He instructed the guards to release the bonds, then motioned to Rhys and ordered, “Follow me.”
After struggling to his feet, Rhys waited impatiently as a guard freed him from the chains. While rubbing the circulation back into his burning arms, he followed the king. The hissing of disappointment shadowed his departure. Vultures behaved better than the scavengers gathered here.
Certain his executioner awaited him, Rhys paused in the doorway to the small chamber where King Stephen led him. He cautiously peered inside and almost cried aloud with relief. The room was empty save for the presence of William, the Earl of York.
His allies may have been absent from the hall, but here in this private chamber the only supporter Rhys needed raised a goblet to herald his arrival.
Once the three occupants were seated, Stephen addressed both men. His focus riveted on Rhys, the king began, “Faucon, by permitting the tales about you to grow unchecked, you have brought this upon yourself.”
Stephen grew silent, giving Rhys time to realize the truth of his words. It was not a lie. He’d enjoyed the tales told of the evil Faucon—even if they were not true. His overblown reputation won more than half the battles he’d engaged in, saving him and his men from any defeat.
But defeat loomed before him now.
With a slight wave of his hand, the king motioned toward the door. “While some of the barons call for your life, it seems not all believe this cry of murder. Just as they didn’t believe the cry before. However, this time much more hangs in the balance. I can ill afford to lose any of the supporters I have over this accusation.”
Again, the king spoke the truth. This battle for the throne cost much. Every supporter who left Stephen’s side to fight with the Empress Matilda took along their men and gold. Regardless of any friendship, Stephen could not permit this matter to come between him and his quest to keep the throne.
Rhys leaned forward and swore, “Sire, upon my honor as a loyal knight and subject, I have killed no man in such a cowardly fashion.”
Stephen shook his head. “Your word held little weight when Alyce died, yet most looked the other way. We are not now speaking of a vile-tongued wench. Guillaume du Pree was well liked by some and mistrusted by others. I am afraid, Rhys, that outside of this chamber, your word means nothing.”
Rhys flinched under the reminder of his faithless wife. Over five years had gone by. When would the mere mention of her name not cause his heart to constrict? He pushed the memory down into the recesses of his mind. “I can prove my innocence with nothing but my word.”
“You need find another way—quickly. The men gathered here are bored, Rhys. A trial by combat would alleviate that condition.”
Had the king cleaved him with a battle-ax, Rhys would not have been more shocked. His mouth went dry at the thought of proving his innocence in a fight where fairness and honor would be missing. Neither battle, nor death frightened him. However, his accusers would arrange this event, going to great lengths to ensure his death and the loss of his family’s wealth and honor.
Rhys swallowed his uncertainty before admitting, “I can think of no other way.” Against unimaginable odds, he would simply have to win.
“Let us not be hasty.” William took a long draught of wine and then stared at Rhys over the rim of his goblet. “You are forgetting that someone did commit the murder.”
“True. And this someone does need to be found.” King Stephen agreed with William’s statement of the obvious before adding, “Within the next four weeks.”
Chapter One
Northern England—1142
A raspy grumble shattered the early morning quiet of the forest. “He is not coming.”
“Shh!” If Edmund hadn’t been her best archer, Lyonesse of Ryonne would have left the complainer at the keep.
She hoped the Lord of Faucon would pass this way before the sun fully rose. The lengthening rays already broke through the dense foliage, casting thick slivers of sparkling light on the dew-covered moss below. The full light of day would provide little concealment for the men hiding in the trees and bushes.
A rustling of branches preceded another grumble. “This is daft. By the time he arrives I will be too stiff to move.”
“Cease. He will be here soon.” If their prey didn’t arrive shortly, she feared the men would desert their posts.
Nay, that was a senseless worry. These were Guillaume’s men. They’d brought his body to her at Taniere and remained. Each swore their allegiance not to her father, the Lord of Ryonne, but to her, the rightful mistress of Taniere.
With her betrothal to Guillaume du Pree all was in place for her to retain her responsibilities as the Mistress of Taniere. Until Faucon had turned all her hopes and dreams to dust.
He would pay for all he took from her. Lyonesse scanned the men around her. They would help her exact revenge.
Their leader, John, had devised this plan to capture Faucon. By spreading word about Guillaume’s death and telling all who would listen of Faucon’s cowardice, John had been certain the murderer would seek him out. When the vile knave came looking for John, they would all be ready.
Lyonesse swallowed back the ever-threatening tears. While the act of capturing the Devil of Faucon would not lessen the tears, it would lighten her heart to know she’d avenged Guillaume.
If God smiled upon her quest for revenge, she’d have Faucon’s lifeless body at her feet this day. By the time she finished with him, everyone would know he was not the great bird of prey they’d dubbed him. She would relish proving the tales false. All would know he was nothing more than a man. A man who could die like any other.
The abrupt rustling of bushes and tree limbs from farther up the path signaled the approach of riders.
Lyonesse peered through the branches and smiled. Their wait was almost at an end.
Rhys tugged lightly at the reins. The stallion suddenly became skittish. Steps that had been sure and steady a moment ago, now faltered. The horse weaved back and forth across the road, snorting and tossing his head.
“Easy, boy.” He patted the thick, black neck in an attempt to calm the animal. The usually placid beast rolled his eyes to look up at the rider. Rhys agreed with the wild glance. He felt it, too—something was wrong. The hair on the back of his neck tingled with anticipation. A flash of cold passed down his spine.
He raised his hand, bringing the five men following him to a halt.
Rhys slowly continued ahead. He stared into the woods, but could see nothing that should upset the horse, or himself, in this manner. Yet the forest was too silent. He reached down and touched the wooden scabbard encasing his sword.
A shrill whistle split the air. Rhys gripped his knees tighter into the rearing horse’s ribs. He grasped the hilt of his sword with one hand and yanked at the reins with his other.
His men charged forward. In the same instant another force dropped from the trees and sprang from behind bushes, effectively cutting Rhys off from his men.
Before he could pull his sword free, a thick fisherman’s net dropped over him and his horse. He clawed and tore at the confining snare, cursing his inability to free himself.
“Nay. Hold.” In the din of swords crossing and men cursing, his shout went unheeded.
Gloved hands reached out and jerked at his steed’s bridle. When the animal was brought to an unwilling stop, Rhys felt the sharp tip of metal press into his side.
Unable to swing his sword, he kicked out and knocked the threatening blade away. Three more blades quickly replaced the one. After forcing his fingers to relax, he dropped his own sword and shouted for his men to hold their weapons.
They immediately