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“I will manage.” She’d managed so far these last few days. In a manner of speaking. To be honest, she’d happened on Browan Keep quite by accident. At the time it’d been a blessed sight. Now, Rhian wondered if it was more of a curse than blessing. “Perhaps one of the men out there needs another servant.”
Hawise laughed herself breathless. Finally, gasping for air and wiping the tears from her eyes, she asked, “Pray tell, how pleased do you think their womenfolk will be when the lord and master arrives home with a strange female in tow? Not just a female, but an unmarried one such as you?”
“Such as me?”
“Unmarried. Young. Unmarred by pockmarks or worry lines. Just the sight of your smooth face will send the women into fits.”
“What are you yammering about?” Rhian frowned. “I am filthy, ragged. I have nothing to call my own.” She tugged at the high neck of her faded yellow gown. The coarsely spun cotton had not seen a dye bath in more years than she could imagine. It hung on her like the sack it would soon become. “Even this is…borrowed. There is not a lady in the world who would envy me anything.”
Hawise rose and waved her hands in the air. “Girl, you are a fool, nothing but a young fool. I should wash my hands of you and be done with it.”
“Ale!” Shouts for drink echoed down the corridor connecting the kitchens and larder to the hall.
To escape Hawise’s senseless babbling, Rhian grabbed two ewers of ale in each hand, then again headed toward the great hall.
“We will finish this!” The older woman’s warning followed her down the corridor.
Finish it indeed. Rhian knew that Browan Keep would be far behind her by the full light of day. Hawise could finish her lecture alone.
Since many of the men had already fallen asleep in various spots along the floor, Rhian worried only a little about being pawed upon as she deposited the pitchers of ale on the tables. Quickly finishing her task, she turned back to the kitchens, then looked toward the entry chamber at the other end of the hall.
Here was a choice she could make. Return to Hawise’s infernal lecture. Or leave Browan now. The gates were unguarded, she’d not be stopped.
She wiped her suddenly damp palms on the skirt of her gown. She had little else but the clothes on her back. Rhian absently touched the ribbon about her neck. The only item of worth still in her possession hung from the makeshift chain.
The amethyst pendant had been sent to her upon her mother’s death a few short months past. An oddly shaped circle, with a crudely etched dragon in the center. Her breath hitched at the pain of a memory still too new, an ache still too raw and horror that still haunted her dreams.
It would be an easy task to leave the hall. None would notice her absence. Surely she could find the stables once outside. Perhaps if none of the stable lads were about, she could coax a horse to follow her out the gates.
Rhian tugged at her bottom lip. If the horse just followed her out of the stables and gates, would that be considered stealing? She knew the answer the instant the question formed. Yes. If caught, she could very well forfeit her life.
She took a deep breath and decided. A horse would require food she did not have. Instead of burdening herself with the added worry, she would walk. As long as she avoided the road and kept to the forest as she had before, it would be safer and quicker.
The decision made, she straightened her back and walked boldly between the tables toward the hall’s entrance—in her case, an exit.
As she drew closer, the sound of a commotion from beyond the great doors filtered through to the entryway. Rhian slowed her steps. If more men were coming in, she wished not to be caught up in the middle of their arrival. If she hurried, perhaps she could escape their notice.
Both doors swung open with such force that they slammed against the wall with a crash that reverberated throughout the entire keep. Herb-scented rushes that had been strewn on the floor whooshed past her feet.
Rhian silently cursed. She was too close now to avoid the arriving party. She stooped her shoulders and bowed her head—hopefully in a perfect servantlike manner. Perhaps if she just continued on as if she were about her lord’s orders, they would simply let her pass.
Certain the ruse would work, Rhian glanced over her shoulder one last time before ducking into the entryway, to see if anyone would notice. Undetected, she continued through the archway to the entrance and ran smack into a solid, motionless wall of flesh and muscle covered by hard chain mail.
Chapter Two
“My pardon, milord.” The man Rhian had run into did not move. Nor did he say a word. In fact, she suddenly realized that those gathered around him held their collective breath.
Dread curled up from her toes. She closed her eyes for a moment before reopening them and lifting her head until her neck stretched. Only one man could be that tall.
Her single-word curse was far from silent and far from servantlike.
“My, my, such a charming greeting. It matches your lovely attire.” His leaf-green eyes staring down at her narrowed. “Ah, now I realize my mistake. I have spent this last week searching for a lady.”
Rhian knew that his sarcasm was directed at her curse, the ragged dress she wore, her tousled and snarled hair, the streaks of dirt on her now flaming face. Nay, she neither sounded, nor looked anything like a lady.
She’d not fall prey to his snide remark. Instead, she lifted her chin, squared her shoulders and met his glare with one of her own.
He motioned to one of his men before he continued, “Milady Gervaise, David will see to your safety until I am able to relieve him.” As an afterthought, he added, “Keep her under close guard. Find a cell, or use your sword if you must, but do not let her escape.”
The young man she had spoken with earlier in the bailey unsheathed his sword with one hand, then held out his free arm. “Milady, if you please.”
She didn’t please, so Rhian ignored him. Instead, she held Gareth of Faucon’s stare. Torchlight danced a merry jig off the silver streaks of hair that framed his face. Those few strands stood out boldly from the rest of the inky blackness.
“Still you seek to order me about?” A smile flitted about her lips. “Your commands met with little success before.” A glance at her broken and unkempt fingernails told her that she’d be unable to claw into his flesh this time. A daunting discovery to be sure, but not one that spelled defeat. Not yet.
“We can draw blood later.” Faster than quicksilver, Faucon grasped her wrist. “It might prove an interesting sport. But for now, just do as you are told.”
Before she could tell him what to do with his orders, he added, “Lady Rhian, I will gladly spar with you soon. I may even provide you the means to slit my throat. But at the moment—” he paused and nodded toward the arched opening into the hall “—I have business to attend. Spare us both discovery and unwanted complications.”
It galled her to realize the truth in his words. She could not afford those in this keep discovering that they’d unwittingly aided a runaway from the king. Her inability to explain would indeed bring about many complications. Nor did she wish for those here to learn she was not what she pretended to be.
Rhian showered Faucon with what she hoped was a withering glare, before hastening back to the kitchens with David fast on her trail.
Any warrior worth his salt knew the advantage of surprise. Gareth of Faucon was no different. He’d learned many lessons from his older brother Rhys—among them the usefulness of surprise in making an entrance.
His advantage would have been lost at another keep where he and his men would have met armed resistance had they ridden through the gates without announcing their presence. However, Browan’s gates were unguarded. A mistake bordering on treason.
Gareth stepped through the archway and looked out across the great hall. He doubted if those men facedown in the rushes on the floor would notice his arrival for days to come. Apparently not all fell to the floor in a drunken stupor.
One man had found his unnatural sleep with the aid of an earthen jug. It didn’t require much thought to guess who had put him in that position. Obviously, Lady Rhian had been displeased with the man.
Most of those still coherent sought a willing body to share their pallet with this night. From the seductive laughter of the servants, Gareth wagered that not many pallets would contain a single occupant.
Since he and his men had not rushed the hall brandishing their weapons, they’d not drawn any attention to themselves. His exchange with the Lady of Gervaise had been brief and unnoticed. Nay, the usefulness of surprise had not been lost in Browan Keep.
An occurrence that would never happen again.
Gareth nodded, silently beckoning his men to follow him, then strode toward the center of the room. “Where is Sir Hector?” His shout captured the attention of all gathered.
Which surprised him, since he’d thought they appeared to be exceedingly drunk. To a man, they turned toward the head table where a poorly dressed figure staggered slowly to his feet. “I am here. Who asks?”
It was all Gareth could do not to supply the answer immediately. But he’d no wish to give any information away until he was close enough to see it clearly register on Hector’s face. He continued across the floor, pausing only when he reached the foot of the dais.
“Gareth of Faucon.” He handed the man a missive from King Stephen. “Your new overlord.” The man did not need to know that the boon granting him control of Browan Keep would not be legitimate until after he delivered Rhian to her kin. A minor annoyance that would be accomplished soon.
His foresight did not go without reward. After glancing at the wax seal, Hector’s mouth dropped open, then closed, then opened again reminding Gareth of a beached fish.
Sir Hector scurried around the high table as fast as his unsteady legs could carry him and held out a hand, motioning toward the chair at the center of the long table. “Milord, please, join us.” He waved toward a servant. “Bring some food and drink.”
“Nay. Belay that order.” Gareth flicked a pointed glance toward his captain, then he slowly walked to the other side of the table. Before he reached Browan’s seat of honor, his men had positioned themselves strategically throughout the hall. Not one door, corridor or stairwell was left unguarded. He knew without turning around, that his own back was also well protected.
Gareth sat down in the high-backed chair and turned his attention back to Sir Hector. “Do you find your service here unacceptable?”
The man appeared genuinely confused. “Nay, milord. Not at all.”
“Then perhaps you could explain a few things to me.”
Hector moved closer to the table. “Would you care for a private conversation?”
“Nay.” Gareth nodded toward the others. “Since my questions also involve the other men, this will suit.”
Those who were not overcome with drink moved closer to the dais. Gareth studied each man, wondering if any would ever be worthy of serving him at Browan Keep. The men who were able to stand steady on their feet peered at their more drunken comrades. They mistakenly thought the sodden members of this crowd would be the ones in greater disfavor.
They couldn’t be more wrong.
Gareth leaned forward on the table. “Pray tell, Sir Hector, how many men guard these walls?”
A frown marred Hector’s forehead. It was hard to determine whether the expression held from confusion or thought. “There are two on each gate, main and postern and six scattered along the walkways, milord.”
Quickly schooling his own confusion to remain hidden, Gareth asked, “And these men are loyal?”
“Aye, sir. Without a doubt.” The man’s chins jiggled with each nod of his head. “Every one of them would give their life for this keep.”
A loud expletive escaped Gareth’s mouth as he rose in such haste that he knocked the high-backed chair to the floor. He pointed at his captain of the guard, Edgar. “Secure this keep. Now. Permit no one else in or out.”
After his captain and half of the men promptly left to do his bidding, he turned back toward Sir Hector. “It seems there is a problem.”
The man’s eyes grew large as he wrung his hands together. “M-milord?”
Sword clanging at his side, Gareth headed toward the exit. “Since the walls and gates are unguarded, there are ten missing men.” Hector gasped, then followed as fast as his obviously now sobering frame would allow. He was nearly trampled by Faucon’s remaining men rushing to catch up with their lord.
Gareth paused at the entryway and yelled, “David!” Regardless of what he found outside, he wanted the lad and that black-haired she-devil secured in a chamber above.
It took several breaths before David arrived in the hall holding a rag to his bleeding head with one hand and pulling a woman along with the other. Unfortunately, the woman was not the Lady Rhian.
The pain started in Gareth’s temples and quickly rushed to settle directly above his nose. He squeezed his eyes closed and wondered if this was what the moment before death would feel like. A sudden pain and visions of his life running through his mind.
He opened his eyes and waited for David to explain, praying silently that the explanation would not be what he feared.
“Milord Faucon.” The squire stopped just out of arm’s reach. “She hit me.” His high-pitched voice gave hint to his lingering surprise. “With a kettle pot. She hit me.” He pulled the woman before him. “And this…this one here tripped me so I couldn’t catch the lady.”
“Lady?” The older woman shook her wrist out of David’s grasp. “Why, she be no lady. Just another kitchen wench.” Her laughter sounded more like a cackling hen. The sound grated on Gareth’s already throbbing head.
She finally ceased the irritating noise and looked at him. “Your boy here will make a fine soldier.” The woman’s sarcastic tone was lost on no one. “He was so busy eyeing the other girls that he failed to see the pot coming.”
David sought to hide his flaming face by staring at his toes. However, tipping his head down did nothing to hide his reddening ears.
Gareth spared David a well-deserved tongue-lashing. In truth, the fault was his own. He should not have sent a lad to do a man’s job. What made him think that David would actually use his sword on Lady Rhian? While the lad was tried in battle, he had not the experience to handle a headstrong woman. A lesson his squire was learning the hard way.
For now, he glared first at David, then at the older woman. “That kitchen maid is Lady Rhian of Gervaise.” When the woman’s expression didn’t register surprise, Gareth narrowed his eyes further. “As well you were aware…ah, forgive me, but your name seems to have escaped me.”
“Hawise.” Sir Hector provided the answer. “She is in charge of the kitchen help.”
“I didn’t know for certain she were a lady.” Hawise’s whine intensified as she twisted the skirt of her gown between her fingers. “I only guessed.”
Gareth pointed at Hawise. “If you would like to retain your position in this keep, you will take David here and the two of you will find Lady Rhian and escort her to my chamber.”
“Chamber, milord?” Hector croaked.
Gareth spared only a brief glance for the man. “Aye. You heard me correctly. A chamber. One with a door that can be barred.”
David shuffled his feet. “Milord Faucon, how…”
Gareth raised his hand, cutting off the squire’s question. “Two of the other men will assist you.” He couldn’t believe he’d said that. The idea that it would take four people to retrieve one woman was unthinkable—unless of course that woman was the Lady Rhian.
A maid cleaning up broken earthenware from the floor caught his attention. Against all common sense he revised his order. “Four of the other men will assist you.”
He turned and left his men to argue over the honor of helping David and Hawise. He was certain the losers would demand their weight in drink or gold by the morrow.
A matter he’d concern himself with later. At this moment there were other matters to attend—like discovering how ten men disappeared.
The crisp night wind buffeted him as he crossed the foot planks and stepped onto the wallwalk. Colder than normal, it sent a foreboding shiver down his spine.
Gareth shook off the unfamiliar feeling and surveyed the yard below. Torchlight glinted off the forms of those already searching for the missing guards. Not a single nook or corner would be left undisturbed.
A figure too small to pass for one of the men darted across the yard. When the semiconcealed form disappeared into the shadow of the stable, Gareth took chase. She’d not escape that easily.
Rhian pulled the hood of her mantle more tightly around her face and ducked into a narrow crevice between the stable and the wall. She knew from the shouts of the men that they were on a mission to find something. She just hadn’t determined what that something was as yet. Nor did she truly care. She had her own mission—to escape Faucon.
Not only Faucon, but the King and any who would seek to deliver her into the hands of her kinsmen. For ten and nine years her mother’s beloved family had not so much as acknowledged her existence.
Rhian knew little about them. Only what had been whispered behind her back. It was rumored that they were spawned from the devil. Now, after her father’s death, they sought her return to their fold. They sought to marry her to one of their kind.
She’d sooner die.
Her father had raised her alone and they’d managed quite well without her mother’s family all these years. Somehow, Rhian knew she’d find a way to manage without them now.
After taking a deep breath she hazarded a quick glance around the corner of the stable. Rhian swallowed her curse. Of all the bad luck.
She ducked back into the crevice. Pressing her back against the wall she prayed that Faucon had not seen her. With the direction her luck had taken of late, she’d sooner count on cunning.
If she could not cross in front of the stable to reach the gate, she’d slip behind the building. She inched along the stable, away from the bailey, farther into the darkness. Her foot hit something solid, stopping her escape.
Rhian pushed against the object to no avail. Unwilling to give up the building’s protection, she reached down to shove the blockage out of the way. Her fingertips met stiffening flesh.
She squatted. Gingerly patting the object, she identified the form as a body—a lifeless body. Her father’s love of battle had made her well familiar with dead bodies. Continued exploration revealed chain mail covered in a sticky substance she guessed would prove to be blood.
She scraped her hand across the dirt, seeking to remove the blood before wiping her palm and fingers with the edge of her mantle.
