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These strangers knew not with whom they dealt. Swift and deadly justice would be their prize for interfering in things they did not understand.
He was sick unto death of serving another. It was time he answer only to the king. He deserved that privilege. Surely none would disagree. He would see to the strangers’ deaths himself. He had already risked much—even murder—to get this far. It would be only right that he be the one to hold the sword to their necks.
The sea pounded against the rock cliffs, echoing like thunder across the open grassy land between the forest and Thornson Keep. On such a clear, sunny morning the rumbling echoed ominously.
From the cover of the trees Darius stared up at the great stone keep. The sound of the crashing waves reverberated through him, providing the perfect setting for the coming attack.
The king had given him the men, arms and gold needed to complete this part of his task—to take and hold Thornson Keep. After studying the keep’s layout, he had assumed his force would be more than enough—he couldn’t have been more wrong.
They’d rushed the keep repeatedly yesterday to no avail. As far as he could tell, Thornson’s force had been decreased by four men. But Darius had lost one of Faucon’s men when the scaling ladder was pushed away from the wall and the man hit the hard earth, snapping his neck. Hopefully, his brother the Comte would take the situation into consideration when he learned the news.
Darius took another look at the parchment with the building plans before crumpling them and tossing the useless information to the ground. He stared back up at Thornson. It was more fortress than keep.
Continued battling would be a waste of time and lives. He and his pitiful band of men could batter at the gates until the world ended and it would make no difference to those inside.
The thought of laying siege crossed his mind—briefly. Darius’s instincts warned him that he and those with him would die of old age before Thornson’s stores dwindled.
How was he to hold the keep if he could not find a way to gain control?
And why did the king seem not to know of this situation? Perhaps he did know and simply did not care, or think it worth mentioning.
Sir Osbert joined him at the edge of the clearing. “Milord, have you done something to anger King Stephen or Queen Maud?” Osbert’s stare remained on Thornson.
“Besides the false accusations they lay at my feet, nothing I am aware of comes to mind.”
“How do they expect you to take and hold this keep?” Osbert swung around and looked at Darius. “We would need more than twice the manpower we have.”
“I know.” His captain was correct. Thirty men would not be able to breach Thornson’s thick, stone walls. “I thought we would try the direct approach next.”
“The direct approach?”
“Aye.” Darius stared at his captain, waiting for the objections sure to come.
Osbert widened his eyes. “You think to just ride up to the gate, accuse them of being traitors and demand they hand over the keep?”
“It is worth a try.” In truth, Darius held little hope that the tactic would work. While it would be an easy thing to lay the smuggling operation at Thornson’s feet, it might not prove as easy to place that burden on the traitor’s widow.
However, he had a gut feeling that someone at Thornson might want the dead body currently draped across the back of one of Darius’s horses.
“But, Milord…”
“Even if we do not accuse them outright, Thornson died months ago.” Darius cut off his man’s further objections. “His widow holds the keep. Do you think she enjoys the work and responsibility something that size requires?” When Osbert said nothing, Darius continued. “If that isn’t enough incentive, surely someone wishes to lay claim to the body we possess.”
Osbert sat back in his saddle, contemplating Darius’s explanation. Finally, the man nodded. “Aye, it is worth a try.”
“I am glad you agree.” His sarcasm was clearly lost on the captain. Darius pulled a rolled parchment from a strap on his saddle. “And if either of those ideas fails, perhaps the king’s written orders will help convince Thornson’s lady to see reason.”
Sir Osbert nodded, then turned his horse around. “I will gather a few men to join us.”
“Four archers will be enough.” While Darius held little hope that this would work, he was not foolish enough to think it held no risk. The archers could provide the cover needed if they had to beat a hasty retreat. “And we’ll take the body with us to the gates.”
Osbert and the archers joined Darius in a few minutes. Darius led them out of the woods wondering if it would be a bad day to die. He squinted against the bright sunlight and hoped the Saints would be for him and not against him this day.
He, the four archers, Osbert and the horse with the body slung over its back crossed the expanse of open land toward Thornson.
The wind howled, buffeting them with a force that threatened to knock them from their mounts.
Darius kept his gaze trained on the wall. Though Thornson’s men peered between the crenellations, none had aimed arrows at Darius or his companions. Still, he did not relax his focus. They were only halfway to the keep and anything could happen. In less than a heartbeat circumstances could reverse. A single, well-placed arrow could change everything.
Not that any would mourn his death. His father had disowned him years ago when Darius had foolishly taken his future into his own hands.
He blinked. What had brought that thought to his waking mind? Until this moment, the memories of his young wife and the wrath of both fathers had plagued him only in his dreams.
Darius rolled his shoulders, seeking any action that would take his mind off the insanity of the past. There was plenty to concern him right now. Smugglers to rout, a keep to hold, and now, less than a full month to complete his missions.
And his mind wished to dwell on things long dead?
He never should have returned to Faucon. He should have stayed away and let the rumors of his demise flourish and grow unchallenged. That would have been the easier thing to do.
But when had he ever chosen the easier way?
Darius silently cursed his womanly concerns into nothingness.
They drew nearer the walls of Thornson. He motioned to Sir Osbert to lift his banner. It was time to see if his direct approach would succeed or fail.
The brilliant green silk unfurled and whipped in the strong winds. Would those on the wall recognize the black falcon? And would they realize the folded wings and closed talons were a position of peace, not war?
Lady Marguerite of Thornson leaned against the saw-toothed wall surrounding the keep, fighting to keep her wits about her. Whenever she thought it was not possible for life to get worse, it somehow did.
Two nights ago they’d lost Matthew on the beach, along with at least three of the villagers. Yesterday, four of Thornson’s guards had died while fighting off this force attacking her keep.
All knew the day would come when King Stephen’s men approached their gates. In truth, she was surprised it had taken this many months.
Thornson Keep was too strong, too rich and far too strategically located for King Stephen to ignore for long. The keep was a veritable fortress near the border of Scotland. He needed the men and the gold this property could supply. Little did he know that these men were loyal to Thornson alone. And Thornson’s loyalties had been bought by Empress Matilda.
If Stephen would investigate the rights he’d issued, he’d soon realize that Thornson far exceeded what had been granted. This adulterine holding was no tower keep constructed of timber, with useless wooden palisades to protect those inside.
By the good graces of Empress Matilda and her uncle, King David of Scotland, just a short two days’ ride to the north, Thornson had quickly grown and prospered.
And while they had not denounced King Stephen outright, they openly remained loyal to those who had helped them. It was a game Thornson played. A dangerous game to be sure, but one he’d seemed to enjoy. It had kept him out of Stephen’s useless battles until the end.
She wrapped her arms about her waist. She’d not thought of his death for many weeks now and had no wish to revive that nightmare. It was better to remember her husband alive.
The Lord of Thornson had been old, so nobody had deemed him worth notice. A foolish mistake. She shifted her gaze toward the pounding sea. It thundered with an intensity that had fired her elderly husband’s blood. His passion had been poured into completing this keep before he left this world…for her.
She’d arrived at Thornson with naught but the naivete of a girl ten and five. The keep had seemed more of a guardhouse for the men and stables for the horses, than a keep. Now, a little over six years later, Thornson had become a fortress built to keep her safe.
She turned and surveyed the work Henry had seen completed. Two thick stone walls surrounded Thornson. An enemy could batter away at them for a lifetime and not gain entrance.
The inner courtyard housed the men, their horses and practice grounds. The grounds had seen much use since their completion.
The outer courtyard served as a gathering place and a market of sorts. Here, the villagers came to buy and sell wares, and to share the local gossip and news.
At the northeast corner rose the keep itself. Steep, jagged cliffs served as the back wall to the keep. With the constant surging of the sea, nature had created a safer, more secure wall than man. None could scale the slippery, sheer rock face.
“Milady.”
Jerked out of her thoughts, she looked at Sir Everett, Thornson’s captain of the guard. “Yes?”
He nodded toward the field. “They approach.”
She gasped and turned. She’d expected them to once again charge full strength toward their certain death. Instead, only six men rode forward. Six men and one riderless horse.
She swallowed an unladylike curse. Matthew. There was little doubt in her mind that the body draped across the back of the horse was he. When the others had returned the night before last they’d recounted the battle on the beach and how Matthew had foolishly called out for them to return to her.
How many times had she begged them to cease their nighttime activities? She’d warned them that eventually this would happen. Now it had.
When she’d received word from the villagers about the bodies left at the church, Matthew hadn’t been among them. She’d hoped he’d somehow escaped.
Sir Everett asked, “What do you think they are about?”
Marguerite shrugged. “You would know the minds of men better than I.” After Thornson’s death, she’d received no word from King Stephen. She’d assumed that he’d send someone to become the new Lord of Thornson when he saw fit.
Which warmonger had the king sent?
Even though it was his right, she bristled at the thought of a king’s man taking possession of her husband’s keep.
She could not stop him from taking the keep any more than she could stop what the future would hold for her. Nor could she prevent this man from doling out his form of justice to those he found to be outlaws.
Still, she chafed at the ever-present certainty that King Stephen could and would control her destiny.
Oh, would that her husband had been an earl, or that she’d been rich or powerful in her own right. Then none would determine her future. She’d determine her own. She’d also be able to protect those in Thornson who thought they were doing the right thing.
Marguerite slapped the skirt of her billowing gown in frustration. What good was if only? Wishing for what could not be only served to pass the time, nothing more.
She focused on the men approaching. Would one of them become the new master of Thornson? Or would they only hold the keep in Stephen’s name until a more suitable man could be found?
She studied the men closely. It was not hard to determine who led whom. Obviously, the tall man riding in the center of the group would be the leader. His outward appearance of calm belied everything she’d learned about warriors.
Contrary to what her father and his men had taught her as a child, she’d found that the calmest was always the most alert, the most attentive to detail, the most dangerous.
It would be best for all if this was the king’s chosen man. It would be easier to learn the ways of one man and be done with it, than to learn his ways only to have yet another man to deal with later.
Marguerite narrowed her eyes. Dangerous or not, she’d soon learn his weaknesses. Everyone had at least one, and she’d discover his quickly enough.
A movement from one of the other approaching men caught her attention. Curious, she stared as he lifted and unfurled a brilliant green banner.
Her heart lodged in her throat. Curiosity quickly became horror. She had wondered if life could get worse? Here was her answer.
Yes. It could, and had.
Of all the men serving King Stephen, why did the king have to send him to Thornson?
The man seated in the center of the approaching group could be none other than Darius of Faucon. The green banner, bearing the black falcon at rest, whipped in the stiff breeze above his head. If it did not scream his identity to anyone else, it did to her.
Against all common courtesy, Rhys, the Comte of Faucon, would display a royal golden eagle on his banner. Gareth, the second brother, would fly his deceased father’s falcon with talons extended in a posture of war. But she knew Darius’s standard well—the falcon at rest had a double meaning to her, one she’d not forgotten.
She no longer had the option to defend her keep. Marguerite could not, would not be responsible for this man’s injury or death.
Marguerite raised her voice so the men gathered on her walls could hear her order. “Hold your weapons.”
“My lady?” Sir Everett made no effort to conceal his disappointment.
She pinned him with a stare, silently daring him to disobey. He motioned the others to hold.
Certain they would follow her orders, she gestured to the men at the gate tower. She lifted her fist in the air, with her thumb pointed down. All at Thornson knew the signal to surrender.
Whispers raced from man to man along the walls. The murmurs of disbelief and disgust reached her ears. She wanted to apologize to each and every man who’d pledged to protect her from harm. But she could not.
She held firm to her orders, but even she cringed as the plain white flag rose slowly above Thornson keep.
Marguerite wrapped her arms about her stomach, in an attempt to quell the sudden spasms. If any discovered the secret she and Thornson had so carefully hidden, her whole world would shatter. Her future would be lost before it began.
This could not be happening. Not Faucon. Not now.
“My lady?” Sir Everett stepped closer to her. “Shall we raise the gate?”
“No!” She nearly choked on her shout.
The men on the walls turned to stare at her sudden contradictory order. She wanted to slap herself for her sudden outburst. Instead, Marguerite slapped at the skirt of her gown again. She needed to be more careful. It could do much harm to let all know how nervous she felt.
“No, not yet.” She took her time and kept her voice steady. “Let us see what they want first.”
She already knew what they wanted; her men probably did, too. But she needed a way to gain time to think, and this was the only tactic she could devise at the moment.
Darius and his men stopped within shouting distance. The man next to Darius yelled up at the gate tower. “Darius of Faucon demands entrance.”
Marguerite bit her lower lip to stop the unbidden smile from crossing her mouth. Sir Osbert’s voice was a little deeper, a little older, but it still carried true and strong—an ability that had helped earn him a place at Darius’s side.
Sir Everett, the captain of Thornson’s guard asked, “On what authority?”
Faucon held up a rolled missive. “On the authority of King Stephen.”
“For what purpose?”
“To hold this keep for your future lord.”
“My lady?” Sir Everett looked to her for his orders. “Do you wish to grant them entry?” A wicked smile lit his face as he grasped the hilt of his sword. “Or do we send them away?”
