Page 90 of A Knight’s Reward

Gisela grabbed the earthenware bowl, scattering the coins underneath. As Ryle straightened, she smashed the bowl into his head. Chunks of pottery and hazelnuts rained onto the floor.

Ryle froze. His whole body taut, his hands splayed in surprise, he stared at her. Murderous rage glowed in his eyes.

Oh, God. Oh, God. She had not hit him hard enough. Now he would⁠—

Ryle reached up to touch his head. His eyes glazed. Rolled backward. He slumped to the floor.

Ewan rushed to her and flung his arms around her legs, his sword bumping against the back of her calf. “Mama, I was scared.”

“You were very brave,” she said, kissing the top of his tousled head.

“As were ye, Anne. Or, should I say, Gisela.” Ada crossed to them and peered down at Ryle’s prone body. Wrinkling her nose, she said, “If I were ye, I would ’ave run away from ’im, too. ’E well deserved that knock on the pate, and the wretched ’eadache ’e will ’ave when ’e wakes.”

Aftershocks of panic rippled through Gisela. “I cannot say how long he will be unconscious.”

Ada grinned. “As long as ye need. Ye have more bowls, do ye not?” Spinning on her heel, she hurried toward the kitchen area.

A knock pounded on the door. “What goes on in there?” demanded one of Crenardieu’s men.

Ewan shivered. Gisela’s arms tightened around him, while she scrambled for an explanation to pacify the thugs. “We⁠—”

Ada raised her head from a cupboard. “We need ’elp!” she shouted.

Gisela stared at the older woman. “What?”

With a brazen wink, Ada held up several stacked bowls. She jabbed a plump finger at the door.

Gisela swallowed. Two more men to render senseless. Yet, ’twas a good plan.

“Hide under the table,” she whispered to Ewan, steering him toward safety. “Aye!” she shouted to the men beyond the door. “My”—she forced out the despicable word—“husband has collapsed.” With her foot, she pushed pottery shards and hazelnuts under Ryle’s bent arm.

After setting one bowl on the table within Gisela’s reach, Ada pressed back against the wall, her face lit with gleeful determination.

“I want to fight,” Ewan grumbled.

Voices sounded outside the door. The men were clearly debating whether or not to come in.

Raising his sword, the little boy glared at the panel.

“Not this time, Button. Go under the table. Hurry!”

“I am not a coward.” His gaze darkened with indignation.

God above! “Of course not. I”—could not bear to see you hurt, my precious son—“want you to conserve your strength. Your fighting skills are needed in other battles.”

A delighted smile spread across Ewan’s face. “Oh. You are very wise, Mama.”

She smothered a wobbly grin as her son scrambled under the table. Flattening himself to the floor, his sword beside him, he peered at her.

The door slowly opened. A scowling thug—one hand clutching the flask, the other on the pommel of his sword—stepped inside.

“’E collapsed?” the man said, looking down at Ryle.

“Please,” Gisela said, wringing her hands and doing her best to sound frantic. “Will you see if he is all right? I feel so… helpless. I do not know what to do.”

The man hesitated a moment. Setting aside the flask, he dropped to one knee beside Ryle.

“What is wrong?” muttered the other guard, nudging his way in. He bent forward, his drink-reddened gaze fixed on Ryle. Stooping, he picked up a chunk of crockery. “Why, ’e looks like ’e was⁠—”