The Lady and the Falconer

by Laurel O'Donnell

  A crooked smile formed on Beth’s lips.

  ***

  Solace stared out over her lands, resting her palms on the ledge of her window. The cold wrapped its fingers around her, embracing her in an icy hug.

  Logan, she thought again and again. Pain wracked her body as she remembered his smile, the safety she’d felt in his arms. It was all a ruse. It must have been. If he had truly cared for her, how could he have killed her father?

  She bowed her head, her eyes narrowing. He would never have Fulton. It would be her final justice. He could go on living his life of anger and bitterness, but he would never have her home again. She tried to raise her chin, tried to tell herself what she was doing was right. It was justice.

  Solace bowed her head, weeping into her hands. Then why did she feel so horrible? Why did she feel as though she were ripping her heart from her chest?

  ***

  Flames danced in the hearth, casting the Great Hall in a red glow. Barclay sat in a chair before the fire, waiting for Solace. The warmth of the hearth did not reach his heart, only his loins. He heard the soft patter of footsteps and turned to see his betrothed entering the room.

  He was gravely disappointed at what he saw. Her head was bowed, her hands secured by a rope, her shoulders hunched. A defeated woman. When she reached him, she lifted eyes that mirrored infinite sadness. Dark slashes underlined each eye.

  Barclay scowled. He wished he could have been there. He wished he could have seen what had transpired to douse that indomitable spirit. Still, he caught a flash in her large green eyes that made him wonder.

  “Good eve, lady Solace,” Barclay said smoothly.

  After a short moment, Solace thrust her bound hands toward him. “These are not necessary.”

  Barclay shrugged slightly. “After your previous escape, I have little choice.”

  She lowered her hands in acceptance.

  “Come,” he ordered. “Warm yourself by my side.”

  She moved, as he commanded, to his side. When he reached out to touch her waist, she was pleasantly pliable. He grinned, wondering if he shouldn’t bed her now before the fight returned to her. No. He liked a woman who fought. “I must tell you what an absolute treat it was to hear you had simply strolled into a village and found my men. I had garrisons of them out patrolling every village from here to London. And my little dove simply walks into my hands.”

  Solace stared at the fire. Shadows and light danced across her soft features.

  “I must wonder if this is some sort of trap.”

  Something crossed her face, a memory, perhaps. “No trap,” she finally replied. “I want you to become rightful lord of Fulton. I want no one to question your claim to these lands.”

  “And so they shall not,” Barclay agreed. He took her hand into his own and pressed a hearty kiss to her knuckles. “Shall we say in two weeks time?”

  Solace nodded once.

  “I would do it at once, but Father Davis insisted we make it a Yuletide wedding,” he encouraged. “That way our union will be doubly blessed.”

  ***

  “Solace, I can’t believe you truly want to wed this man.” Father Davis stood before her, his hands clasped over his large belly, his deep brown eyes staring at her with concern. His voice seemed to echo inside the cavernous chapel. “At least I succeeded in postponing the wedding a few weeks. To give you time to really think about this.”

  Solace noticed the elaborate renovations to the chapel. A golden altar had been added, a huge statue of the Virgin Mary. It was those cold, unseeing eyes she met, instead of Father Davis’s. Solace turned her back to him, wrapping her arms around herself. Before her, a row of cream-colored cherub statues watched her from atop their intricately carved pedestals. And even though the stone angels had empty slits for eyes, she felt disapproving stares emanating from them. She suddenly felt a chill. She had never lied to Father Davis before and she certainly couldn’t do it in the chapel.

  “He is one of the most heartless men I have ever met,” Father Davis added.

  Solace whirled to him, her back straightening. “Did he hurt you?”

  “Me?” Father Davis echoed in surprise. “No. Not me. But I’m certainly one of the few he hasn’t. Have you seen any of the villagers?”

  She hadn’t been allowed out of her room for two days. Barclay was afraid she would run. Finally, she had been escorted to the chapel and allowed to see Father Davis. Three guards were waiting outside to bring her back to her prison of a room when she was done.

  “He starves them, Solace,” Father Davis said gently. “He stole the crops when he entered Fulton, and now with the weather getting cold and no food...” Father Davis’s voice trailed off as he bowed his head and shook it. “We pray it will be a mild winter.”

  Solace dropped her hands to her sides. The villagers. She was glad she had returned. Perhaps somehow she could get them food. At least the sick ones and the ones with children. “That’s why I’m marrying him. Perhaps I can soften his heart.”

  “Child, no one can soften his heart. He lusts for glory on earth and glory in heaven.” Father Davis again shook his head. “He gives gold to the church, but he is cold and merciless. Look what he did to your stepmother.” Father Davis raised Solace’s chin with his finger. “He will show you no kindness.”

  A chill of doom slithered up Solace’s spine. “And I ask for none.”

  Father Davis shook his head, rubbing his tired eyes. “Do you love him?”

  Solace sought desperately for the right answer. “My sister is fond of him.”

  Father Davis snorted. “Lady Beth has as much sense as a jackass.”

  Solace couldn’t resist a smile.

  “It’s good to see you smile, Solace,” Father Davis commented quietly. “Fulton has become a castle of gloom since you left. Tell me of your journeys.” Father Davis moved over to a bench and sat down, patting the stone beside him.

  Solace moved to him, sitting next to him.

  “Where did you go?” he asked.

  “To Cavindale,” she replied, glancing down at her slippered feet.

  “Cavindale? That’s so far from here! You traveled alone?”

  “No.”

  She sensed Father Davis studying her face, but kept her eyes averted, running a finger across a gash in the stone bench.

  “Who did you travel with?”

  A permanent sorrow seemed to sweep her into a cocoon of emptiness. “Logan Grey.”

  Father Davis drew in a sharp breath. “Logan? Could it be?” He clasped his hands gently before him. “Peter’s brother?”

  Solace nodded, a strand of dark hair falling over her shoulder. “He was the falconer.”

  “The falconer,” Father Davis echoed absently. “All that time, and I didn’t even recognize him.” He turned his attention back to Solace. “My prayers have been answered.” He lowered his voice in a conspiratorial whisper. “He’s coming to take Fulton, isn’t he?”

  “He might be, Father,” Solace said. “But by the time he arrives, it will be too late.”

  “Too late?” Father Davis exclaimed. “But surely you can hold Barclay off!”

  “I don’t want to,” Solace whispered. “I don’t want Logan to have Fulton.”

  “But, child, he’s our only hope.”

  “He killed my father,” Solace said defensively, turning her head to look at him hotly.

  As they locked eyes, Father Davis groaned softly. He suddenly looked decades older.

  Solace knelt before Father Davis, taking his hand in her own. “You have to marry us, Father. I want you to.”

  “You don’t know what you’re asking me,” he whispered. “I don’t want to see another one of my beloved children hurt.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve lived at Fulton for a long time. I’m an old man, Solace. I watched Peter and Logan grow up. I loved them as I do you. And when your father came, I watched their family destroyed. They were my children. The same as you are.
I cannot stand by and watch you do this. I can not marry you.”

  Desperately, Solace buried her forehead against his hands. “Please, Father.”

  “Go, child,” he said in a steely voice. “If you still wish to marry Barclay after you see what he’s done, then I will marry you.” He patted her head, gently. “Go visit Peter and care for him again.”

  “Peter?” Solace gasped. “He’s here? Where? Where is he?”

  Father Davis’s brown eyes darkened. “In the dungeon.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  The following day Barclay guided Solace down the narrow stairs leading into the darkness of the dungeon. His large form obscured her vision of the interior of the prison, but she could hear the moans rising out of the blackness. Before her feet hit the dirt floor of the dungeon, the groans and calls for mercy were already ringing loudly in her ears. She froze, her hands instinctively reaching out to the walls for support. The smells of charred flesh and urine assaulted her, and she had to fight down the strong urge to race back up the stairs.

  Barclay turned to her. In the flickering torchlight, Solace saw the smile on his lips, a smile more horrible than the cries of the tortured, more horrible than the darkness that awaited her. He was enjoying this. At the thought, terror gripped her. She now understood why he had voiced no objection to her seeing Peter. He was actually enjoying watching the torment play across her features. She froze, unable to move. She didn’t want to see the transformation that the dark power of the dungeon had made in its captives. She didn’t want to see her people, her men, chained and hobbled like animals.

  The Baron’s grin grew, his blue eyes sparkling with dark satisfaction. He wanted her afraid; he wanted to see her terror.

  With this understanding came her resolve not to give in. Solace hid her fear behind a wall of resolution and a stone face. Barclay’s grin slipped a notch and he moved on, escorting her deeper into the bowels of hell. The already-grotesque smell worsened as they moved into the heart of the dungeon. In the guard’s area, Barclay stopped to speak to the man stationed there.

  Solace looked around the small room in horror. The torchlight washed over a woman manacled and chained to the floor. Her clothing was ripped, a breast exposed in the flickering light. Her dark eyes stared at Solace without seeing. Her hair was scraggly, her face dirty and smeared with dried blood.

  But what was most appalling to Solace was that she remembered the woman from the village. She was the young, bright-eyed daughter of the miller. Her father had died in Solace’s arms from an arrow wound.

  Solace stepped forward, instinctively moving to the girl’s side. She reached out to take the woman’s hand in her own, but Barclay’s fingers closed over her arm, pulling her to her feet. “She has all the attention she needs,” he said harshly.

  “You barbarian!” Solace accused, ripping her arm from his hold. “How can you treat a woman like that? Chaining her to the floor like some animal.”

  “Oh, it’s worse than you think,” Barclay said, so softly that Solace had to strain to hear him above the moans. “She is used by my guards to make this position more... appealing.”

  Solace gasped in sheer outrage and whirled to the young woman. Barclay moved up behind her, his oily voice dripping in her ears. “Take heed, my beloved. You could just as easily replace her.” When his hand touched the small of her back, she jumped, but Barclay simply guided her down the darkening hallway.

  “It’s a pity the dungeon is so small,” he said. “I’ve had to execute quite a number of people for lack of room. But I’ve had no trouble coming up with ways to dispatch them.”

  Solace lurched forward, away from his grip, but she could not escape the darkness and the stench of death.

  “Here we are,” Barclay said good-naturedly, halting before a door.

  It was the same cell Logan had been chained in. Dread prickled the nape of Solace’s neck as Barclay unlocked the door and swung it open. He ducked his head, thrusting the torch before him as he entered the cell.

  Two forms lurched away from the light as the torch’s glare swept over them. Like animals, she thought. Solace grimaced, preparing herself for the atrocities she was certain had been inflicted on Peter. But no matter how hard she tried, she could not have prepared herself for the sight that greeted her.

  She stepped into the cell, peering around Barclay’s shoulder at the huddled form he pointed to. The man cowered in the grime of the dungeon floor, covered in muck. Dark, knotted hair fell to his neck. Solace could barely make out the tattered remains of a white tunic with her father’s crest on it. The man’s skin was as pale as moonlight.

  Solace stepped toward him, calling softly, “Peter?”

  The man started. “Go away,” he commanded.

  Barclay lashed out with his foot, striking him with his boot. “Don’t speak to my betrothed like that.”

  “Don’t!” Solace hollered at Barclay.

  “No,” the man groaned, but Solace realized it was not the blow that caused him agony.

  She knelt beside him, tentatively. “Peter, it’s me,” she whispered. “Solace.”

  The man turned his head so he was looking at her over his shoulder. She could see only one of his teary brown eyes. “I don’t want you to see me like this,” he said hoarsely.

  “Peter,” Solace said sympathetically, reaching out to cup his cheek. She felt his tears, his agony as if it were her own. “It’s all right,” she whispered. “I’m here.”

  Her words drew him forth from the darkness, from the blackness that had eaten away at his soul for months. He dropped his shoulder, moving into the light of the torch.

  Solace’s heart wrenched and she blinked her eyes against a sudden onslaught of tears. Peter’s face was covered with bruises and cuts, some healing, some festering with pus. But what made her cry out in anguish, what made tears stream from her eyes, was his other eye. They had burned it out! Where his eye should have been, there was an empty socket, blackened by charring heat, swollen and bruised. She covered her mouth, gasping, “Oh, Peter!”

  He looked down in an attempt to hide his disfigurement. Solace gently cupped his chin, forcing him to look up at her. “It’s all right,” she soothed.

  Peter reached up to brush a finger against her cheek, wiping away some of her tears.

  “Be careful how you touch my betrothed,” Barclay warned from behind her.

  His voice jarred Solace and she stood, whirling to face him. “How could you?” she demanded.

  “Easily, my darling.” His voice was mocking. “I was searching for you.”

  “How could Peter have known where I was?”

  “He is a Grey,” Barclay said simply. “He might have known where his brother would take you.”

  Solace stepped closer to Barclay, her teeth clenched, her loathing evident. “Peter did not even know Logan was alive. You knew that. You knew he would have no idea where Logan had gone. You did it because you like to hurt people.”

  Barclay held up a hand. “On the contrary, my dove. I only hurt my enemies.” His smile grew and the wavering torchlight distorted it, making it look more like a grimace. His hand shot out, capturing her arm in a tight hold. “Be thankful you are not my enemy.”

  She narrowed her eyes, trying to ignore the biting pain coming from his grip.

  “Solace,” Peter groaned and shifted, but he was too weak to rise, too weak to come to her defense.

  Barclay shoved Solace toward Peter. “Care for him. Then Father Davis will marry us.”

  ***

  Solace stared across the Great Hall at the table of monks. Their numbers seemed to have doubled, perhaps even tripled in size from when she had first arrived a week ago; almost twenty monks now occupied the table. Every Yule, Castle Fulton was host to these pious travelers, offering them shelter and food before they continued on with their pilgrimage. Most ate quietly, exchanging few words. They dined with their hoods up, solemnly, eating whatever they were given. Solace wished she could join them. />
  “Aren’t you hungry, darling?” Barclay asked from beside her. “You haven’t touched your food.”

  Solace glanced down at the venison. It was not the pungent aroma of the food that soured her appetite. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I have no appetite.” She stood to return to her chamber, but Barclay seized her arm.

  “I hope you’re more zealous in bed than you are for food,” he murmured.

  Solace gently freed her arm. “You needn’t worry about my duties as a wife. I will remain faithful.”

  She turned and moved toward the hallway, very aware that every one of Barclay’s men watched her. Barclay had freed her hands of their bindings, but it was obvious he had instructed his men to watch her every movement.

  She was still very much a prisoner.

  She stepped into the hall and moved toward her room. Suddenly, an overwhelming urge to flee took hold of her. She leaned against the wall and placed her hands to her cheeks. Why? Why was she doing this? It was madness! Marrying Barclay. I have to, she told herself firmly. I have to do it. I can’t let Logan have Fulton. I have to marry Barclay so the lands are rightfully his.

  “My child, are you all right?”

  Solace looked up to find Father Davis standing before her.

  She wanted to launch herself into his arms and tell him what a fool she’d been. But she couldn’t. “Yes,” she said, straightening. “I’m fine.”

  Father Davis nodded once. His brown eyes peered at her, and she had to avert her eyes before he saw the truth.

  “The wedding is in a week’s time,” Solace said. “On the Yule.”

  “Don’t do this, Solace,” Father Davis pleaded. “He will hurt you.”