Читать книгу Falcon's Heart - Denise Lynn - Страница 8

Ashforde Keep, Devon, England

Early summer 1143

Bryce of Ashforde squinted through the billowing smoke at the charred remains of Ashforde Keep. Nothing had been safe from the fire set to lay waste to his newly granted land.

He’d been gone seven short days. Long enough to meet his intended betrothed and her family, and to begin the marriage arrangements with Empress Matilda and her husband Comte Geoffrey of Anjou. A sennight ago, when he’d first come to claim Ashforde Keep as the new lord, it had been sound. Now…now it lay in smoldering ruins.

Much would be required to rebuild; men, more gold than he possessed and a great deal of time. But half of his men were missing. The majority of his gold now filled Empress Matilda’s coffers. Time was sparse.

The final betrothal agreement was in his saddlebag, waiting only for his signature. Once it was signed, they would set a date to exchange their promises of the future. Then they would wed, a necessity for any lord of the realm. He needed a chatelaine for the keep and children—both requirements that could be filled by marriage. But he was to bring his new wife, Cecily of Glynnson, home to what?

He would have to hire someone to oversee the rebuilding of his keep. Because he would be gone, using those weeks…or months…hunting those responsible for this devastating act.

His nose burned. His chest tightened, protesting the dense, acrid smoke that made his eyes water and brought a harsh raspy cough tearing up his throat.

He’d counted seven bodies—apparently villagers by their obvious lack of weapons and chain mail. Why were his men not among the dead? It appeared they’d been removed from the keep. Or, that they’d run at the first sign of attack. He refused to believe they’d run. When Empress Matilda granted him the title and the land, she’d also granted him twenty men. Each one of them had willingly sworn their allegiance to him. He’d been assured they were faithful, honorable and brave men.

So, where were they?

The wind gathered speed, threatening to pull his hooded cloak from around his shoulders. It blew the smoke across the scorched field.

Bright summer sun sparkled off an object sticking out of the rubble. Bryce kicked the smoldering wooden beams away from what appeared to be a sword. After wrapping the edge of his thick woolen cloak around his hand, he pulled the weapon from the smoking pile.

Even though his heart felt as heavy as a boulder in his chest, and his throat ached from choking back a scream of rage, a bitter smile turned up the corners of his mouth.

A falcon was etched on the blade. The raptor’s wings were spread, as if hovering over an unsuspecting prey.

Only one man would mark his weapon in such a manner—Comte Rhys of Faucon. While he’d never crossed swords with Faucon, he’d spoken to men who had. Each of them mentioned the etched falcon.

One question was answered—he knew the party responsible. He stared out toward the forest, now to find his missing men.

Bryce returned to his tethered horse and secured his own sword in a leather loop dangling from the saddle. With great care, he wiped the ashes from the sword he’d found, then held the weapon up toward the blazing sun and vowed, “I promise you, Faucon, I will return your sword and repay you in kind.”