A Knight's Reward Read online

  Lurching forward, she whipped the fabric out of harm’s way. As she moved, her foot caught the stool’s edge. With the screech of wood against wood, it tilted sideways and fell over with a thump.

  Gisela groaned. She might have woken Ewan. She must work quickly, now, to stow the fabric before he came to investigate. So far, she had managed to keep the hiding place beneath the floor a secret from him. ’Twould be best if he never knew.

  With clumsy hands, she folded the silk. If she damaged the expensive cloth, she’d owe Crenardieu most of her hard-earned savings. From this point forward, she must be more careful. She wouldn’t fall asleep again.

  Crouching by the opening in the floor, she tucked the gown beside the cut pieces of the flowing, ankle-length cloak and the bolt of remaining silk. Just as she reached for the planks to cover the cavity, the door to her home opened.

  She set down the floorboard and hurried to the door, catching it before it opened too far.

  His hair an adorable mess, Ewan blinked up at her, rubbing his eyes with his fists. “Mama, I heard a noise.”

  “I knocked over the wooden stool. ’Tis all. Why do you not go back to sleep?”

  His sleepy gaze darkened with a frown. “When did you wake up?”

  “A while ago.” Not quite the truth, but not quite a lie, either.

  “Can I sit with you in your shop?”

  “Mayhap this afternoon.” She gestured to his pallet. “Go on. I will wake you later.”

  He slowly pivoted on his heel, as though to obey her. Before she guessed his intent, he whirled and darted past her with a cheeky giggle.

  Gisela rubbed her tired brow with her hand. “Ewan!”

  She knew the exact moment he saw the hole in the floor, because his footfalls slowed. Turning, she saw him crouched at the edge, peering in. He glanced back at her, his eyes shining. “’Tis a secret hiding place.”

  Gisela nodded. “Now you have seen it—”

  “Are there dragons down there, Mama?”

  The question was so unexpected, she laughed. “Nay, Button.”

  His hands clenched. “Are you certain? Mayhap I should get my sword and have a look.”

  “Nay, you should not.” The last thing she needed this morning was for him to scramble into the cavity and not want to come out. Knowing him, he’d claim it as his fortress. Walking past him, she knelt, picked up a plank, and slotted it back into place.

  “Aw, Mama!”

  Three more boards and the floor returned to normal. “There.” She brushed off her hands. Giving him a pointed look, she said, “You must not tell anyone about this hiding place, all right? ’Tis another secret you must keep. Promise me.”

  Staring down at the floor, Ewan scowled. “I did not even get a good look.”

  “Promise, Button.”

  “All right! I promise.”

  Gisela headed to her worktable, aware of Ewan stomping along behind her. She swept a small pile of silk scraps, wax, and blue thread onto the planks before crossing the room to fetch the broom. She turned to see Ewan, holding a lump of wax, fingering through the pile.

  He’d be after another bit of silk to replace the one she’d tied to his sword days ago and then destroyed. A disaster.

  “Button, please go and get dressed while I sweep up here.”

  His fingers curled around the wax, concealing it. “I want to watch.”

  She whisked the broom over his bare toes, and he squealed in surprise. “Hey!”

  “I might sweep you up by mistake if you stand there.” Whisk. “Ha! Got you again.”

  Laughing, he scampered toward the doorway. “Catch me now, if you can.”

  Gisela pretended to pursue him, and he disappeared through the doorway. Resisting a chuckle, she swept up the discards, carried them into the house, and stoked the fire. She tossed the silk into the crackling flames. With a smoky hiss, the evidence disintegrated.

  Humming under her breath, she strolled past the pallets and gave the lump under Ewan’s blanket a nudge with the broom. “Got you.”

  His head poked out the other end. “Aw, Mama!”

  After replacing the broom and blowing out the candles in her workroom, she made them both bread and honey, then helped him don his tunic and hose. Fatigue weighed down her eyelids and made her limbs ache, but she shrugged her discomfort away. She pulled Ewan’s tunic down over his head and planted a noisy kiss on his cheek. “Aw, Mama!” he groaned again, but his eyes sparkled with delight.

  Gisela smoothed a crease from his sleeve, unable to resist a sigh. How had she not noticed that the tunic she’d made him two months ago was already too short through the sleeves?

  Never mind. Right now, she had other priorities. Once she’d got them both far away, she would have all the days she liked to sew him clothes.

  Ewan plopped down on the bench so she could fasten his shoes. Swinging his legs, looking down at her crouched by his feet, he asked, “Where are we going?”

  She caught hold of one foot and pushed on his shoe. “We have some errands to attend. Then, we will return home so I can work.”

  “I want to play outside. Remember that big field—”

  “Not today.”

  He huffed. “You never let me play outside.”

  And for good reason, Button. One day, you will understand and forgive me.

  After fastening both of his shoes, Gisela rose, ignoring his frustrated glare. She smoothed a hand over her weary brow and disorderly hair. Today, even if she were able to let him romp in the field, she couldn’t dally. She must finish the commission for the blacksmith’s wife. There were preparations to make, too, for as soon as she received payment from Crenardieu, she intended to take Ewan and flee.

  Leaving Dominic behind.

  The thought brought a fresh stab of torment. Struggling to ignore it, she slipped her cloak from the peg on the wall.

  “Mama, can I bring Sir Smug?”

  “Of course.” Draping her cloak around her shoulders, she said, “Fetch your mantle, Button. I will wait for you by the outer door.”

  While she walked through her shop, she cast a quick glance around to be sure she hadn’t missed any blue threads. A yawn tugged at her mouth, but she smothered it with the back of her hand. A moment later, Ewan trudged into her shop, the toy knight tucked under his arm. As he neared, he yanked his mantle’s hood up over his head.

  “I am glad Sir Smug can come, too. He is bored with being inside. He wants an adventure.”

  Gisela smothered a chuckle and drew up her own hood. “Come along, then, my two little warriors.” She gave Ewan’s hood an extra tug, to ensure his face was completely covered, then opened the door. They stepped into the street, and she locked the door behind them.

  Dust and stones kicked up under her shoes while they walked. Dogs scampered into alleyways looking for scraps, while grubby children tossed rocks in a made-up game. Ewan stared longingly in their direction, almost stumbling over his own feet.

  With brisk strides, Gisela headed toward the shop district. The scent of baking bread, yeasty and enticing, led her to the right street.

  “Mama, you walk too fast.”

  She caught Ewan’s hand, urging him along when he wanted to investigate a mound of sticks. A few premises away, past a crowd of early shoppers, she spied the shop run by a kindly husband and wife. She often purchased thread and cloth buttons from their well-stocked establishment. They’d even referred several customers to her.

  The front window was open. Relief brought a smile to her lips.

  Ewan’s fingers wriggled in hers. How easily he became distracted. “Mama—”

  “Not now, Ewan.”

  She skirted two men chatting while eating pastries likely purchased from the baker.

  “Mama!”

  The distress in her son’s voice made her glance at him. Ewan’s anxious gaze darted from her, then away. Holding Sir Smug tight to his chest, he scooted closer to her side.

  A reaction she knew well.

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nbsp; Glancing back, she saw Crenardieu striding past the two talking men, his cloak almost skimming the ground. His bright gaze slid from her to Ewan.

  Warning buzzed in her mind. The way he looked at her son seemed almost . . . possessive.

  Facing the Frenchman, she drew Ewan against her. Without the slightest protest, he obeyed.

  Crenardieu smiled. “Bonjour.”

  “Good morning.” She nodded politely, hoping to continue walking. Before she could step away, he moved to block her path.

  Warning shrilled more sharply. Others in the street were watching them. Most likely Crenardieu’s thugs.

  Do not let him see your fear, she told herself, forcing her chin higher. Find out what he wants and be on your way as quickly as possible.

  Crenardieu seemed to sense her discomfort, for he smiled. “I would like to speak with you. Do you have a moment?”

  Nay, her mind answered. But, she couldn’t refuse him. She needed his payment. Smiling in return, she said, “Aye.”

  His hand touched her elbow—a hold that sent shivers racing through her—and he guided her to the side of the street. They stopped beside an empty shop. An iron padlock secured its splintered front window. Gisela remembered the merchant who’d sold pots and pans from this premises, which was recently broken into. His wares ruined, the man had closed up his shop and left Clovebury.

  The blackened space at the bottom right of the window yawned, vacant and eerie.

  “Now then.” The warmth of the Frenchman’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I meant to visit you later today. I did not expect to see you wandering through the town.”

  Again, his gaze dropped to Ewan. With her arm, she nudged her son behind her, removing him from Crenardieu’s view. “Ewan and I had some shopping to finish this morning,” she said.

  The Frenchman nodded. “How are you faring with my commission?”

  “The gown is almost done. Both garments will be finished next week as you asked.”

  Crenardieu’s lips tightened. “Ah. But, you see, I need them in two days.”

  Despite her best efforts, a stunned breath burst from her. “What?”

  “I will collect the items from you before dawn, along with the remaining silk. Oui?”

  Her stunned mind scrambled to form a reply.

  “A regrettable change in plan. Yet, ’tis so.”

  She fought the angry panic heating her face. Forcing a civil tone, she said, “You know I cannot work on your commission during the day. You told me not to. You swore me to secrecy, although you have not explained why that must be so.”

  A dark flicker sharpened the Frenchman’s gaze. For an instant, she regretted daring to toss out the challenge. Yet, it had slipped out before she could smother it. “’Tis not necessary for you to know. Your task is to create the gown, with the fine skill for which you are known.”

  His flattery only deepened her unease. How she longed to ask if the silk was stolen—to have an answer to the question gnawing at her conscience. However, to do so might jeopardize her dealings with him. If he resented her suspicion, he might take away the unfinished garments, and the money he’d promised would be lost.

  “Tsk-tsk! Do not look at me so, Anne—as though I ask you to commit some kind of crime. ’Twould be a shame to spoil my customer’s surprise for his mistress, oui, if word got out about the commission?”

  “True,” Gisela answered, even as a chill wove through her. “Did your client ask for the garments to be finished sooner?”

  The Frenchman’s head dipped in the barest nod.

  “Mayhap if you explain to him that to do my best work, I need until next week—”

  Crenardieu shrugged, his luxurious cloak whispering with the movement. “I did not foresee a problem. If you cannot complete the garments—”

  I will find someone else to do the work, and you will not receive payment, her mind finished for her. “I will do as you ask.”

  “Good.” His smile thinned. “I would hate for the wrong people to learn you are unreliable. Or,” he said quietly, “exactly where you are.”

  His words pummeled her like chunks of melting ice. A tremor shook her, so powerful, she almost keeled into the wall.

  Placing her palm against the stone, she used its strength to fortify her. She struggled for calm. “What do you mean?”

  Another grin, deliberate and cold. “Come now, Anne.”

  His emphasis on her false name sent fear screaming through her. Oh, God. Oh, God. Did he know her true identity?

  If he knew . . . who else did?

  Desperation tightened her breathing. She barely restrained the urge to whirl, grab Ewan’s hand, and run. However, the willful, wounded part of her bared its teeth in defiance. She had done all this man asked of her. She didn’t deserve his goading. She’d not cower to his bullying, especially in front of an audience that, she noted, was watching their exchange with expressions of both amusement and outright curiosity.

  Crenardieu might have no idea who she really was. He might be testing her, to gauge her reaction, because he’d heard a rumor from one of his associates.

  Pretend you do not know what he is talking about. Bluff through it. You can do it, Gisela.

  By sheer strength of will, she managed a puzzled smile. “Your words confuse me. You know my name is Anne.”

  “Aye.” Cruel humor glittered in his eyes. “‘But, is it your real name?”

  Ewan tugged at the back of her cloak. “Mama! Your name is—”

  She spun. “Ewan,” she snapped, so fiercely, his eyes widened with shock. She wept inside at the hurt in his eyes, as well as the crushing dread she could scarcely contain. When she turned back to face the Frenchman, she squeezed her son’s hand. Later, she’d apologize for shouting at him. At this moment, she needed her verbal claws to protect them both.

  Looking Crenardieu straight in the eye, she said, “Please say what it is you wish of me. Otherwise, I ask that you let me be on my way, so I can finish your commission.”

  Admiration lit his gaze before he glanced away. “Those of us in the cloth trade know each other well. Those connections are an important part of our business.” He adjusted one of his gemstone rings. “’Tis well known Ryle Balewyne is looking for his runaway wife and son.” Crenardieu’s gaze locked with hers. “For you.”

  She tried to force a denial between her teeth. But, she couldn’t get a sound past the fear jamming her throat.

  “Do not fail me,” the Frenchman said as he turned away. “Two days, Gisela.”

  Chapter Nine

  The scent of dried grasses filled Dominic’s nostrils. Ahh. He lay in a summer meadow, his cheek tickled by the greenery, his body cocooned in a breeze alive with the buzz of a happy insect. God’s holy fingernails, but he was drunk with the pleasure of the meadow . . .

  The drone intensified. Something landed on his arm. Pinched.

  “Ow!” Dominic’s head snapped up. The meadow swam. A merciless ache crashed against his forehead, a sensation akin to being whacked by a board. Groaning, he fell back to the ground.

  Nay, ’twas not the ground.

  He cracked open his bleary eyes as his befuddled senses began to sharpen. He lay in the small, dingy room in The Stubborn Mule Tavern. A fly—which disappeared through the ill-fitting shutters at the window—had just bitten his forearm. He lay flat on his belly, his fine mantle squashed into a makeshift pillow, his hands curled into the musty-smelling pallet that served as his bed. He sprawled like a drunkard who’d collapsed after a night of overindulgence.

  Dominic groaned, his stomach protesting every slight movement. God’s teeth, he was a drunkard!

  Drunk as a brandy-soaked pudding.

  Yet, the contents of his belly felt like curdled custard—and equally as volatile.

  Unable to restrain another groan, he pressed his palms flat against the pallet. It rustled as he slowly sat up, the events of the previous night filtering into his foggy mind. How many drinks had he bought Crenardieu? Seven? Ten?
The obnoxious Frenchman, who’d grinned at the barmaid each time she’d strolled by, drank like a leaky keg and never seemed to get addled. Nor had he revealed any good information. Horribly disappointing, when the whole point of imbibing in the first place was to loosen the man’s tongue and wrest details from him.

  Especially what Crenardieu knew about Gisela.

  Gisela. A smile softened Dominic’s frown. How he longed to see her. Needed to. The keen ache, always more intense when he’d had too much to drink and his mind wandered to “what ifs” and “what might have been,” resonated in his soul.

  That torment was the reason he had imagined himself in a meadow, no doubt.

  Dominic swiped at straw dangling in his eyes, then brushed off his wrinkled tunic. Once he got to his feet, he’d go see Gisela. An excellent plan. The best plan he’d devised since . . . Never mind.

  Rubbing his throbbing brow, he steeled himself to stand. He would walk to her home. Step by step. One boot in front of the other. Simple.

  With an awkward shove, he rose, careening three steps sideways and almost tripping over his saddlebag. He barely avoided the ink pot and quill on the floor, left out from when he had penned Geoffrey a quick missive. Dominic steadied his balance. A belch erupted from down in his belly. God’s knees! That explosion of sound would bring the tavern’s rafters crashing down on him. He might need more bandaging from Gisela.

  Hmm. Not an entirely unpleasant prospect.

  Just thinking of her warm, gentle hands moving over him again . . .

  Behave, Dominic.

  He sucked in a breath, shuddering when the linen bandages he still wore tickled his skin. After rubbing his hands over his face, he attempted to smooth his hair. It felt like a rat’s nest. He had not been in such a state since Geoffrey and Lady Elizabeth’s wedding celebrations. However long ago that was.

  Squaring his shoulders, he fixed his gaze on the doorway and started toward it. Thud, thud, went his boots. Gurgle, gurgle, answered his gut. At least he was moving forward, even if not in an entirely straight line.

  He stepped out into the shadowed hallway, made his way down the creaky staircase—bypassing slumbering drunkards and empty ale mugs—and walked out into the tavern yard. He squinted against the bright light. The tavern was quiet now, slumbering like a blowsy strumpet, very different from last eve when the revelry had tumbled out through the open door.