“You won’t think that come winter,” he murmured, but loud enough for Solace to hear. Again Randol reached out to Anne, this time grabbing hold of her dress and yanking it from her shoulder.
Solace wanted to flee, wanted to escape the horrible man, but she dared not move. The two men lurking in the doorway would surely see her.
Anne bolted for the door. Randol caught her in his arms, pulling her hard against his chest. “Such a willing wench,” he whispered, licking her ear.
Anne whirled, striking out at her attacker, raking her nails down his face.
Lord Randol howled his disbelief and rage, and pushed her to the ground. He raised his fingers to his gashed cheek. “Bitch,” he snarled, studying the blood on his hand. He undid his belt and let his breeches fall to the ground.
“No!” Anne screamed, struggling uselessly as Randol dropped to his knees.
The hay bales blocked Solace’s view of Anne. All she could see was lord Randol’s face, the ugly grimace that twisted his features. She had never seen anything more vicious in her life, the way his lips sneered like a snarling animal’s, the way his cold eyes stared like a venomous serpent’s at Anne. She heard Anne screaming and sobbing, saw her hands come up to push Randol away. He ignored her flailing fists and continued to violently thrust himself at her.
Tears came to Solace’s eyes. She didn’t know what was happening, but she knew that Anne was being hurt. She pressed her hands to her ears, trying to block out the sounds of Anne’s cries.
Finally, lord Randol rose to his feet and wiped an arm across his slashed cheek. Without a word, he turned away.
Hot tears ran down Solace’s cheeks. She was trembling all over. She fought to choke back her sobs, terrified of what the man would do to her if he found her.
Anne’s moans filled the air. Solace watched lord Randol take a menacing step toward the woman, and a bright flash of silver flared across her vision, arcing toward Anne.
Solace blinked. After that, she heard no more sobs. Shivering, she huddled behind the hay, praying the men would go away, praying they wouldn’t find her. She barely heard Randol’s last words. “Never strike a lord.”
Solace listened to the silence that followed for a long moment. Her muffled sobs sounded loud to her own ears. She was sure Randol would discover her. Please, she silently begged, don’t let him find me.
Then she heard footsteps, booted feet treading over the dried hay of the barn floor. They were getting louder, closer. She hugged her knees tightly to her chest, squeezing her eyes tight. Tears forced their way from the corners of her clenched lids, sliding down her small face, bringing their salty bitterness to the edges of her lips.
The footsteps drew closer. And then stopped. Something called to Solace, compelling her to open her eyes, urging her with an undeniable force to lift her head. Slowly, she opened her wet eyes to stare into the face of evil. Dark, malevolent eyes glared at her, eyes that trapped her in a hypnotic grip.
Something glinted in the morning’s sun, reflecting light into her eyes. Her gaze shifted to the sword Randol held in his hand. A smear of blood marred its smooth, flat surface.
Solace couldn’t take her eyes from it. She trembled with a ferocity that should have moved the earth. Suddenly, the blade lowered.
Her gaze remained locked on the empty air where the weapon had been.
Then, finally, Solace heard the footsteps recede and the barn door swing closed. Still, she couldn’t move. She was afraid of what she would find if she left her hiding spot. What if the men hadn’t really gone? What if they were waiting to hurt her?
Finally, after a long moment of silence, Solace pushed herself forward, peering around the hay, her body still shaking with fear. The barn was empty...
...except for Anne lying on the ground. Solace wanted to see if she was all right. But she was afraid. So afraid. You have to help her, a voice inside her urged. Solace dragged herself out from behind the hay and was surprised to find that her shaky legs held her up. She approached Anne very slowly. Was she dead? Her eyes were closed. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. Her chest wasn’t moving.
Solace wiped at her moist eyes, trying to push aside her tears so she could see. Suddenly Anne’s eyes opened and pinned Solace where she stood.
Solace jumped back, stifling a scream.
“Solace,” Anne whispered, a gurgle of blood issuing forth from her lips as she tried to speak.
Solace shook her head, refusing to move from her spot. The sight of Anne’s blood terrified her. She spun toward the door, wanting to run, wanting to flee and pretend this never happened. But then Helen came to her mind. Helen would want to know why she didn’t help her mother. Helen. Where was she? She turned back to Anne and moved stiffly to her side.
Anne reached out to seize hold of the hem of Solace’s velvet dress. “Tell your father,” Anne coughed. “Don’t let Randol get away with this. Don’t let me die for nothing.”
Solace shook her head again, frightened.
“Please,” Anne begged. “Tell Helen that I love her.”
Solace watched Anne’s head slump back to the earth, saw Anne’s hand release her dress and fall lifeless to the dirt. She was dead. Anne was dead. Solace ran from the barn, tears streaming from her eyes, her sobs now loud and heavy in her throat.
***
Lord Farindale ran his hands over the parchment, spreading it out on the table before him. He was a tall, imposing man with a thick tangle of brown hair, his full beard flecked with speckles of auburn. He studied the plans for a long moment, tugging at his lower lip in thought. Then, he raised green eyes to the man who stood on the opposite side of the table from him. “This castle will take years to construct,” he said.
The man nodded, his bright blue eyes alight with approval. “Yes,” he agreed. “It will be a mighty asset. A powerful home for you, my friend. And also one of the strongest fortresses in all of England.”
A smile crept across Farindale’s lips. “God’s blood, Erickson!” he exclaimed. “I believe you want me to build this for the protection it will offer you!”
Erickson chuckled. He was shorter and stockier than Farindale, with a receding hairline that was fast growing into complete baldness. “I won’t lie to you,” he answered. “A castle this strong will attract many fine knights.”
“Not to mention the knights my full coffers will attract.”
Erickson continued, nodding. “It would be a relief to know that my neighbor, and my good friend, has such a large disposal of men at his service.”
Farindale laughed out loud. He slapped the man on the back. “It’s good to see you, Erickson. But come, tell me truly what you think of the plans? Where can I improve them?”
The door squeaked open, and the padding of feet caused the men to turn. Solace raced across the wooden floor and Farindale opened his arms for her. In the flickering light of the room’s candles, Farindale made out his daughter’s red cheeks and teary eyes. “What’s wrong, darling?” he wondered, a tightness constricting his chest at her distress.
She buried her face in his shoulder, sobs wracking her tiny body.
“Where’s Gwen?” Erickson demanded. “Where’s my daughter?”
Solace turned wet eyes to Erickson. “She’s with Lillian. And Helen.”
Farindale cast Erickson a glance over the child’s dark head. “It’s all right, my love,” he whispered, turning his attention back to Solace. He sat in a chair to cradle the small girl in his arms. “What’s happened?”
“Oh, Father,” she wept, clinging to him tightly. “It was horrible.”
He pulled back to look into her eyes, scowling. “Tell me,” he ordered.
Her lower lip trembled, quivering with anguish. “They killed Anne, Father,” she sobbed.
“Anne?” Farindale echoed, casting a confused glance at Erickson.
“One of Randol’s tenants. They live on our border. The girls went there this morning to play with her daughter.”
Far
indale nodded, remembering. “I knew we shouldn’t have let them go. There’s nothing but trouble to be had in Randol’s lands.”
Erickson knelt beside Farindale to stroke Solace’s soft curls. “Who killed her?”
Solace turned large, green eyes to Erickson. She was crying so hard she could hardly speak. “L—L-Lord Randol and his men.” She turned her eyes to her father. “He hurt Anne b-because she couldn’t pay her taxes. He d-did something horrible to her. And then he stabbed her with h-his sword.”
Farindale clenched his teeth and pulled her head to his chest, trying to calm her, but Solace continued to cry. “Did he hurt you?” he demanded, every muscle in his body tensing.
“No,” Solace wept.
Farindale crushed her in an embrace born of relief.
The door opened and a thin woman dressed in black bobbed a curtsey to lord Farindale.
Farindale reluctantly released his hold on his daughter. “Go to Lillian, my love,” he whispered, wiping the tears from her red cheeks. “She will get you some warm cider.”
Solace refused to let go of him, and Farindale held her tight for a moment longer. He kissed the top of her head, feeling her tiny body shudder. Then, he pulled her arms from around him, and urged encouragingly, “Go with Lillian.”
Solace looked up into his eyes. “You have to stop him,” she said sincerely. “You can’t let him get away with this.”
Farindale stared down at his young daughter in shock. Her face was wet from tears, her cheeks and nose red, her eyes swollen, her body trembling with fright. But she was as serious as any adult. He admired her in that instant.
“You won’t let Anne die for nothing, will you?” she wondered.
“Hush, child,” Farindale said, wiping the tears from her cheeks and stroking her rebellious head of curls. “I’ll speak with you later.”
Solace nodded softly, and inhaled a shaky breath as she slid from his lap.
Farindale watched her walk to the door and take Lillian’s hand. She was a lovely girl, charming and innocent. She was going to grow up to be a beauty. She glanced back at him over her shoulder, those green eyes imploring him. Then, she was gone, closing the door behind her.
Farindale’s hands clenched into fists. “That bastard has gone too far.”
Erickson placed a hand on his shoulder. “Easy, my friend. Randol is a powerful lord.”
“Powerful and evil from all you’ve told me.” Farindale turned to his friend to meet his blue eyes with resolve.
Erickson sighed in resignation. “It’s true. He treats his people cruelly. This is not the first time I’ve heard of his killing a peasant.”
“But it’s the first time my daughter has witnessed it.” Farindale’s fists clenched tighter. “I’ve tried so hard to shelter her from the cruelties of the world. I didn’t want her to see something like this.”
“She was on his land,” Erickson reminded him.
“Maybe it’s time we changed that,” Farindale said, moving to the table to stare down at the luxurious plans for his new castle.
Erickson joined him.
Farindale picked up the parchment. “We’re not building a castle, my friend.” He crumpled the parchment in his fist. “We’re taking one.”
The Lady and the Falconer - Chapter One
Thirteen Years Later
The beautiful fall day was fresh and warm, summer refusing to relinquish its grip. Solace Farindale moved through the grassy field beside Gwen Erickson, their steps leisurely and relaxed. Behind them, Castle Fulton loomed large, its many towers reaching high into the sky. The drawbridge stretched across the deep moat, and dozens of villagers moved in and out of the castle as they saw to the business of the day. A monk passed Solace and her friend on the way to the castle’s chapel, his head bowed, his hands clasped in silent prayer. The pious men and their brown robes were a common enough sight at Castle Fulton. The monks stopped at the fortress on their way to the Abbey of St. Michael, sometimes alone, but Solace had seen groups as large as fifteen.
In a field to the left, knights were practicing their jousting skills, their enthusiastic shouts filling the air. Solace turned at the sound of hoof beats to see a man striking a quintain with his long lance. The counterweight whirled quickly around and hit the man in the shoulder. The man tumbled from his horse amidst laughter from his fellow knights.
Solace turned her attention back to Gwen. “Is it serious?”
“I... I don’t know,” Gwen replied solemnly, wringing her hands in front of her. “Father just seems so weak.”
“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Solace said kindly. But she had seen the pale color of lord Erickson’s face, the sagging of his shoulders, and knew his strength was waning. “Have you sought physicians?”
“We’ve tried everything!” Gwen exclaimed. “They gave him all sorts of herbs. They studied his urine. Even the bloodletting didn’t work! More and more of our coin goes to trying to make Father well.” Gwen looked up at Solace, her blue eyes dull with worry. “Father doesn’t like me to concern myself with the finances, but I know that’s why we’re here.”
“What do you mean?”
“Father was hoping your father could loan him some gold,” Gwen said quietly, glancing around the field, not wanting the others to hear. “But since your father is off with the king...” Her voice trailed away.
Solace stopped to meet Gwen’s eyes. “Are you in danger?”
“No,” Gwen insisted. “It’s nothing like that. It’s just that our coin is almost depleted. Until the taxes are collected next year, there’s not enough to pay the knights who protect the castle.”
Solace nodded in understanding. “I’m sure Father would give you the gold without any questions.”
“Yes, but will your stepmother?”
Solace opened her mouth to reply when the loud cry of a bird drew her gaze to the sky. A magnificent falcon soared overhead, circling the field. For a moment, she wondered if it had escaped from its owner. But as her gaze dropped back to Gwen, she spotted the falconer in the distance over her friend’s shoulder.
A second bird, a peregrine falcon, was perched on his fist. The falconer was holding onto the jesses, leather strips attached to the falcon’s legs, while offering it a lure. The falcon ate the offered meat, devouring the entire piece. The bird was beautiful, its golden brown feathers shining like expensive silk in the warm sunlight. But it was not the falcon that caught Solace’s eye.
Every time she saw him, the falconer’s conspicuous good looks totally captured her attention. He towered over the rest of the men by at least a head, and he now stood absolutely still, as if somehow knowing he was being studied. He was marvelous to gaze at, a statue carved by the most skilled artisan. He had an arrogantly symmetrical face that was breathtakingly gorgeous. His aquiline nose was straight, his jaw strong, chiseled by a master sculptor. His lips were firm, strangely...foreignly...sensual. The sunlight suddenly seemed to be shining for him alone, glimmering over his black hair like a halo, making it gleam like onyx under the sun’s bright rays.
A small girl, Mary, ran to him from over the drawbridge. She stopped at his feet, and the falconer turned to her. Solace watched as the girl exchanged words with him. She saw his gaze shift to the falcon on his wrist. Then, he held out a piece of meat to the child. Mary took the meat with a grimace and held it out to the bird with two fingers.
The falcon captured the meat and quickly ate it.
The falconer patted Mary on the head, and the girl beamed at him.
A warm sensation flooded through Solace. There was something about this falconer that wasn’t what it seemed.
Gwen turned and glanced over her shoulder. A devious grin stretched her lips as she turned back to face Solace. “He is very handsome.”
Solace quickly looked away, blushing.
Suddenly, Old Ben limped by Solace and Gwen, cursing under his breath and muttering, “He’s no falconer.” Old Ben was the oldest man they knew, his skin darkened and weathered
by the sun. Most of his hair was gone, and what few strands remained were as white as lamb’s wool.
Solace and Gwen exchanged a look and then smiled in unison. Old Ben was always complaining about something! Solace knew he took keen pride in his birds, always wanting everything done with perfection. That was one of the reasons her father had hired him as his first falconer.
Old Ben waved his arms at the falconer, flapping them as if he were a great bird himself. “Not like that!” he called out in exasperation. “If n ya feed ‘er too much she’ll never go after the game! Ya just give her a taste!” Old Ben took the peregrine from the falconer and walked away, mumbling curses under his breath.
Solace watched the falconer for a long moment. Tales had circulated about him in the castle, the gossip of frustrated wives and eager young women. Tales of how his eyes could undress you with one penetrating gaze. Tales of how his muscles rippled with explosive energy, muscles hidden beneath a layer of bronze skin. Tales of how his deep, confident voice could make your limbs tremble with the anticipation of hearing your name whispered by him.
The black falcon cried out again and swooped in for a landing, digging its claws into the leather patch sewn on the shoulder of the falconer’s tunic. The falconer barely acknowledged the bird’s arrival until Mary clapped with glee. He smiled down at the girl as the black falcon shifted its position on his shoulder. The falconer then set a hand on Mary’s shoulder and steered her back toward the drawbridge.
As he moved, Solace admired the ease, the natural grace with which the bird rode his shoulder, mildly intrigued that it was riding its master’s shoulder instead of on his forearm where it belonged.
Gwen gently cleared her throat.
Solace turned away from the falconer. She clasped Gwen’s hands. “Don’t worry,” Solace assured her. “Everything will be fine.”
***
The needle stabbed Solace’s finger for the hundredth time, and she silently cursed. She was sure this embroidery of a flower would turn out much better than her previous efforts. She had been concentrating on it all evening, trying to block out the mundane conversation Gwen was having with her half sister, Beth, and her stepmother. But as much as she tried to focus on her work, the image of the falconer kept haunting each stitch. The beauty of his face, the perfection of his features, aroused her imagination. She continued to try to push the distraction aside, but he kept materializing in her mind’s eye like a stubborn phantom refusing to be banished.
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