Page 115 of A Knight’s Vengeance

Misgiving skittered through Arthur. “How do you know this?”

Dominic grinned. “Have you ever paid homage to a demented boar?”

Arthur shook his head, refusing to digress into metaphor. “Does he love my daughter?”

“That is a question to ask of him, though I expect you know the answer.”

Arthur rubbed his aching forehead. Ask de Lanceau how he felt about Elizabeth? Would the humiliations never cease?

“Milord,” said Dominic, crossing his arms over his wool jerkin. “What, may I ask, became of Veronique after she told these lies? Is she sequestered at Wode? Enjoying the luxury of this fine keep and your protection?”

Arthur snorted and eased the weight on his wounded leg. “I have not seen her since we besieged Branton and I paid her the rest of her silver. I imagine she has ridden out of Moydenshire and either seeks another lord to cheat, or has booked passage on a ship to the continent to be as far away from here as possible.”

Dominic grunted. “She is hardly wallowing in guilt.”

“Of that, I have no doubt.”

Wry laughter gleamed in Dominic’s eyes. For a moment, Arthur and he shared a smile.

“Your mouth must be dry from all that blustering,” Arthur said after a silence.

Dominic nodded, his gaze wary. “’Tis somewhat parched.”

With one swipe of his arm, Arthur launched the remaining documents onto the rushes. Ignoring Bertrand’s stunned gasp, Arthur drew out a chair and looked at Dominic. “I am ignorant of what happened at Branton Keep during my daughter’s abduction. Indeed, I know little of Geoffrey de Lanceau, but that in his youth he served as page to the Earl of Druentwode. You will enlighten me.”

“’Twill take more than one mug of your stoutest ale to quench my thirst, or loosen my tongue,” Dominic muttered.

Arthur laughed. “That is a challenge I am prepared to win.” He looked at Bertrand, standing beside the table. “Tell the maidservants to bring spiced wine.”

“Aye, milord.”

Bertrand’s strides faded from the hall, and Arthur sat. Despite his overindulgence yestereve, he needed the wine to dull his body’s aches and strained nerves.

No sooner had Dominic rounded the table than Bertrand returned.

“What is it now?” Arthur called to him.

Halting, Bertrand bowed. “A rider from Tillenham, milord. He says the matter is urgent.”

“Tillenham?” The pounding in Arthur’s head intensified. “Send him in.”

Elizabeth jolted out of slumber. She jerked upright. Her calves hit the hard chair rail and with a groan, she realized she had fallen asleep by the fire in Geoffrey’s chamber, while she embroidered his father’s saddle trapping.

Torn between the mending, which was almost completed, and the gowns for the orphans, she had chosen to finish the task for Geoffrey. The decision was not easy, yet in her heart, she sensed her mother would agree. With each loving stitch that restored the emblem of the hawk, Elizabeth wished for Geoffrey to heal. He must see for himself the trapping’s renewed beauty. She hoped he would be pleased.

A hoarse cry shattered the silence. Geoffrey’s harsh, frantic breaths echoed in the chamber. “Nay!”

She leapt to her feet. Was he waking?

Setting the trapping on the chair, she ran to his side. His eyes were closed. His hair formed sweaty whorls against his cheeks. As his head thrashed from side to side on the pillow, his neck muscles bunched and corded.

“Father,” he moaned.

“Geoffrey?” She clutched his hand.

“He is delirious.” Mildred drew the stoppered flask from her basket. “Lift his head. We must give him more elixir.”

Elizabeth struggled to part his lips. He fought her, strong despite his injury, and she willed him to cease for a moment and let them help him fight his demons. At last, Mildred managed to pour more of the tonic into his mouth. He thrashed, struggled, then quieted on a low sob and fell into a fitful sleep.