Page 5 of A Knight’s Vengeance

Geoffrey’s senses snapped alert. Warning hummed in his veins. He grabbed the dagger in his belt and whipped around.

His friend and fellow knight, Dominic de Terre, stumbled out of the shadows of an open doorway. His chestnut brown hair, cut short at the nape, looked damp and tousled. His cheeks were ruddy, and he grinned like a besotted fool.

Geoffrey blew a breath and lowered the knife. “Dominic.”

“A bloody Turk could have charged up behind you, and you would not have heard,” Dominic said with a good-natured chuckle. With his hand, he stifled a belch.

A flush burned Geoffrey’s cheekbones. Surely he had not been that engrossed in watching her. He shrugged off the sting of embarrassment and sheathed the dagger. “I heard you well enough. Still, I am glad ’twas you, and not a drunken brute.”

“Aye.” Dominic’s gaze darted to the putrefying piles of vegetables and manure beside him as if they might suddenly transform into fly-covered demons. “’Tis common knowledge back alleys hide the worst thieves, pickpockets, cutthroats… even vengeful lords plotting to claim keeps.” When Geoffrey frowned, Dominic laughed. “Milord, what had you so captivated?”

Geoffrey snorted. “I was not captivated.”

“Ha! You stared into the market as though you spied a chest full of silver. Or a wench eager for a tumble.”

“Wrong on both accounts.”

“Not a wench?” Dominic’s brown eyes widened. “Mayhap I do not know you as well as I thought. You once boasted quite a reputation with the fair sex.”

“Enough! Tell me, what did you learn?” Geoffrey glanced back at the market, in time to see a scrawny urchin snatch a joint of meat from the butcher’s stall.

Dominic plucked straw from his tunic’s cuff. “It seems you visit Wode at a fortuitous time. The men in the alehouse were most willing to chat once we had shared a few rounds of brown ale. The miller complained of all the sacks of grain he must grind so the castle’s chief cook can prepare the wedding feast⁠—”

The butcher’s roar carried above the buzz of voices. The boy fled, clutching his prize to his chest, and vanished into the crowd. Elizabeth turned, a look of surprise on her face. Sunlight played over the black curls at her brow and wove highlights into the glossy braid falling to her waist.

Geoffrey remembered the soft brush of her hair on his sleeve. He shoved the thought from his mind. “Wedding?”

“Brackendale’s daughter’s. She is betrothed to the notorious Baron Sedgewick. They are to be married on the town church’s portico in seven days.”

Geoffrey’s eyes narrowed. So there was a suitor. As he watched, unable to wrest his gaze away, she halted the butcher’s angry pursuit of the urchin. With a smile and a few words, she put something into the butcher’s hand. Coins.

The lady had a heart, unlike her father. How ironic that a lord who could cut down a man in front of his young son could sire such a compassionate daughter.

Clenching his jaw against the foolish and unwelcome sympathy, Geoffrey said, “The marriage will never happen.”

“’Tis a clever union. Brackendale’s estates border Sedgewick’s. If either lord should die, the marriage allows the holdings to merge and create the largest estate in all of Moydenshire.” Dominic waved a hand in the air. “Yet, even more important, Brackendale gains a powerful ally.”

A growl burned Geoffrey’s throat. The sound echoed in the wounded reaches of his soul, the place that would only heal when he had vengeance. “As I said, ’twill never happen.”

Dominic arched an eyebrow. “King Richard rewarded you well for your valor in the Crusades, but surely you do not expect your small estate or your new position as lord of Branton Keep to have any influence upon this wedding.”

“You underestimate me.”

Dominic shook his head, as though he reasoned with a stubborn child. “Milord, you have lived at Branton for only two months. The fortress is in disrepair. Your wealth and position are insignificant compared to Brackendale’s or Sedgewick’s, and you have neither the money nor the armies to challenge them to battle.” His mouth eased into a wry grin. “Admit it. Until Pietro sends the profits from the silk trade in Venice, you must watch how you spend every bit of silver.”

“’Twill not cost me one bit,” Geoffrey murmured, shoving away from the tavern wall, “if we have the right pawn.”

“Pawn? Now we speak of chess? I thought⁠—”

“I mean the daughter.”

Geoffrey tilted his head toward the market. Dominic scanned the throng until, at Geoffrey’s nod, his gaze alighted on Elizabeth. She stood peering down at the wagon-churned dirt. She seemed to be searching for a lost treasure. Her ribbon?

Followed by her guard and lady-in-waiting, she walked on a few paces, her strides fluid and graceful.

Dominic whistled. “’Twas a wench, after all.”

Geoffrey dragged a hand over his jaw. He tore his gaze from the shimmer of pale silk at her ankle.