Falcon's Honor

Short of saying a quick prayer, there was nothing she could do for the man. So she rose and stepped over him. Only to trod on what she knew would prove to be another body.

Fear slithered through her limbs. Not of the dead, for they could bring her no harm, but of the killer. What if he, or they, was still about? Rhian’s stomach twisted. Suddenly, the idea of slipping into the total darkness behind the stable held little appeal.

“Nay,” she whispered to calm her racing imagination. The corpses were cold and nearly stiff, surely they were murdered some time ago. Perhaps while everyone else drank and made merry in the hall.

She shook her head in disgust. Had Sir Hector placed guards about, maybe this would not have happened.

Guards.

She frowned. These men were in armor, could they be the absent guards?

She paused, listening to the shouts of Faucon’s men in the bailey. Their brusque cries of “Nothing here,” and “Nay, nothing,” made it obvious that they searched for something. She took another step and nudged yet a third body. Could this be what they searched for so carefully?

Rhian fisted her hands at her side and inched back toward the bailey—away from the dead men. “Holy Mother of God, what do I do now?” If she left without telling anyone of her discovery, she’d not be able to sleep nights. Yet, she’d have to give herself up along with the bodies. Nay. She stopped her retreat. There had to be a way around this dilemma.

While she was seeking to formulate a plan, a hand clamped down on her shoulder. Before she could force a scream past her suddenly constricted throat, a man asked, “Out for another breath of fresh air?”

She didn’t need to turn around to know whose fingers bit into her flesh. “I was seeking a way to avoid you, when I tripped over a few dead bodies.” She saw no reason to lie.

Faucon released his hold on her shoulder, bringing her a brief measure of relief before he grasped her wrist. After shouting for his men, he ordered, “Show me.”

“They are no more than two steps straight ahead, milord.”

Gareth took the torch from the first man who arrived and went to inspect Rhian’s claim, tugging her along.

Rhian was unable to stifle her gasp at the sight of the men. She’d been right—the stickiness she’d felt had been blood. The bodies were covered in it, just like the two men who’d been killed at Gervaise Keep after bringing her the amethyst pendant.

Her head spun. There couldn’t be a connection. Her stomach rolled. The only thing linking Gervaise and Browan was her. She fought to hold her fear at bay.

Faucon turned to his captain. “Edgar, see Lady Gervaise safely to her chamber.”

When his captain offered his arm as an escort, Gareth laughed before securing Edgar’s hand around her wrist. “Under any other circumstance I would not need to say this, but since she has already escaped twice now, let me make myself clear. On no condition are you to release your hold on her until she’s ensconced behind a locked chamber door that you will then guard until I relieve you.”

Edgar bobbed his head. “Aye, sir. You can count on me.”

Rhian wanted to rail against this ill treatment, but as the torchlight danced off the bodies, her throat constricted, effectively choking off her words. Perhaps there’d be a sense of security behind a guarded and locked door.

Gareth waited until Edgar led an oddly silent Rhian away before kneeling over the bodies. At first glance he’d assumed their throats had been slit. But their chain-mail coif protected them from head to shoulder.

While he tried to ascertain how they died, Hector arrived. “Milord, I heard that you—” The man’s sentence ended abruptly on a strangled gasp.

“Aye,” Gareth agreed with the man’s response. “Are these Browan’s men?”

“Yes.” While Sir Hector had regained control over his initial shock, the remnants of a tremor still shook his voice. “Who could have done this?”

“Have any strangers been permitted into the keep of late?”

“No.” The man seemed to reconsider his answer. “The only stranger recently has been the woman you called Lady Gervaise.”

Gareth didn’t doubt for one heartbeat that Lady Rhian would cherish slitting his throat, but neither did he believe she would do so to another.

“There is so much blood.” Hector studied the bodies, then asked, “How did this happen?”

“I’m not certain.” Gareth stood. “Perhaps a thorough examination will shed some light.”

Sir Hector turned toward Browan’s guards and ordered, “Take the bodies to the hall.” He then turned back to Gareth. “Have any more been discovered?”

“Nay. The others—”

Their discussion was interrupted by a hue and cry from the bailey. Both Gareth and Hector rushed toward the commotion.

Gareth drew his sword before pushing through the gathered crowd. “Hold! What goes here?”

The din subsided and one of Browan’s men limped forward. His torn and dirty garments hung from his frame. He glanced from Gareth to Hector and back, then explained, “We were attacked from behind before we could give warning.”

“By how many?” Gareth asked.

The man looked to his companions before shrugging. “I would guess eight or so.” The others nodded in agreement.

Sir Hector asked, “How many of you survived?”

The man’s eyes widened. “We are six here.” The others stepped forward. Each looked as beaten as the next, but at least they were alive.

Gareth answered their unspoken question. “Three were killed. One is still missing.”

Then he scowled in thought. Eight men had slipped into Browan undetected. The same eight men had done this much harm to Browan’s guard. Either the eight were highly skilled, or someone had helped to arrange this ambush. If so, for what purpose?

He turned his attention back to the guards, asking, “Did your attackers say anything?”

One offered a hesitant reply, “Aye, sir. They asked where the princess slept.”

“Princess?” Gareth and Sir Hector asked in unison.

The guard shrugged. “I told them there weren’t no princess here, but they just laughed and hit my head.”

Hector surveyed the bailey and turned to look at the tower. “What would a princess be doing here?”

Gareth followed the other man’s gaze. A multitude of torches lit the bailey and more blazed from the walls.

Far from a rich keep to begin with, the sparse light accented the poorly constructed outbuildings, weak sections in the curtain wall and the downtrodden appearance of the keep in general.

The daunting prospect of reconstruction was overwhelmed by one question. What princess?

A flicker of light from an upper arrow slit in the tower caught Gareth’s attention. Without turning, he issued an order to Sir Hector, “See that the bodies are taken to the hall and see that these men are cared for, too.”

“Milord?”

He heard the question in Hector’s tone. Instead of answering, Gareth only waved one hand in dismissal before leaving to seek answers to his own growing questions.