Page 105 of A Knight’s Vengeance

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.

God’s blood, he did not want to lose her.

Geoffrey flexed his fingers on his sword.