Falcon's Heart

Faucon Keep, Normandy

October 16, 1143

Lyonesse of Faucon absently ran a wide-toothed comb through her hair as she stared out the arched second-story window opening. Early morning sunlight streamed into the chamber she shared with her husband Rhys. Dust motes seemingly danced in the shimmering light.

Since it was still early, the baileys were quieter than they had been in days. Even the keep was reasonably quiet. A blessing to be sure. While the faire was a grandly looked forward to event, it was also more tiring than she could have imagined. Thankfully, it only lasted a fortnight.

The chamber door slammed against the wall, breaking the quiet she’d been enjoying. Only one person could force the door to swing so solidly on its hinges.

She turned away from the window, her welcoming smile fading as she stared at her husband.

Rhys, the Comte of Faucon, her own devil comte looked the part. The scowl on his face boded the coming of a disastrous thunderstorm. She’d not seen his jaw so tight, or the tic pulsing in his cheek for many months.

She glanced quickly out the arrow slit, studying the landscape intently. Were they under siege? Did an army approach Faucon?

“Marianne is gone.”

Lyonesse swung around so fast at his stark pronouncement that her head spun. “What do you mean gone?” She tried to wipe the questioning frown from her face as she walked quickly toward her husband.

“Gone. Her bed was not slept in last night. She is not to be found in the keep, the baileys, or the village.”

“Oh, Rhys, nay.” Lyonesse placed her hand against his chest.

He pulled her into his embrace and buried his face in her hair. She rested her cheek against him. The need for action battled with the need to give her husband what little comfort she could.

Finally, he released her. The gold flecks in his eyes shimmered. His raven eyebrows met like wings over them. A slight smile crossed her mouth at the image before her. Ah, yes, this was her devil comte, ready to battle any who’d dare stand in his way.

He drew back his shoulders and fisted his hands. Movements that forced a laugh from her. A laugh that only intensified when he turned his fierce scowl toward her.

“Rhys, my love. Before you gather your army, should you not perhaps look for her again? Then wait a day or so before going to war against an unknown opponent?”

“Of course I will keep looking for her.”

She stroked his fist. “Without destroying every building in the village?”

While he unclenched his fingers, his expression did not change. “She cannot be far. She was just here yesterday…” He paused, his eyebrows winging up in question. “Wasn’t she?”

With so many strangers gathered at Faucon, Lyonesse knew that he’d been distracted from his family. His focus had been on the men taking part in the many games of war held in the open fields. The tourney drew nearly as many people as the faire itself, except those here for the tournaments were armed.

“Yes, fear not, she was here yesterday…” Now Lyonesse paused. When had she seen Marianne last? The girl hadn’t appeared at the evening meal. Nor had she gathered with the family in the solar afterward.

“What?” Rhys looked down at her, his scowl quickly turning to a frown of worry. “When did you see her last?”

Lyonesse turned yesterday’s events over in her mind. Had she seen Marianne after the morning meal? Not that she could remember. “Yesterday morning. But I saw her maid before retiring last night.”

His eyes widened. “Alone?”

“Yes. The maid had helped out in the keep yesterday. I assumed Marianne would know enough to remain close by.”

Rhys groaned. “What sort of mood was Marianne in last you saw her?”

Lyonesse glanced toward the ceiling. “The usual. Moody. Distracted. Frustrated.”

While he appeared to toss that information around, she asked, “Do you think she would have taken it into her head to run away?”

Rhys paused before answering. Finally, he shook his head. “Nay. She might be willful, and might on occasion slip away from her maid for a ride across the demesne lands, but no, she would not run away.”

“Then that can only mean—” Lyonesse gasped. “That someone took her.”

“Aye. ‘Tis what I fear.”

“Perhaps a ransom note will soon arrive?”

“If the people who took her wish to live, a demand for ransom better arrive quickly.”

“Have you told the others?”

Rhys shook his head. “No, I wanted to speak to you first.”

Lyonesse suggested, “Perhaps you’d better tell them now.”

“I will locate Gareth and Darius, while you find their wives.”

“Of course. Shall we meet in the solar? It would provide more privacy than the hall.”

After Rhys left she turned her full attention to the task at hand. Lyonesse prayed that those who’d taken Marianne knew who they had captured. The girl was ripe for a smooth-talking man to turn her thoughts from honor.

If her identity was known, it was highly doubtful any man would be stupid enough to dishonor the Faucons’ little sister.

While she worried for Marianne, she knew that Rhys and his brothers would do everything in their power to find their sister.

And once they did, she’d see to it that the girl found herself a husband posthaste.

Chapter Three

Hampshire, England

October 19, 1143

It took nearly four days before anything fell into place for Bryce of Ashforde. From the start, luck had seemingly gone against him. The men who’d kidnapped Faucon’s sister joined up with a caravan heading north. Then they’d crossed the channel, and traveled toward Hampshire.

Bryce had sent two of his men ahead, to ferret out what they could. The kidnapping of Faucon’s sister was a daring act. One that would set the tongues of rumor and gossipmongers wagging at a furious pace. He wanted to know what word was being bandied about.

Then, with little more than the blink of one eye, the Good Lord saw fit to be kind—an occurrence that did not happen much of late. Bryce wiped the smile from his face before rejoining the circle of men.

For the first time in months he felt that luck was on his side—he could feel it pulse through his veins like warm honey, and could taste its sweetness.

The men gathered in a circle diced for a rare prize—one that would be his. A prize that would gain him the opportunity to make Comte Rhys of Faucon experience just a measure of the revenge due him.