongue-wagging.