Page 102 of A Knight’s Vengeance

“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.”