Page 10 of A Knight’s Vengeance

Elizabeth awoke from a fitful dream. Someone pounded on a door down the passage. She grumbled, rolled over in the cozy tangle of bedding, and shoved a pillow over her head. Could the matter not wait until morning? It seemed only moments ago that she had fallen asleep.

After helping to organize her father’s departure yesterday, and her extra duties overseeing the keep’s routines, she had rested little in two days. She had crawled into bed last night, her body numb with fatigue, but sleep had refused to come. As she lay staring at the fire lit trusses overhead, battle images had charged through her mind.

She worried for her father, and Aldwin, who had ridden at his side. She had not been able to speak with him before he left, and visions of her and the baron standing side by side in Wode’s chapel, reciting wedding vows, haunted her. How sinful, that a part of her hoped Sedgewick would not return from battle alive.

The hammering persisted, loud even through the downy pillow. A door creaked open. Mumbled voices sounded in the passage.

“By the blessed Virgin.”

At Mildred’s shocked cry, the sleepy fog flew from Elizabeth’s mind. She tossed aside the pillow and sat up in her dark chamber.

A terrible chill ran through her. Her father was dead.

She shoved aside the sheets and coverlet and slid her legs over the bed’s edge. The fire had burned to embers, and the wooden boards were as cold as hoarfrost against her bare feet.

Teeth chattering, she yanked on her leather slippers and groped for her woolen robe. Tears threatened, but she blinked them away. She did not know for certain her father had died. She must be strong, and not succumb to worry and despair.

A knock rattled her door. “Milady!” Urgency rang in Mildred’s voice.

Abandoning the robe, Elizabeth stumbled to the door and pulled it open. In the light of a tallow candle, Mildred’s face looked ashen, her eyes huge. Her unbound hair, spilling down over her shoulders, glowed white.

“What has happened? Is my father⁠—?”

“De Lanceau!”

Elizabeth’s breath caught. “What?”

“De Lanceau is inside the keep. Young Jeremy counted at least ten men, all armed. They hid in the miller’s wagon.”

“The delivery for the wedding,” Elizabeth said. Fraeda, the chief cook, had ordered extra flour to be baked into pastries, pies, and tarts for the nuptial feast, and had requested the delivery be made early this morning.

Panic clutched Elizabeth’s innards like a fist.

“They took control of the kitchens right after Fraeda sent Jeremy to fetch salt from the storerooms. The poor lad fled out a side passage. He came to warn us.” Mildred tugged on Elizabeth’s sleeve. “You must hide.”

“Hide? Like a frightened animal?” Anger crackled in Elizabeth’s veins. She clenched her shaking hands into her shift. “This is my father’s keep. I will not cower to a traitor’s son.”

Mildred shook her head. “Your sire would want you safe.”

“I will warn the men-at-arms.”

“Milady—”

“Wode will not fall to de Lanceau.” As Mildred’s mouth opened, Elizabeth said, “Please, do not argue with me. I will not be swayed.” Softening her tone, she said, “Find my mantle. Hurry.”

Muttering under her breath, the matron hurried to the linen chest at the end of the bed. She pushed off the pile of children’s clothes and embroidery thread, lifted the lid, snatched up a knee-length black wool cloak, and set it about Elizabeth’s shoulders.

“The air is cold, milady. Will you be warm enough?”

“Aye.”

Footsteps echoed in the passageway.

Elizabeth’s pulse raced.

Mildred grabbed the edges of the mantle together and struggled to secure them with a gold brooch. Firelight flashed off the ornament’s scrolled design.

Images of another desperate moment flashed through Elizabeth’s mind: her mother’s screams; her sister’s wails; her mother’s hand falling limp and the brooch’s weight falling into Elizabeth’s palm.