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.
