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She paused briefly to learn from her maid Helen that a missive from du Pree’s holy man had arrived before reaching the welcoming silence of her private chamber. She hastily stripped the heavy armor from her sweat-soaked body. “Sweet Mary, how can they wear this?” A sigh escaped her lips as she peeled the thickly padded under-shirt away from her hot flesh.
Relieved of the old, leather-hardened armor and protective underpadding, she snatched the rolled parchment from her bed before dropping down on the mattress.
Quickly sliding her fingernail beneath the wax seal, Lyonesse unrolled the missive and scanned its contents.
She couldn’t hold back the laugh building in her chest. For the first time in months, she experienced a measure of relief and satisfaction. The Good Lord had heard her prayers.
Lyonesse stood just inside the tower cell. Even chained to a bed and sleeping, Faucon looked formidable. Was he indeed a spawn of Satan? Did he take pleasure from fighting and killing?
The many scars marking his body attested to his prowess. To have withstood so many injuries and survived gave credence to his strength and cunning. Was he a champion to be lauded, or a devil to be feared? Bravery or sorcery?
Either way, he was still a murderer.
A living and breathing murderer.
Lyonesse frowned. She’d not expected this predicament. When she and John planned this revenge, there’d been no talk of what to do when Faucon was brought to Taniere. The only lengthy discussion was where to bury the body.
The body she’d not so carefully tended a short time ago. It had taken three men to hold Faucon while she poured Helen’s sleeping draught down his throat. Gentleness had not been on her mind while she’d cleaned and stitched the gash in his side and seen to the bruises and cuts on his face and neck.
“Milady, do you require help?” Howard called out as he entered the small tower chamber that served as Faucon’s cell.
“No, Howard, all is well.”
The way her captain dogged her every step around Faucon was almost laughable. In less than one day, the keep’s active grapevine had already begun to grow. Too many people already knew she was using this tower chamber as a cell—and they knew who she held prisoner.
Little more than a fortnight past, Lyonesse had left her father’s keep at Ryonne in a hurry. She’d wanted to leave before he returned from the king’s service and could stop her. Since she’d not had time to find her own work force at Taniere, many of his servants were in attendance. She’d not risk killing Faucon with so many of Ryonne’s people about. Tongues would wag. Regardless of her reasoning, her father would not take kindly to her form of vengeance.
She could bide her time. After all, she’d captured the mighty Faucon, had she not?
Howard cleared his throat. “Milady, do nothing rash.”
Lyonesse turned to face him. She opened her mouth and then quickly bit back the stinging reply so ready to fall from her lips. Howard’s worried expression twisted her stomach with guilt. “Howard, upon my honor, I will not kill this man today.”
He peered down and studied her face for a moment before warning, “Keep an eye out for Sir John. I do not think he will give up quite as easily.”
Why Howard did not trust Guillaume’s man was something Lyonesse would never understand.
Howard nodded toward the bed and asked, “Will he die of his wounds?”
“Nay. His wounds were minor. ’Tis Helen’s concoction that keeps him asleep.” When concern etched even deeper lines in Howard’s face, Lyonesse pushed him to the door. “Go. Faucon will suffer nothing more severe than an aching head.”
She waited until the captain left before returning to the bedside to check on her rather shabby handiwork. Sadly, she was not always the most careful seamstress and wanted to make certain the stitches held.
Lyonesse knelt on the floor and pushed the covers from his side. Faucon shifted in his sleep, dragging the cover off his chest.
She paused, her hand in midair as she’d reached to check his wound. Her face flushed hot. A tingle ran down her neck and across her chest filling her breasts and intensifying the heat on her cheeks.
Lyonesse had tended many injuries for her father and his men. A man’s body was no mystery to her. She’d lost her curiosity many years ago. Why did seeing just this man’s chest cause such fluttering of her heart?
He was her enemy. He’d taken away her future. He’d killed her love. She’d prayed for his death many times over. She’d wished to see his broken body lying at her feet.
She bit her lip. Her heart did not cease its rapid pounding. The heat on her cheeks did not lessen.
She shook her head and steadied her trembling hand. She was tired, that was all. The excitement from capturing this man had been too much. She needed rest. Nothing more. Lyonesse pulled the salve-filled covering from his side.
His hand shot out like a snake and grabbed her wrist. “What are you doing?”
The chain securing him to the wall gave little warning. If she’d not already been kneeling on the floor, she’d have fallen. How long had he been awake? She pried at his fingers. “Release me.”
His grip tightened. “What are you doing?”
Lyonesse smiled into his gold-flecked gaze. “I thought I would take out these stitches and see how long it takes a devil to bleed to death.”
He returned her steady stare for a long moment before releasing her. “By all means, proceed.”
His response surprised her. “You would just lie there?”
Faucon raised an arm. The metal links permitted him limited movement. “What could I do to stop you?”
She knew better. This was not a man who would simply accept death while lying flat on his back. “How long have you been awake?”
His laugh was weak. “Long enough.”
Her heart sank. She’d have no luck filling him with worry. He’d most likely heard her vow to Howard. Determined to complete her chore and quit the chamber, she asked, “May I finish here?”
Faucon closed his eyes, tensed his jaw, and nodded.
Lyonesse studied him for a heartbeat. “Does it hurt that much?”
“Only when you poke and prod at it.”
How long had he been awake? Suddenly, she didn’t wish to know. Quickly, after checking the stitches, she smoothed on more salve. Her fingers shook at the contact with his flesh. The skin covering his frame was smooth to her touch. The muscles beneath were tight and well developed. Lyonesse bit her bottom lip, forcing her errant thoughts back to the task at hand. She not-so-gently slapped the covering back over the wound and pulled the blankets up over his body.
She rose and headed toward the door. “I will send up a maid with something to drink.”
“Food, perhaps? Unless you want me to starve to death.”
She paused. “’Tis a thought.”
His laugh rumbled across her ears. “That might please you, but your Howard would not be happy.”
Lyonesse sighed. He’d heard the vow to Howard. “Faucon, you may be alive at this moment, but do not be so certain I will not yet gain my revenge.” She smiled. “I had you at the pointed end of a sword once. I can do it again if need be.”
“Maybe so, but I’ll be ready for you and it will not be quite as easy.”
Lyonesse’s blood rushed through her veins. She wanted to rip the smirk from his face. “You think you are so invincible. You survive every battle. Do you think that will last forever? You are nothing but a man, Faucon. A man who can, and someday will, die.”
His smile widened. “And you are but a woman. A woman like any other.” His eyes seemed to glow from across the room. “Tell me, Lady Lyonesse, which scar did you admire the most? The one on my thigh, or one of those on my chest?”
Anger and embarrassment ripped a scream of rage from her throat. Not only had the swine heard her vow to Howard, he’d been awake the whole time.
Before charging out the door, she yelled, “Go to the devil, Faucon.”
Rhys laughed. Lord Baldwin of Ryonne had chosen well by naming his daughter after his wife’s father. This cunning she-cub was worthy of being called Lyonesse. Too bad she’d not inherited her father’s even temper. For all her bravado and trickery, the Lady Lyonesse angered too easily. Her emotional displays would not serve her well. But it would provide him with some amusement while he was here.
Since she’d not killed him in the forest, he had a bad feeling that he might be here a long time. If that happened, he’d end up dying at King Stephen’s orders without ever discovering the true murderer.
Rhys jerked his arm, grimacing at the bite of the iron manacle holding him to the bed.
Surely they didn’t mean to keep him chained to this bed forever? They knew who he was, so they’d heard the stories about Lord Faucon.
His bitter sigh filled the chamber. How could anyone not have heard the tales? Rhys purposely let the rumors of his terrible disposition grow and spread. Secretly he enjoyed the fear that sprang to men’s eyes when they realized whom they faced. It suited him to build upon this dark image by dressing himself, his horse and his men in nothing but black.
Those who knew him well found the stories of his evilness amusing, even assisting Rhys in building the fables beyond the believable. He had to admit, it effectively kept the unwanted daughters of his peers from being dangled beneath his nose.
In truth, he’d not needed stories to keep women away. Word of Alyce’s death had sufficed. That suited him well. He’d no wish to avail himself of another woman’s lies and deceit.
Again, what he’d thought was a long-buried pain, stabbed at his heart. “Blast it all.” The curse echoed in his ears. He glanced out the arrow slit. The sun was already setting.
How much time would pass before his men found their way to his captain Melwyn? They’d broken the men up into two groups. Melwyn’s group headed toward Faucon’s keep, seeking aid from his brother Gareth. The other group rode with him, toward Richmond. The most logical area to begin his search had seemed the site where the rumors about the murder were circulating. Instead, they’d ridden into a trap.
A cleverly devised trap. Since du Pree’s lands and Ryonne were to the south, he’d not expected to encounter vengeance on the north road.
Where was he? He knew what general area. His foolish captors had taken no pains to hide their direction. The cart had followed the north road before turning slightly east toward the coast. That would put him in either the Earl of York’s, or the Earl of Richmond’s territory. Since both men were considered friends, he was in a safe region.
Yet they were close to the Scottish border. All were aware that the Lord of Faucon was a staunch supporter of King Stephen in his battle against the Empress for the throne. No matter what had taken place during King Henry’s reign, the Empress had no right to the crown.
Rhys refused to believe for an instant that Baldwin’s daughter would be loyal to the enemy. So where had Lady Lyonesse taken him? He closed his eyes, recalling snippets of court gossip. Had he heard anything about Ryonne, Lyonesse or du Pree? Other than about the upcoming marriage ceremony, he didn’t recall—wait! Rhys sat up. Yes, he did recall something…from last summer. What?
He smiled with relief. Taniere. How could he have forgotten the uproar when old Leon had handed his prized possession to his granddaughter?
His smile died. Knowing where he was did little to help him. His only hope was his men.
They were all to meet outside of Northampton next week. If his men could not find him, would either of his brothers be able to prevent the loss of all they held dear?
How did he let this happen? The ridiculousness of the situation wiped away his anger and worry. Unable to contain himself, he started to laugh.
Once started, his deep, throaty laugher was nearly impossible to stop. He did not care if the sound echoed out of the chamber and down to the hall.
“A female. The terrible Faucon has had his wings clipped by a female.”
All his years of hard work to build a reputation wasted. Wiped out by the small hand of a grief-stricken female. He shook his head. “Not even a woman fully grown, but by an untried girl.”
When he reached up to wipe the tears from his eyes, Rhys flinched at the bite of his chains. The flash of pain didn’t stop the laughter from erupting again.
Lyonesse. Aye, she was well named. His shoulders trembled with mirth. In his mind a green-eyed kitten pounced on an unsuspecting falcon and shook the bird of prey between its small, white, sharp teeth.
Chapter Two
An early evening breeze brushed lightly across Lyonesse’s cheek. The gentle current carried a fine, cool mist from the sea it just crossed, causing her to pull the woolen mantle more closely around her to ward off the chill. Her perch in the crenellation of the stone wall may have shielded her from a person’s view, but it provided little shelter from the seeking wind.
She’d had two days to think. Two long days to figure out what to do with Faucon until his time ran out.
So far she’d come up with little else besides holding him in her tower. He’d only laughed at her with a deep, sinister laugh that sent shivers down her spine. He didn’t realize that she knew about the king’s command. Faucon had one short month to prove his innocence, or die. If she could hold him long enough, his death would not be on her hands.
Faucon would have to be content with being held captive—for a time. She’d ordered the chains securing him to the bed removed, making his lot slightly better. A thick, iron-studded door with a locking bar on the outside, secured him within his tower cell.
“The murdering scum be dead?”
Lyonesse jumped at the intrusion. “No.” Intent on her thoughts, she gave Sir John little more than a glance.
He grasped her shoulder. “What do you mean, ‘no’?”
She jerked away from his unwelcome touch, reluctantly climbing down from the wall. “No, Faucon is not dead.”
“’Tis not what we planned.” Anger tinged his words. “Milord du Pree will not wait forever for his revenge.”
Lyonesse lifted an eyebrow at his impatience. “What does a day or two matter to one who is dead?”
Sir John loomed over her, his lips curled into a snarl. “Lord Guillaume trusted you. Like a besotted fool he was ready to give you everything.” He spat on the wooden planks of the wallwalk. “You dishonor him with your hesitation.”
“I dishonor no one.” She swallowed her fear of the man and stared up at him. “Faucon will pay for what he did.”
“When? You have had time aplenty to finish the deed.”
Howard’s dire warnings about trusting Sir John rang in her mind. No. She would not tell him her plans.
“What would you like me to do, Sir John? Run a sword through him with Ryonne’s captain at hand?”
Sir John’s smile sent a tremor down her spine. “I can see to your captain easily enough.”
“You will not endanger Howard.”
The man stepped away. “If the deed is not done by this time tomorrow, I will see to it myself.”
“Give me no ultimatums. I will deal with Faucon.”
Lyonesse gasped when he grabbed her arm. “Unhand me.”
He tightened his hold. “The time for games is over. I came to you to fulfill my lord’s final wish and I will see it done. No one will stop me. I will kill any who get in my way. It will give me great pleasure when Sir Howard seeks to interfere.” Releasing her, he started to turn away, stopping long enough to add, “Until this time tomorrow, Lady Lyonesse.”
She watched his retreat and wondered why she had ever trusted him. ’Twas simple—because she’d been too distraught to think straight. Grief had made her more than eager to seek revenge on Guillaume’s murderer.
And now she’d made Sir John an enemy. An enemy who threatened to kill Howard.
Sir John left her no choice. She would have to set aside her new plans of letting King Stephen deal with Faucon and fulfill the old ones.
She still thirsted for his blood, but would she be able to take his life? Is that what Guillaume would have wanted?
