Chapter One

Thornson Keep, Northeast coast of England
Early summer, 1142

He had never found much pleasure in killing another, but Darius of Faucon was certain that battle would provide more engaging action than tracking down smugglers for the king. If nothing else, at least he'd be on the back of a sturdy warhorse and not lying on his belly in the cold mud staring over the edge of a cliff.

To keep the hilt of his sword from digging any farther into his flesh, he shifted his position on the ground. After two nights of this, nothing he did helped much. With the coldness of the earth, the hardness of his chain mail and the cursed dampness of the night, he doubted he'd ever again find comfort, warmth or even a measure of dryness.

He peered over the edge of the cliff, down at the flickering torchlight below. The figures on the beach hustled to meet boats landing on the shore. They lifted trunks and bags out of the four small vessels, carried them across the beach and disappeared into the cliffs. Only six men guarded the operation on the beach. The guards appeared to stand close to each other, instead of spreading out to keep their cohorts safe. Judging by this lack of concern for safety, he doubted there were any others farther up the shoreline.

Darius glanced up at the position of the moon. Each night at the same time, menhad lit torches

And Darius had but a month to root them out.

No sense in waiting. They'd confront the smugglers this night. He scooted back from the edge of the cliff, rose and motioned to Sir Osbert. At least one of his "simple tasks" could be completed on schedule. First one mission and then the other.

Sir Osbert had the men ready for action when Darius met them a short distance from the cliff. Without a word, he led the men along the edge of the cliff as it sloped down to meet the beach.

Once on the pebbled shoreline, they kept their backs to the rocky wall as they moved closer to the smugglers. Just as Darius had surmised, the outlaws kept no guard on the outskirts of their operation, so certain were they of their safety. How long had they enjoyed free run of Thornson?

One of the many questions he'd have answered before his missions were completed...

When they neared the smugglers, Darius nodded to his men, drew his sword, stepped away from the rocks, then shouted, "For King Stephen!"

Men scattered. Those closest to the vessels jumped inside the boats and quickly rowed away, taking the remainder of their cargo along. Those on the beach who did not run into the mouth of the cave dropped their loads, grabbed their weapons and raced toward Darius and his men.

Three of the smugglers fell with the first clashing blows from Darius's men, the criminals no match for armed warriors. Those who'd been standing guard gave but a halfhearted effort to defend themselves. When it soon became obvious that Darius's men had gained the upper hand, one of the outlaws shouted, "To the lady!"

At the man's command, the remaining smugglers and their guards turned and raced into the cave. Certain the man who'd shouted must be in charge of the others, Darius pointed at him and ordered, "Take him alive."

He wanted all the information he could gather to take back to King Stephen, along with the name of the person backing this operation.

Sir Osbert quickly nabbed the man and held him at sword point. "Milord, shall I make him talk?"

Darius took one look at the unholy gleam in Osbert's eyes and shook his head. "Nay, it would be easier to discover what he knows while he can still breathe."

At that moment, the captured smuggler yelled, "Never." Then he threw himself at Osbert's sword.

Caught off guard, the captain had no time to move his weapon before the man impaled himself on the blade. "Good Lord, man." Osbert pulled his sword free and let the man fall to the ground.

Darius cursed, then knelt beside the dying man. "Give over. Tell me who you serve."

The man's laugh gurgled through his parted lips. He shook his head. "No."

"Which lady do you seek to protect? The Empress Matilda? The Lady of Thornson?" Darius frowned.

etermined to gain any scrap of information he could, he grasped the man's shoulders and offered, "Go to your maker with a clean heart. Tell me and I will see you are buried with the blessing of the Church. Matilda or Thornson's lady?"

"Aye." The man's whispered answer was barely audible.

"Who?" Darius leaned down to better hear the answer, but the only sound that met his ears was the lapping of water at the edge of the beach. The man heaved one last breath and died.

Darius released the body. What could have been the end of one task was now reduced to a gain of nothing.