Читать книгу Falcon's Honor - Denise Lynn, Denise Lynn - Страница 8

Spring, 1142

Northern England

Sir Edgar, the captain of Faucon’s guard, watched thin wisps of smoke from the crackling campfire curl upward to disappear into the darkness of the night.

The howl of a lone wolf, the soft snorts of nervous horses and the familiar scrape of sharpening stones plied against sword edges interrupted the silence of the surrounding forest.

Edgar and the other men circled around the fire for safety, warmth and companionship paid little heed to the night’s sounds. Their full attention remained riveted to the raised voices coming from their lord’s hastily erected tent.

While each of them had been scorched by the heat of Faucon’s tongue at one time or another, they had never heard him raise his voice to a female. Bets were placed between the men. Would their lord hold his temper on this occasion, or would his uncooperative charge push him too far? Edgar’s gold was on Faucon.

“My God, save me!”

The lady’s repeated cry for help went unanswered. While her shouts set their hearts to racing, Edgar knew that none of the men would assist the woman. Her steadfast determination to do her own will instead of King Stephen’s landed her in this current role of captive.

Had she come peacefully as ordered, she’d not find herself in such dire straits now. Instead, she’d fought this journey to her mother’s family every step of the way. For two solid days now she’d made their lives miserable.

Edgar couldn’t decide whether he admired or pitied his lord’s patience. If she were his charge, she’d have felt the back of his hand by now. None would blame Faucon for doing just that.

“Unhand me!”

The sharp crack of a resounding slap caused more than one soldier to flinch as they envisioned the smack on their own face. Others peered intently into the bottom of their ale mugs. Edgar wondered how much of the brew would be required before this night ended.

“You filthy swine!”

“Enough of this madness.” With a heavy sigh, Edgar rose and headed toward his master’s tent.

Before he could cross the clearing, Lord Gareth of Faucon backed hastily out of the tent inspecting his arm in the light emanating from the tent. “You black-haired wench, never try something like that again.”

Edgar sucked in a breath at the menace evident in Faucon’s low, emotionless tone. From the corner of his eye, he saw the others freeze. All knew that deadly tone meant Faucon had reached the limit of his patience. Edgar feared for his stash of gold; in his mind’s eye he saw it shrink considerably.

Gareth glanced at his stinging forearm where she’d raked her nails in an attempt to further prove her displeasure. “By God, I am bleeding!”

Enraged, he swung away from the tent to tend his arm and collided with his man, nearly knocking the two of them to the dirt.

“Milord.” Edgar caught his footing first and swiftly pulled Gareth upright. “Perhaps it would be best to explain the situation to her one more time?”

“One more time?” Gareth looked down at his man in surprise. “You think I have not tried?” His amazement was obviously not lost on his shamefaced captain. “Repeated discussion has brought me only an aching head, stinging cheek and bleeding arm.”

He stomped toward the fire and accepted a proffered wineskin. The overly fermented grape coursed a bitter trail across his tongue, then down his throat. He swallowed hard, seeking to hold back his grimace as he returned the container to its owner.

Ack. Sour wine and sour women had one thing in common—they both sought to ruin his good nature.

“Milord Faucon!”

Gareth instinctively turned toward the man’s shout, only to see his captive rush around the side of his tent and disappear into the blackness of the forest.

“By all the saints’ bones!” he cursed aloud. If that crafty little wench who barely came up to his chest thought for one heartbeat she would escape, she needed to think again.

Gareth and his men reached the edge of the clearing as one. Long association made spoken orders unnecessary. When Gareth motioned with a quick jerk of his hand, the men fell into a line on either side of him. They would comb the dark forest with little more than an arm’s length separating them.

Surely, ten and five men working as a single unit would be able to find one obstinate woman. Gareth cursed again.

He’d vowed to deliver this wench to her kinsmen and return to the king’s service within a month. What had seemed nothing more than a brief respite from war, suddenly appeared to be a quest to retain his honor and life.

Honor. Gareth swore at the memory of honor lost. He’d already besmirched his honor and his family name at Lincoln.

Even though he had only followed his overlord’s orders to retreat during the battle, Gareth’s guilt weighed heavily on his soul. They’d left the king unprotected, enabling the enemy to capture and imprison Stephen for months.

Aye, he’d find the woman all right. It was not as if he had a choice. If he failed his sire this time he’d find his head adorning the battlements at Windsor—compliments of King Stephen.

Another, smaller gathering of men watched in silence. When the woman escaped, all glanced toward their leader. He waved them back with one hand. Their time would come. She would be theirs eventually.

It was best for now to remain hidden—unseen. Let Faucon catch the wench. Much satisfaction would be gained in taking her from him.

Time and preordained fate was on their side.