A Knight's Vengeance (52 page)

Buoyed by fresh hope, Elizabeth returned to the chair and resumed her needlework. Yet when her father strode into the chamber a few moments later, without even a preliminary knock, her insides chilled. He had not set foot within the room since Geoffrey had been brought here. Her father had not wished even that small measure of respect upon his avowed enemy.

He looked tired.
Grim.
Unsettled.
A loathsome secret seemed to weigh on his conscience. He carried a crude wooden box marked on the lid by what appeared to be strokes from a dagger.

Where had he obtained such a container? She had not seen it before.

To her astonishment, Dominic entered behind her father. As he closed the door behind him, she set down the trapping and stood. Dominic dipped his head in a gracious nod before he strode to the bed, his face fraught with concern.

"Father?"
Elizabeth drew his thoughtful gaze from Geoffrey's sleeping form.

"A messenger arrived not long ago," her sire said. "The Earl of Druentwode is dead."

"Oh, Geoffrey."
She thought of his reaction when he awoke and heard of the earl's passing. The news would cause him grief, mayhap even set back his recovery.

"Aye, Geoffrey." Her father's voice sounded odd.
Strained.

When she looked at him, puzzled, he pressed the box into her hands. "What is this?" she asked.

"Open it and see."

She set it on the end of the bed. The knife marks on the top were letters incised as though by a young boy's hand.

G-e-o-f-f-r-e-y.

I left the merriment in the hall to fetch a wooden box I had made under the tutelage of the earl's carpenter. I was proud of my work. I could not wait to show my father. . .

An awful tightness gripped Elizabeth's throat. She raised the lid.
When she saw the assortment of childhood treasures inside, her gaze blurred.
Three feathers wrapped in a swatch of worn linen.
A handful of pebbles.
A sling shot. A small dagger and a beautiful wooden carving of a hawk with its wings
outstretched,
the exact image of the hawk on the saddle trapping.

She pressed a shaking hand to her lips.

"The documents," her father said, his tone rough.

There.
Flattened against the side of the box.
Blinking back tears, she unfurled one of the faded skins with her fingers, noting the broken remains of a wax seal, the terse signature at the bottom,
the
lines of formal, scribed Latin.

An official document ratified by the crown.

"'Tis dated seventeen years ago," she whispered.

Her sire nodded.
"A formal pardon for Edouard de Lanceau."

Her heartbeat suspended; then it slammed against her
ribs.
"What?!"

"It seems he was no traitor to the crown."

A sob tore from her.
"Oh, God!"

With a gentle grip, her father steadied her shaking arm. "The other parchment is a letter written to Geoffrey and signed by the earl. He says he obtained the pardon from the king years ago, but was blackmailed into destroying it by another lord."

"Blackmailed?" she repeated, horrified.

"Aye.
As you see, the earl did not burn the document. Instead, he secreted it away until at last he was free to give it to Geoffrey."

"When the earl died," Elizabeth said with a sniffle, "and the blackmailer no longer had power over him." She dried her cheeks with angry fingers. "Who would blackmail the Earl of Druentwode? Who would deny Geoffrey the truth about his sire?"

Her father shook his head. "I do not know
. '
Tis unfortunate the earl did not name the lord."

"Why not?
Why the secrecy?"

"Mayhap we shall never know." Her sire's gaze moved to Geoffrey, lying still as death beneath the blankets. Dominic knelt by his side, his head bowed.

Elizabeth stared down at the precious parchment and wept. For the past eighteen years, Geoffrey had been haunted by a lie.

Would he live to know the truth?

*
    
*
    
*

Hugging her arms across her chest, Elizabeth made her way across the shadowed bailey. Overhead, the black sky gleamed with stars and a swollen half-moon, but she kept her eyes on the pitted ground as she walked and tried to make sense of her tangled thoughts.

The cool breeze stung her tear-streaked cheeks and stirred her mantle. What to believe. Geoffrey had insisted that his father's loyalty to the crown never wavered. In the end, Geoffrey was right, her father wrong, all because of a secret someone did not want unearthed.

Head down, she skirted a cat devouring its night's kill and kept walking, her shoes crunching on loose stones. Was it selfish to want Geoffrey to live so very, very much? She would sacrifice all to have him know at last the truth about his sire, to have Geoffrey hold her in his arms again and whisper words of love, as he joined his body with hers.

The night wind gusted, and leaves rustled overhead. Elizabeth looked up, startled, to find she had wandered as far as the garden's giant apple tree. Ahead, moonlight silvered the stone path dividing Mildred's neat, tended vegetable and herb beds, and tempted Elizabeth to linger a little longer.

Nay.
She had not meant to go so far and should return to Geoffrey's side. Savoring the tang of lavender in the calming breeze, she turned to go back to the keep.

Hushed conversation drifted to her.

"I want it done this eve," a man said.
"Without fail."
The familiar nasal voice sent unease racing through her.

Drawing her mantle close to her body, Elizabeth peered around the tree's trunk. Two figures stood beneath the pear tree. The baron had his back to her. The Other person wore a voluminous hooded cloak, which concealed all features.

She hesitated, for she had no right to eavesdrop on a private meeting. Yet, as she watched, the baron reached into his sleeve and withdrew a small object.
A silver vial.

"Use half
. '
Tis more than enough poison to end de Lanceau's miserable life, but this time, I want no mistakes."

Elizabeth clamped her hand over her mouth.

"My payment first," came a woman's voice.
Veronique.

"Nay.
First, de Lanceau dies, and then Brackendale. You have the dagger?"

"Of course I do." Veronique tilted her head, her beautiful face illuminated for the briefest moment. "Are you certain that you will have married the little strumpet by then?"

Sedgewick chuckled. "With de Lanceau dead tonight, there will be no further impediment to my marriage. I shall wed the lady on the morrow. Arthur, stupid fool that he is, will be all too delighted I am willing to save her sullied reputation. He will welcome me with open arms."

"And she with open legs?" said Veronique with a cruel laugh.

"She will accept me. She will have no choice."

Shaking, Elizabeth shrank back against the rough tree bark. Fear slashed deep. She must tell her father.

With a swirl of the cloak, Veronique vanished into the shadows. Sedgewick turned and moonlight shone full on his face. He grinned, a merciless twist of his mouth.

Keeping to the darkest shadows, Elizabeth snuck toward the keep. A pebble rattled under her foot. She cringed.

"Who is there?" Sedgewick called.

Cold sweat broke on her brow, but she kept walking.

"Elizabeth, my love, is that you?"

The baron's voice reached her across the path and clawed at her senses. She should have realized 'twould be impossible to hide from him. Her mind screamed with urgency, even as she forced herself to calm. If he did not suspect she had overheard, he would let her be on her way.

Feigning surprise, she turned and faced him.
"Baron?"

He closed the distance between them. "I did not expect to find you out here so late this eve. You are alone?"

A ghastly gleam lit his eyes. The stench of him hit her. He smelled evil. Elizabeth forced her lips into a polite, distant smile. "I told Mildred I would be gone for a moment. I needed a little fresh air. She is expecting me back."

"You left your lover's side for a night walk in the garden?" He smirked, revealing his chipped, stained teeth.
"Why, beloved?
To soothe your guilt?"

Her brow knit into a frown.
"Guilt?"

"You fornicated with him while betrothed to me."

Anger warred with her resolve to stay calm and composed. "Baron Sedgewick—"