Читать книгу Falcon's Honor - Denise Lynn - Страница 11

“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.

Short of saying a quick prayer, there was nothing she could do for the man. So she rose and stepped over him. Only to trod on what she knew would prove to be another body.

Fear slithered through her limbs. Not of the dead, for they could bring her no harm, but of the killer. What if he, or they, was still about? Rhian’s stomach twisted. Suddenly, the idea of slipping into the total darkness behind the stable held little appeal.

“Nay,” she whispered to calm her racing imagination. The corpses were cold and nearly stiff, surely they were murdered some time ago. Perhaps while everyone else drank and made merry in the hall.

She shook her head in disgust. Had Sir Hector placed guards about, maybe this would not have happened.

Guards.

She frowned. These men were in armor, could they be the absent guards?

She paused, listening to the shouts of Faucon’s men in the bailey. Their brusque cries of “Nothing here,” and “Nay, nothing,” made it obvious that they searched for something. She took another step and nudged yet a third body. Could this be what they searched for so carefully?

Rhian fisted her hands at her side and inched back toward the bailey—away from the dead men. “Holy Mother of God, what do I do now?” If she left without telling anyone of her discovery, she’d not be able to sleep nights. Yet, she’d have to give herself up along with the bodies. Nay. She stopped her retreat. There had to be a way around this dilemma.

While she was seeking to formulate a plan, a hand clamped down on her shoulder. Before she could force a scream past her suddenly constricted throat, a man asked, “Out for another breath of fresh air?”

She didn’t need to turn around to know whose fingers bit into her flesh. “I was seeking a way to avoid you, when I tripped over a few dead bodies.” She saw no reason to lie.

Faucon released his hold on her shoulder, bringing her a brief measure of relief before he grasped her wrist. After shouting for his men, he ordered, “Show me.”

“They are no more than two steps straight ahead, milord.”

Gareth took the torch from the first man who arrived and went to inspect Rhian’s claim, tugging her along.

Rhian was unable to stifle her gasp at the sight of the men. She’d been right—the stickiness she’d felt had been blood. The bodies were covered in it, just like the two men who’d been killed at Gervaise Keep after bringing her the amethyst pendant.

Her head spun. There couldn’t be a connection. Her stomach rolled. The only thing linking Gervaise and Browan was her. She fought to hold her fear at bay.

Faucon turned to his captain. “Edgar, see Lady Gervaise safely to her chamber.”

When his captain offered his arm as an escort, Gareth laughed before securing Edgar’s hand around her wrist. “Under any other circumstance I would not need to say this, but since she has already escaped twice now, let me make myself clear. On no condition are you to release your hold on her until she’s ensconced behind a locked chamber door that you will then guard until I relieve you.”

Edgar bobbed his head. “Aye, sir. You can count on me.”

Rhian wanted to rail against this ill treatment, but as the torchlight danced off the bodies, her throat constricted, effectively choking off her words. Perhaps there’d be a sense of security behind a guarded and locked door.

Gareth waited until Edgar led an oddly silent Rhian away before kneeling over the bodies. At first glance he’d assumed their throats had been slit. But their chain-mail coif protected them from head to shoulder.

While he tried to ascertain how they died, Hector arrived. “Milord, I heard that you—” The man’s sentence ended abruptly on a strangled gasp.

“Aye,” Gareth agreed with the man’s response. “Are these Browan’s men?”

“Yes.” While Sir Hector had regained control over his initial shock, the remnants of a tremor still shook his voice. “Who could have done this?”

“Have any strangers been permitted into the keep of late?”

“No.” The man seemed to reconsider his answer. “The only stranger recently has been the woman you called Lady Gervaise.”

Gareth didn’t doubt for one heartbeat that Lady Rhian would cherish slitting his throat, but neither did he believe she would do so to another.

“There is so much blood.” Hector studied the bodies, then asked, “How did this happen?”

“I’m not certain.” Gareth stood. “Perhaps a thorough examination will shed some light.”

Sir Hector turned toward Browan’s guards and ordered, “Take the bodies to the hall.” He then turned back to Gareth. “Have any more been discovered?”

“Nay. The others—”

Their discussion was interrupted by a hue and cry from the bailey. Both Gareth and Hector rushed toward the commotion.

Gareth drew his sword before pushing through the gathered crowd. “Hold! What goes here?”

The din subsided and one of Browan’s men limped forward. His torn and dirty garments hung from his frame. He glanced from Gareth to Hector and back, then explained, “We were attacked from behind before we could give warning.”

“By how many?” Gareth asked.

The man looked to his companions before shrugging. “I would guess eight or so.” The others nodded in agreement.

Sir Hector asked, “How many of you survived?”

The man’s eyes widened. “We are six here.” The others stepped forward. Each looked as beaten as the next, but at least they were alive.

Gareth answered their unspoken question. “Three were killed. One is still missing.”

Then he scowled in thought. Eight men had slipped into Browan undetected. The same eight men had done this much harm to Browan’s guard. Either the eight were highly skilled, or someone had helped to arrange this ambush. If so, for what purpose?

He turned his attention back to the guards, asking, “Did your attackers say anything?”

One offered a hesitant reply, “Aye, sir. They asked where the princess slept.”

“Princess?” Gareth and Sir Hector asked in unison.

The guard shrugged. “I told them there weren’t no princess here, but they just laughed and hit my head.”

Hector surveyed the bailey and turned to look at the tower. “What would a princess be doing here?”

Gareth followed the other man’s gaze. A multitude of torches lit the bailey and more blazed from the walls.

Far from a rich keep to begin with, the sparse light accented the poorly constructed outbuildings, weak sections in the curtain wall and the downtrodden appearance of the keep in general.

The daunting prospect of reconstruction was overwhelmed by one question. What princess?

A flicker of light from an upper arrow slit in the tower caught Gareth’s attention. Without turning, he issued an order to Sir Hector, “See that the bodies are taken to the hall and see that these men are cared for, too.”

“Milord?”

He heard the question in Hector’s tone. Instead of answering, Gareth only waved one hand in dismissal before leaving to seek answers to his own growing questions.

“You what?” The leader of this small band of men slammed an underling against a tree. He held his forearm across the trembling man’s throat.

“Milord, by the time we made certain the guards were well cared for, Faucon had arrived and we were unable to capture the woman.”

With nothing but a quick flick of the wrist, a razor-sharp weapon slit the underling’s throat.

The leader faced the others. “This will not happen again.”