Page 103 of A Knight’s Vengeance

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.