A Knight's Vengeance Read online

“Never!” She swung around to face him, her cheeks wet with tears. “How can you accuse me of such atrocious things? How, after all that we have shared?”

  He glanced at the rumpled bed. Anguish clouded his gaze, and he shook his head. “Elizabeth, I—”

  “Do you believe I care naught for you? That I wish you dead?”

  A muscle ticked in his jaw. “With all that stands between us, damsel, ’tis not a fair question. As well you know.” He picked up his sword, drew it partway from the scabbard, and checked the lethal blade.

  Desperation screamed inside her. “Do not fight my father.” Her words softened to an urgent plea. “I beg you, find another way to resolve your feud.”

  Geoffrey sheathed the weapon and dropped it onto the coverlet. “Do not ask me to forfeit my revenge. I cannot and will not promise you that. I have waited eighteen years for this fight.”

  “I could not bear to see you killed.” A sob wrenched from her before she could put her hand over her mouth.

  He bowed his head and cursed. It seemed an eternity before he crossed the few steps between them and gathered her in his arms. He held her in a firm, possessive hug, and she pressed her face against his tunic. “I never thought to hear you say those words,” he murmured into her hair.

  “Nor did I.”

  With exquisite tenderness, Geoffrey smoothed wayward curls away from her face and tilted her chin up, warming her with his sensual smile. “When the siege is over, we will speak of us again,” he whispered against her lips.

  “Promise?” Elizabeth linked her fingers through his. The press of his strong hands offered reassurance, yet fear roiled inside her like a terrible beast. Despite his brave words, Geoffrey might not live to see another dawn.

  “I promise,” he said. “With my very breath.”

  She managed a weak smile. “’Tis not your breath I want to seal your vow, milord.”

  Half-chuckling, half-groaning, Geoffrey dipped his head and kissed her until her pulse pounded and her knees shook. As he drew back, he brushed away her tears with the pad of his thumb. “No more crying, damsel.”

  He stepped away, and Elizabeth sniffled and hugged the sheet close to her chest. “What will happen to me?”

  He scooped up his gambeson, armor, and sword and strode for the doors. “You will be safe here. Stay in the solar,” Geoffrey said over his shoulder. “I do not want you harmed.”

  She huffed a breath. “You cannot expect me to sit idle and wait. I do not want you to die, but I will not allow you to kill my father, either.”

  “Stay inside,” Geoffrey repeated, his tone firm. The door slammed behind him.

  Elizabeth ran to the window. The stream of knights and soldiers had passed, but a cloud of dust lingered in the air. Distant shouts and commotion reached her.

  She could not stay in this solar, alone, and await the outcome of the siege.

  Not when Geoffrey’s life and her father’s were at stake.

  Not if she could prevent the bloodshed.

  She searched the floor for her chemise, yanked it on, and did not bother to tie the laces. Her hands shaking, she pulled on the rose wool and hurried to the doors. They were not locked.

  Three guards stood down the corridor, but were preoccupied with lacing another sentry into a battered leather hauberk.

  She slipped out into the corridor and hurried away.

  ***

  “That is the last of the longbows, milord,” Dominic said. “The crossbows have been handed out.” The knight tossed a quiver of arrows to a young sentry, while Geoffrey passed the remaining pikes and swords to the bleary-eyed servants and men-at-arms congregated in the bailey.

  Geoffrey squinted up at the wall walk. A handful of trained archers stood in place, poised to fire upon intruders crossing the moat to scale the outer curtain wall. God above, ’twas a tiny force to hold back a large army. In a booming voice, he ordered more armed men to the wall walk.

  The snorts of horses anticipating battle, the jangle of bridles, the tromped footfalls and shouts of trained men carried to him on the breeze. Outside Branton’s walls, Brackendale had gathered a formidable force, no doubt with Baron Sedgewick’s assistance.

  At least Branton Keep was well fortified. Brackendale’s men would have to cross the moat, and any soldiers forging through the deep water made easy targets for the archers. If the soldiers made it across alive, they would have to break through the drawbridge and portcullis—

  A grating sound sent a ghastly chill down Geoffrey’s spine. The drawbridge. Descending.

  “God’s teeth!” he roared.

  Dominic’s face whitened with shock. “The gatehouse,” he said above the cries of alarm. “Traitors.”

  Rage and disbelief thundering in his blood, Geoffrey ran for the looming stone building. The mail hauberk, the repaired armor he had worn in battle at Acre, thumped against his legs and slowed his pace. His chausses lay in a heap beside the bailey wall, abandoned because more important matters had demanded his attention. He could not turn back and put them on.

  He reached the gatehouse’s entry door. Locked.

  Geoffrey pounded his fists on the rough wood and bellowed as splinters dug into his skin. No one answered.

  “The wall walk entry,” he shouted. Geoffrey bolted up the stone stairs beside the right watchtower with Dominic close behind. He had ascended but a few steps when a hideous roar sounded above him. Geoffrey glanced up. His belly turned liquid.

  Viscon. A drawn sword gleamed in the mercenary’s hand.

  As Geoffrey reached for his blade, he swallowed hard. He had not trusted the mercenary when he bought his loyalty. Fighting for the enemy, the man was an even more fearsome foe. Garbed in a hauberk of boiled leather, Viscon looked like the county executioner.

  Pacing the mercenary along the uneven stair, Geoffrey forced himself to ignore the taunts spewing from the ogre’s cracked lips. Geoffrey dodged Viscon’s first calculated feint. Grunting, the mercenary lunged again. Their swords clanged. Geoffrey tensed, expecting Viscon to follow with a crushing blow, but, as the sound of metal grinding against metal rent the air, the mercenary leapt back a few steps. He grinned and leered down into the bailey.

  Geoffrey dared a sidelong glance. His gut lurched. The drawbridge was lowered. The portcullis was being winched up at an alarming rate. Mail-clad knights and foot soldiers streamed into the bailey and fanned out to confront the soldiers and terrified servants struggling to find swords and don any remaining armor.

  Viscon chortled and raised his sword. “I pity ye, de Lanceau.”

  Eyes narrowed, Geoffrey braced himself for the final attack. He lunged.

  His boot hit a raised stone.

  He stumbled.

  Dominic darted forward. “Pity you, fool.” His sword plunged into the mercenary’s stomach with the sounds of cracking leather and spurting blood.

  His eyes bulging in their sockets, Viscon collided with the wall. He slid to the stair in a crimson puddle. His breath rushed out on a final, rattled gasp. Whispering a few words, Dominic reached over and closed Viscon’s eyelids.

  Geoffrey blew a sigh. “Many thanks, my friend.”

  A weak grin tilted Dominic’s mouth. “I owed you twice for saving my life. Now, I only owe you once.”

  Behind them, the archers on the battlements unleashed a hail of arrows upon the army in the bailey. Men screamed. Arrows pinged off shields and helms. Horses whinnied, and swords shrieked. As Geoffrey started down the stairwell, the archers fought a concentrated attack from the moat side of the curtain wall. The rain of arrows diminished, and then stopped.

  Geoffrey’s blood ran cold. The enemy had control of the bailey.

  His fist tightened around his sword as one knight, mounted on a huge bay destrier and wearing a silk surcoat, kicked his horse forward and claimed the ground separating the armies. His helm sat low over his face. The nasal guard obscured his features except for his angular jaw and the glint of his piercing blue eyes. Even so, Geoffrey recognized him.


  The man who had killed his father.

  At last, vengeance.

  Geoffrey’s leather grip burned his palm. The cry to charge forward, slash, and avenge howled inside him, and he sucked in a slow breath. He must not ruin his victory. He must not give Brackendale any reason to cut him down before the battle between them had been fought. His arm trembled with the immense effort, yet Geoffrey sheathed his weapon.

  “Geoffrey de Lanceau,” Brackendale roared.

  Hands on his hips, Geoffrey strode out of the stairwell’s shadows and halted before the destrier. He stood firm as the older lord’s gaze raked over him, from his hair to his leather boots.

  “You bastard!” Brackendale shouted.

  Geoffrey did not flinch.

  “Where is my daughter?”

  “Safe.”

  The lord’s mouth curled. “Where?”

  Geoffrey smiled, but did not answer.

  With a furious growl, Brackendale reached for his sword. The blade whipped out of the scabbard with ferocious speed. He tilted the weapon at Geoffrey’s chest. Warning whooshed through Geoffrey, yet he quelled the impulse to draw his blade, even though the pommel sat close to his fingers.

  Brackendale’s eyes glittered with warning. “You are surrounded, de Lanceau. I have superior forces. I will not hesitate to demolish this keep, stone by stone, and kill every living thing within it. Tell me where to find Elizabeth. Now. Or I will give the order.”

  “I thought we were to have a melee. Were you afraid to fight me, old man?”

  “How dare you!”

  “Mayhap you feared I would best you.” Geoffrey folded his arms across his mailed chest, pretending nonchalance. “’Twould be ignoble to die by the sword of Edouard de Lanceau’s son, a traitor’s son, would it not?”

  The older lord’s mouth thinned. He shoved the tip of his weapon into Geoffrey’s mail. The pressure bruised, even through the padded gambeson, but Geoffrey did not step back or acknowledge the discomfort. He would not show weakness, not when a battle lay ahead and he aimed to win.

  “Your mockery is far from amusing,” Brackendale snapped.

  “But true. You attack me with my defenses down. Not a fair fight. Where is the honor in that, Lord Brackendale?”

  “You speak to me of honor?” bellowed the older lord. “I see none in falsifying missives.”

  “True. ’Twas a necessary diversion, though, and it worked.”

  “You made a fool of me.”

  “I want Wode. If I thought you would recognize my claim, the ruse would not have been necessary.”

  Brackendale’s sword bit deeper. “Did you also plan to defile my daughter?”

  Geoffrey flinched.

  Behind Brackendale, a bloated knight on horseback swore. He removed his helm and mopped sweat from his brow. Geoffrey scowled. Baron Sedgewick. How could Brackendale have betrothed Elizabeth to this cruel, pathetic excuse for a man? His jaw hardened at the thought of the baron, or any man, touching her the way he had.

  When he saw the woman standing in the shadow of one of the watchtowers, tucking a chestnut curl under her mantle’s hood, his scowl deepened. Veronique. He had guessed she was the one who had betrayed him, but the confirmation stung. She cast him a gloating smile before turning and crossing the drawbridge to join the soldiers guarding the moat.

  A harsh grin slanted Brackendale’s mouth, as though he had read Geoffrey’s thoughts. “You thought I did not know about Elizabeth?”

  Rage and anguish blazed in Brackendale’s eyes, and Geoffrey guessed Veronique’s words had not been favorable or true. “Lord Brackendale—”

  “Bastard!” The older lord spat. “You will pay for deceiving me. You will suffer for every wretched moment I wasted riding to Tillenham. Above all, you will pay for dishonoring my daughter.”

  “I did naught she did not want.”

  Brackendale thrust his sword deeper. “You lie!”

  Pain radiated through Geoffrey’s flesh. He gritted his teeth and fought the battle yell burning in his throat. He would not attack first.

  “You will die like a dog,” Brackendale snarled, spittle foaming at his mouth. “Take a good look around you, for ’twill be your last.” He whipped his blade up and back, poised to lop Geoffrey’s head from his shoulders.

  Geoffrey drew his sword.

  “Father! Nay!”

  Brackendale’s arm jerked. With an awkward turn of his wrist, he halted the sword’s arc and stared in the direction of the piercing cry.

  Geoffrey dared to look as well. Elizabeth ran out of the forebuilding, her bliaut flapping about her legs, her tresses streaming out behind her. He would die before he let the baron place a hand on her delicate, scented skin.

  She ran to Brackendale’s side. “Father.”

  As the older lord reached down and smoothed her tousled hair, his hand shook. “Elizabeth. Thank God you are all right.”

  Sedgewick sighed with relief. “Beloved.”

  Elizabeth did not even glance at the baron. “Father, please,” she said, her skin ashen in the sunlight. “No one has to die.”

  Her gaze turned to Geoffrey, and he steeled his heart against the distress in her eyes, moist with tears. He flexed his hold on his sword’s grip, resenting the sweat on his palms. No matter what he felt for her, he must not allow her to distract him or sway him from vengeance.

  His blood buzzed with anticipation. The vow he had shouted years ago, that had branded his soul, echoed in his mind. I will avenge you, Father. God’s holy blood, I will avenge you.

  “Get to safety, Elizabeth,” Brackendale ordered in a gruff voice. “You need not witness the fight.”

  “Please, listen to me.”

  The older lord placed a firm hand upon her shoulder. “I will kill him first. I will see him dead, for all he has done to you.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes flew wide. “Nay! He—”

  “Do as he says, damsel,” Geoffrey murmured.

  She gaped at him, looking stunned. Wounded. “Geoffrey?”

  “Pah! You address this cur by his Christian name?” Brackendale sneered.

  “He is as human as you, Father,” cried Elizabeth. “You must heed me. Lay down your sword. Let me explain.”

  Brackendale signaled to two of his knights. Despite Elizabeth’s struggles, they pulled her back into his soldiers’ ranks.

  “Father!” she screamed. “Stop!”

  The knights held her firm.

  Geoffrey shuddered. He hated to hear her distress, but at least she would be protected from any harm.

  The older lord dismounted from his destrier, removed his helm, and tossed it to his squire. “You want a fight, de Lanceau? You shall have it. We will settle our enmity once and for all.”

  Expectation tingled through Geoffrey. “Do you think you can best me?”

  “I will defeat you. When you lie broken and dying, you will watch this keep’s walls fall in around you.” Brackendale raised his blade and lunged.

  Geoffrey leapt aside and laughed. “That is the best you can do?”

  Brackendale growled. He thrust again, aiming for Geoffrey’s midsection. With a snarl, Geoffrey dodged the blow and sliced his blade upward. Brackendale darted back.

  Geoffrey smiled and the battle call rang louder in his blood. Every muscle in his body coiled for attack as he circled. Assessed. Struck.

  Metal clanged and shrieked. The swords locked until Geoffrey shoved away. Slashing his blade down, he caught Brackendale full across his forearm. The older lord groaned.

  Geoffrey paused, breathing hard. Had he fractured bone? Brackendale staggered. Allowing him just enough time to regain his balance, Geoffrey lunged forward. His sword hit chain mail. The links protecting the older lord’s thigh shattered. Blood ran down his leg.

  Frantic cries erupted behind Geoffrey. He shut them out. The ambrosial taste of victory flooded his mouth. A growl rumbled in his throat, and he aimed another strike at Brackendale’s injured arm.

  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.