Page 92 of A Knight’s Reward

CHAPTER 16

As though emerging from a smothering fog, Dominic gradually became conscious of noises around him: boots scraping on dirt; mutters and laughter; and the crackle of a fire.

No longer did he ride on the nag’s back. He lay with his eyes closed, facedown on an earth floor that smelled of mold and rotting leaves. A draft swept over him, coming from somewhere in front of him—a doorway or an open window—chilling his brow and his hands, pressed to the… dirt.

He bent his fingers slightly, curling them into the soil until he felt it scrape up under his nails. Thank the holy saints he was not delirious and imagining his circumstances. He shifted his hands ever so slightly, causing his fingertips to drag on the hard-packed earth. The mild discomfort brought the faintest smile to his lips. Good. He still had sensation in his hands. His arms might feel as heavy as stone, but no bones were broken.

With discreet movements, he flexed his toes and then his leg muscles. Relieved his body seemed to be fully intact, he risked turning his head a fraction. A snarled lock of hair fell down over his face. Ignoring the brush of hair against his tender black eye, he squinted in the semidarkness. A newly stoked blaze, ringed by stones, burned a few yards away. Several of the thugs sat talking.

Careless bastards. They didn’t realize he was awake. They had unbound him, expecting him to be unconscious for a while. A mistake he must use to his advantage.

Wherever he was.

Self-condemnation stabbed him like a vicious knife. He’d vowed to stay awake, to glean vital information that would bring about victory for Geoffrey. He’d promised to save Gisela and Ewan. Yet, he’d succumbed to his infirmities. He had failed Geoffrey. Gisela. Ewan.

Failed them all.

He tried to swallow, but his parched mouth, still tasting of his bloody lip, refused to oblige. An image of his sire forced its way into the haze of Dominic’s thoughts. He tried to ignore it, but the vision persisted, as ruthless as the man he called Father.

Again, as years ago, he stood on the windswept battlements of his sire’s keep. Shrugging his shoulders in that familiar, terse way, his father said, “You disappoint me, Dominic. You will never be an equal to your brother.” His mouth, so quick to offer praise to Dominic’s older sibling, flattened with disapproval.

The anger and resentment of that day returned. “Father, he and I are very different.”

“God’s blood, will you listen to me? When will you cease living like a reckless fool and accept you have obligations? You are a lord’s son. My son. ’Tis your duty to this family to fulfill the responsibilities of your lineage. To do otherwise is to fail us all. To fail me.”

“With all due respect, Father, someone needs to tend to Mother. She… Her illness worsens each day.”

“I know.” Dominic’s father stared across the landscape, his silver-brown hair the same color as the stone behind him. “She fills your head with stories. Tales will not win battles, Dominic, or subdue an enemy. Only a skilled warrior can be of use to his family and his king.”

“I can wield a sword and shoot a bow well enough, Father.”

His sire exhaled an impatient breath. “Not as well as your brother.”

A thump sounded—a log shifting in the nearby fire. Dominic blinked, rousing from near unconsciousness. He willed his groggy mind to focus. His forehead throbbed with the effort.

He mustn’t let his thoughts drift again. He must focus on escape. On fulfilling his mission for Geoffrey. On returning to Gisela’s home to take her and Ewan to safety. On triumph, not failure.

His narrowed gaze fixed upon the men by the fire, chatting with their heads close together. He silently willed them to stay that way. Once he gathered his strength, he’d leap up, rush over, and—crack!—slam their heads together. Two dealt with, a few more to⁠—

Footsteps approached. The draft swirled over Dominic’s body, sending a shiver dancing down his spine.

“He is awake.”

Crenardieu.

Dominic shut his eyes, opening his uninjured one only the barest crack. The Frenchman’s expensive leather boots appeared in Dominic’s line of vision. Crenardieu halted less than a hand’s span from Dominic’s face, so close he saw the fine dust coating the Frenchman’s boots.

The thugs by the fire lurched to their feet.

“Idiots,” Crenardieu snapped. “I told you to inform me when he awoke.”

“We did not realize.”

“He made no movement,” another man said. “Not a sound.”

“Non, he is more clever than that,” Crenardieu said. Before Dominic could recoil, the Frenchman drew back his foot and kicked Dominic’s arm. He bit down on his tongue not to cry out.

“Sit up,” Crenardieu commanded.