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She was a clodpolled onion-eyed dullard. Lyonesse tossed another handful of weeds onto the growing pile.
A lackbrained nitwit. Perspiration trickled down her forehead and dripped off the end of her nose.
Since she’d confronted Faucon yesterday, she’d called herself every bawdy name she could think of—yet none seemed to be the proper fit.
Another clump of dead weeds hit the pile. Maybe she could bury herself in the brown, soggy plant life she was pulling out of what would someday be an herb garden.
What possessed her? She knew the answer. Grief over Guillaume’s untimely death and fear of losing Taniere had stolen her sanity and common sense. Yet not even in her darkest moments of despair could she forget the lessons she’d dutifully learned—lessons that kept her from killing Faucon.
Right and wrong.
Good and evil.
Heaven and hell.
Brother Joseph had taught her by word, her father by example and deed. Her maid Helen had always seen to it that she never forgot the words, examples, nor the deeds.
For all their teaching and devotion, Lyonesse knew none of them could answer the questions that tormented her.
Did nothing fall between good and evil?
Could not something seem wrong and yet be right?
Lyonesse uncurled her legs from beneath her and sat on the damp, cold ground. Looking at the patch she’d cleared she wondered why she’d bothered. Less than a month from now King Stephen would take Taniere from her and all this work would be wasted.
Do not cry. She was done with tears. They gained her nothing more than an aching head and upset stomach.
Obviously, she needed to find a husband—quickly and she needed to release Faucon.
How and in which order was yet to be determined. Neither task would be easy.
Since she found killing Faucon an impossible feat, she needed to release him. The longer he remained at Taniere the more dangerous he became. His men would come and free him by force. Innocent lives would be lost.
Regardless of what her maid thought, Lyonesse doubted if finding a suitable spouse would be as simple as pointing at a man and bidding him “come hither” like some trained dog.
She wouldn’t want that kind of man.
She wanted Guillaume. Instead, she’d dutifully marry any man her father picked.
Her father was a warrior. A knight. A Lord. He would choose a man like himself. A man like…
Breathless, Lyonesse tried to shake the fearful thoughts from her mind. But they ran in circles, one more horror-filled than the last. Until they came to rest on the one thought that would strike many a lady dead.
Her sire would choose a man like Faucon.
The type of man who had killed not only his wife, but his newborn child. ’Twas said he’d shown no remorse for his deed. Nor had he shed a single tear for his loss.
The type of man who had no regard for women or for those weaker than himself. A man who laughed at death and had no respect for life.
Seeking protection from evil, Lyonesse quickly prayed, “Oh, Holy Mother, let my sire’s love for me be true. Let him never seal my fate thusly.” She pitied any woman who would become wife to that type of man.
The type of man she needed to remove from her keep. She was not lackwitted enough to believe that she could lead Faucon to the gate and bid him farewell with no fear of retribution. There had to be a way to convince him that it would be within his best interest to forget anything that had happened. How?
She’d not seen him since their encounter in the tower. But she had ordered Howard to permit Faucon limited freedom. He could move about the keep and the inner yard as long as he was under constant supervision and chained about the ankles and wrists.
Howard assured her that he would guard the prisoner himself. She’d made him swear to keep Faucon away from her.
“Milady! Lady Lyonesse! Come quick. Milady!”
“Blatherskite,” Lyonesse cursed as the screaming page ran toward her.
“Milady, look, look—”
She quelled the urge to shake the stuttering boy. “Michael, cease your blithering. Tell me what is wrong.”
Michael pointed frantically at the sky. “The king is coming! King Stephen, milady!”
Lyonesse bit back her sharp retort. Instead, she looked up.
Nay, the king had not sprouted wings and flown to Taniere. But Michael’s cries were justified. Only a king could own so regal a huntress.
If her eyes did not deceive her, a golden eagle dipped and soared against the backdrop of a cloudless sky. A low, breathless whistle left her lips as the bird swooped lower. Lyonesse wanted a closer look. She sent Michael for Howard and then climbed the ladder to the walkway.
Her father had long ago told her about goldens. But never had she seen one. She now understood his fascination with the eagle. While Lord Ryonne’s description enabled her to identify the raptor, his words of praise did little justice to its beauty.
Golden. They were well named. When the sun bounced off the many shades of brown, tan and white flecks, the bird truly did appear gold.
The eagle spiraled higher, almost out of sight, before falling into a dive that would carry a lesser bird crashing into the stone of the tower. Only the obvious strength and agility of this one pulled it out of its descent to circle round and round before beginning another ascent.
Bewitched, Lyonesse watched it perform the graceful dance over and over. Spiraling upward, diving down, screeching as it circled the tower. Again and again.
A strange notion entered her mind.
She pulled her attention from the eagle, shifting her gaze to the tower’s arrow slit. Even though she could not see into the cell from where she stood, she knew without the slightest doubt that Faucon stood at the window opening.
Sweat beaded on her brow. Her breath stopped when a shrill whistle answered the bird’s loud screech. As if on command, the eagle soared up and out to become lost in the forest.
After gaining her breath, she looked down at the bailey. All activity had ceased while the guards and the others had watched the bird along with her.
“I have never seen an eagle hunt a man before.”
Howard’s voice startled her. Lost in thought, she’d not heard him approach.
Lyonesse searched for a response that would placate not only those gathered below, but her own shaking nerves as well. Finally, she asked, “Would it not act in such a confused manner if it were ill or somehow injured?”
She hoped that her question carried down into the bailey. It was enough that she tasted the icy chill of fear. It would do no good for Taniere’s people to worry along with her.
Howard needed no coaching. He raised his voice, agreeing, “Aye, milady, if it were diseased it would act strangely. Surely the beast must have escaped from the king’s falconer.”
As the keep’s people dispersed and returned to their work, Lyonesse leaned closer to Howard. “Has there been any word of King Stephen’s presence in the area?”
He shook his head, leaving her with little hope. “Nay.”
Unwilling to speak her thoughts, yet unable to contain them, Lyonesse said, “Then this bird was sent by someone from Faucon.”
Howard looked out over the wall, then stiffened. “Aye, but ’tis worse than that, milady.”
“What…” Her question trailed off when she followed his line of sight.
The clearing between the dense forest and Taniere’s wall was an intentional manmade addition. Empty space provided an unobstructed view of any man or beast crossing the area.
At this moment Lyonesse was provided with a view of both. The man, dress in naught save black, mounted on an equally dark destrier, stared motionless across the distance.
Behind him, on what she could only assume was a falconer’s contraption, perched the golden.
The manner of the man’s dress and the eagle with him, gave her little doubt they were both from Faucon.
After swallowing hard, Lyonesse whispered, “Oh, Dear Lord, save us.” Stiffening her spine, she marched to the tower gatehouse and waited for Faucon’s harbinger of doom to approach her walls.
To her shock and dismay, the man turned his horse and rode back to the forest. While a confrontation may have frightened her, this action filled her with terror.
He would return for the man he knew resided within her walls.
The question now was when?
And with how many men?
If she lived through this day without taking a life, Lyonesse vowed to increase the rations left outside the gates for the poor. She rubbed a rose-scented oil into her lye-chapped hands. Could anything else go awry this day?
Helping with the washing had kept her from worrying so much about the man she held hostage and what would surely be an impending visit from his men. It hadn’t kept her from listening to Helen’s unending complaints.
Lyonesse patted a cool compress of elderflowers to the bridge of her nose and across each sunburned cheek. When her maid had finally stopped harping about Faucon, Helen had brought that demented eagle back to her attention. Without missing a stride, her maid groused about Faucon’s man. When those subjects had been thoroughly exhausted, Helen had busied her tongue with dire warnings about young girls who spent too much time in the sun.
Lyonesse sighed and left the chamber. If her only concern were freckles, she would be content.
Men’s loud laughter gave her pause halfway down the steep, narrow stairs. The boisterous noise bounced off the stone of the walls and echoed up the stairwell. She’d not heard this infectious sound since her father left last year to join the king. Her heart missed many beats. Surely he would not have come to Taniere without notice?
A deep voice barked with laughter at a ribald joke told by one of the other men. Lyonesse tensed as the familiar tone rang clear in her ears. Worry gave way to anger. Anger quickly simmered into rage.
Rapidly descending the remaining stairs, she saw Faucon standing at Howard’s side. The time the two men spent together discussing whatever they could discuss, was one matter. But to endure this man’s presence in her hall was another matter entirely.
She yelled at the only person who could explain this unwelcome and unwanted presence in her hall. “Howard!”
Lyonesse’s shout immediately brought the men’s merriment to a halt.
She pointed at the behemoth standing arrogantly in the center of the other men, and demanded, “What is the meaning of this?”
Before Howard had a chance to answer, the object of the discussion interrupted. “Milady, this means nothing more than a fine evening’s meal in the company of a lovely lady.”
She ignored him and leveled her gaze on her maid. Lyonesse seethed inwardly, wishing she had the leisure to pale and flutter as Helen was doing now.
Chains clanged together as a large, warm hand closed over her fist and deftly pried her fingers open. After kissing her palm, he stated, “And nowhere have I seen a more beautiful creature than Taniere’s lioness.”
Lyonesse tore her gaze away from Helen’s wavering look, and stared down at her own hand. What sorcery had this Spawn of Satan used to bewitch her? Hot and cold tingles ran down to her toes when his lips briefly touched her skin. Was it the vile way he kissed her palm, instead of the back of her hand that caused the unsettling shivers? Or was it the devil’s wicked treachery?
She glanced up at him. The toad smiled at her as if he were attending a festive celebration, instead of rotting in the tower where he belonged. Why did Faucon act this way?
In keeping with a chivalrous code of conduct, she’d permitted him limited freedom. But had she not gone out of her way to show him how much she despised him? Faucon knew full well his presence in her hall was unwelcome.
It wasn’t for the lack of trying, but he’d not truly suffered any true physical or mental anguish under his confinement here. So why did he now play the simpleminded fool?
Her hopes for a peaceful end to this day fell to the hardened dirt floor and shattered like a fragile egg. Lyonesse willed her tongue to remain silent.
Never had a female impressed Faucon as much as the one standing before him now. It had to be difficult for Lyonesse to hold her outrage in check as well as she did. A less composed woman would have dissolved into hysteria by now. Or at the very least would have become too flustered to remain as visibly calm as Taniere’s vicious kitten appeared to be.
Her appearance did not deceive him one bit. Some might have missed the bright glaze of anger that he’d so quickly grown accustomed to seeing. Or not have noticed that her jawbone was too well defined. The normally heart-shaped face was pulled nearly into a square by the tightness of her muscles.
His assessment of her features did not go unnoticed. The lady’s eyes narrowed in apparent distaste before she tore her hand from his and wiped her palm across the folds of the vivid green gown she wore.
Rhys bowed his head slightly and reflected upon her name. Lyonesse. While it was true that her gold-red coloring was well suited for a feline, he wondered if she knew that her namesake had been a bastard in every sense of the word? Her grandsire had been blessed with a reputation that made Rhys’s presumed evilness pale in comparison.
Certain that she could see no other emotion upon his face but pleasant interest, Rhys deepened his smile. How many times had he been told that his wicked grin could cause even a nun to succumb to his charms?
“Lyonesse? How did you come to be named for your grandsire?”
A faint blush tinged her delicate complexion, making her appear more of a child than the oversized armor had. “I am certain my father had his reasons. I have never found myself churlish enough to question the name.”
Rhys ignored the jibe and offered his arm to lead the unwilling lady to the table. He held his snort of amusement as she rested her hand so lightly on his forearm that she barely touched his sleeve. Did she really believe that she could continue to assume such ladylike innocence? No lady would have dared to conceive his capture—let alone accomplished the feat.
By the saints, this was going to be an interesting evening. Even though he’d been free to walk about the keep, he’d been bored to his limits. He’d sought an opportunity to pay his captor back with a little of her own coin. Now that he was certain she’d regained her senses, Rhys looked forward to goading her. After seeing Jezebel this morning, he had an added boon. The knowledge that his men were nearby worked to his advantage with Howard. It’d been simple to convince the captain to permit him to attend the evening meal in the hall.
He placed his free hand on top of hers. The instant he wrapped his fingers around her wrist to effectively hold her near, Rhys wished he had not. The smooth, soft skin beneath his fingers reminded him of how long it’d been since he’d touched anything so warm and soft.
Even though he knew full well that he would drive himself to distraction, Rhys could not have stopped his thumb from stroking the silken flesh if he’d tried.
At first she flinched under his gentle touch, but made no move to pull free. He bent toward her, and groaned silently at the combined expressions of surprise and horror on her flushed face. She might have been betrothed to this du Pree, but his first impression had been perfectly correct; she was an untried girl.
He forced his thumb to stop its steady motion, and waved toward the table. “Shall we sit?”
She jerked away from him. “You should not be here. Be gone.”
“’Tis my greatest wish to be gone from here.” He looked at the door and snapped his fingers before looking back at her. “I willingly make you a deal. Have your guards release me and I will disappear from your life.”
She glared up at him. “You know I will not do that.”
After sighing loudly, Rhys shrugged. “Then I will be content to be your honored guest at this meal.”
Lyonesse narrowed her eyes as she glanced at the chains binding his wrists and ankles. She kept her voice low while agreeing, “Very well, ’tis not as if you can do much mischief with the jewelry you now wear.”
