Page 100 of A Knight’s Vengeance

“Already done, milord,” Aldwin said.

“Do the tasks again.”

The squire’s eyes blazed, but he bowed and stalked off toward the horses.

Veronique sat in sullen silence upon on her mount, her curls crushed beneath her cloak’s fur-trimmed hood. He sensed her fury, reined in like the animal beneath her. The wench seethed, and from more than his demand to send an escort. She wanted to see de Lanceau suffer. She wanted to watch him die.

Arthur did not envy de Lanceau in the least.

“Can we trust her?” Sedgewick asked in a low voice, coming to Arthur’s side. The baron had found a meat pie somewhere and crammed it into his mouth.

“Veronique will do as I paid her.”

“My dear Elizabeth.” The baron swiped crumbs from his chin with his tunic’s sleeve. “The morrow shall not come soon enough.”

With a terse command, Veronique kicked her horse toward the road. The sentries followed a few paces behind her and Viscon, and hoofbeats reverberated into the night air until the party disappeared from view. Veronique never looked back, and Arthur did not mistake the slight.

Nor did he miss the anger in Aldwin’s eyes as the squire strode past into the tent.

Arthur sighed and turned to the baron. “Will you join me for more wine?”

The tent’s opening snapped open, and Aldwin brushed by with a woolen blanket. He headed for the tree where Arthur’s destrier was hobbled.

“May I drink with you in a moment?” Sedgewick asked, his eyes bright. “There is a small matter I must see to first.”

“Of course.” Arthur stepped into the stuffy tent that still smelled of rosewater, but after a moment’s hesitation, pulled back the flap and watched the baron hasten after Aldwin. Sedgewick’s belly wobbled from side to side with each of his furtive steps, and he did not slow down until he caught up with the squire. They disappeared behind the destrier.

What did Sedgewick require of Aldwin?

Mayhap he wished the squire to tend his horse or give it an extra ration of oats. Shrugging, Arthur dropped the flap and reached for the wine. Whatever the baron needed, Arthur doubted the matter was of great consequence.

Elizabeth awoke to shouts in the bailey. Blinking to clear the sleep from her eyes, she saw the sky beyond the solar’s window was blue-gray. Near dawn. She rolled onto her side, dragging the snug bedding with her, and found Geoffrey had risen. He stood silhouetted against the firelight, pulling on his hose.

A knock rattled the solar’s doors.

“Milord!” Dominic’s cry sounded urgent. A tremor of unease rippled through Elizabeth. Clasping the bedding, she pushed up to sitting.

Geoffrey shrugged into a burgundy tunic, ran to the doors, and yanked them open. Dominic strode in. Alarm buzzed in Elizabeth’s veins. His face grim, he wore a broadsword strapped over a chain mail hauberk. The iron helm tucked under his arm gleamed like a bleached skull.

“What has happened?” Geoffrey demanded.

“An army approaches. At least a hundred knights.”

Tugging down his sleeves, Geoffrey froze. “A siege! I should have foreseen Brackendale’s treachery.”

“Father?” Elizabeth wrapped the linen sheet round her body and leapt from the bed. She ran to the windows and looked out.

Dawn’s watery light glinted off the conical helms of mounted knights. Foot soldiers trailed through the stubbled fields on the other side of the lake, pikes held high as they marched in formation toward the keep. The rumble of wagons carried like distant thunder. She skimmed the lines of men, trying to recognize her sire, but the head of the procession had already passed from view.

Elizabeth whirled to face Geoffrey. The sheet tightened around her body, restricting her movement. “Why has he come here? You agreed to a melee in Moyden Wood.”

His mouth compressed to a bitter line. “I did.”

“Why would my father bring his army to Branton, then?”

“I have been betrayed.”

The dead calm in Geoffrey’s voice slammed into her. Fear tore through her—for her father, for herself, and most of all, for the rogue who had made her soul and body glow.