Denise Lynn - Falcon's Honor

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.

“Choose.”

Rhian jumped. The hissed order seemed to come from the very air itself. She nearly dropped the ewers of ale she carried to the great hall.

Choose what?

After rebalancing her load, she swallowed her dread before heading toward the boisterous gathering.

She had not the leisure to contemplate the uneasy feeling that started as little more than a prickle at the nape of her neck and now swept through her limbs like a cold winter wind. She’d not been at Browan Keep more than a few days and had no intention of staying long enough to discover what caused her unease.

This was naught but a temporary haven—one that grew more unpleasant by the day.

And now a formless voice urged her to choose.

Choose what?

“Wench!” The shout came from one of the men in the hall. “Be quicker with that ale.” An order that had been repeated many times this evening.

The act of serving those gathered in the great hall bothered her little, but the drunken louts yelling and pawing at her set her teeth on edge. There was no master at Browan. She’d heard that the lord here had died in a hunting accident and King Stephen had not yet replaced him.

The man who was temporarily in charge had no control over the others, so they ran wild. Their entertainment had risen to the level of a game this night. The more they drank, the more they sought to pull her down onto their laps or to fondle her as she walked by.

While some of the other girls welcomed these advances, she had no wish to be compromised in such a manner. She’d already compromised herself enough by coming here alone in the first place; she’d not make her lot worse.

After slamming one ewer down onto the table with a heavy thud she spun away, successfully avoiding a pair of reaching hands. Slurred curses met her maneuver.

No sooner had a smile of success twitched at her lips, when she plowed into a smelly, beefy wall of flesh. “Ah, my beauty, you show excellent taste.” The man wrapped his arms about her waist, securing her as neatly as herring caught in a net.

Rhian mumbled her own curse. She’d spun too far—right into the snare of yet another lout.

When he sought to lean in for a kiss, the stench of his breath gagged her and fueled her need to escape. She nearly growled before rapping a pitcher of ale against his head.

The earthen jug shattered, leaving her holding naught but the handle. Either his skull was made of rock, or he was too far in his cups to notice, because he did not fall, nor did he release her. At least not at first.

In expectation of the worst, her heartbeat slowed and breathing ceased. The man’s reaction appeared to happen in a manner slower than normal. He shook his head and smiled briefly before letting his arms drop to his sides as he sank like a leaf borne on a breeze to the floor.

Without pausing to see if he still breathed, Rhian ran from the hall into the smaller entry chamber. Boisterous hoots of laughter followed her hasty departure.

As more men entered through the great doors, she bolted past them with a prayer on her lips that the small footbridge connecting the keep to the partially finished inner wall would still be in place. Her prayer answered, she skirted quickly across the moveable planks to the wall.

A chilled wind buffeted her as she raced blindly along the torch-lit wallwalk seeking a way to reach the bailey below. Night had fallen and she was nothing more in this keep than a lowly serving wench who had no business on the wall. She wished to avoid being dragged back into the overcrowded hall. The men would only make sport of her and the other girls would torment her unceasingly.

The tromping of horses’ hooves stopped directly below her. “Hail!”

Rhian froze midstep. Her breath and heart skipped over each other. She clenched her fists at her sides and closed her eyes. She’d no wish to see the danger heading her way.

“You, girl!”

The approaching danger didn’t sound extremely threatening. She took a fortifying breath of air before peering over the walkway to look down at the man in the bailey.

Rhian shielded her eyes from the torch he held aloft. The light flickered across his face. His voice had belied his age. This man was little more than a boy. A squire perhaps? Since he was not demanding to know why she was on the wall, it was apparent he was not from Browan.

“Ah, she does hear.”

When the men around him snickered, Rhian backed away from the edge of the walk. By himself he didn’t appear threatening, but the men with him seemed a scurvy lot and they were many years beyond boyhood.

“I mean you no harm. Just a question if you please.”

The pleading in his voice beckoned her to answer. “I’ve no time for idle chatter, be quick.”

“Is your master in residence?”

“Now how would—” She caught herself. “Nay. There is no master of Browan.”

“Surely someone is in charge.”

“Sir Hector holds the keep until the new master arrives.” Why was he asking her this question in the first place? Had he not inquired at the gates?

“Excellent. My lord will be pleased to hear that.” He tugged on his horse’s reins as if to leave, then turned back to her. “Tell me, are Browan’s gates always unguarded?”

Rhian gasped softly. That explained why this lad questioned a serving wench. What type of imbecile was in charge of the haven she’d found? While it did explain why nobody had noticed her on the wall, it did not explain why during a time of unending battles a sane man left a keep open for conquest. She realized she was taking too long to answer and fumbled for a suitable response. “I…I know not. Perhaps the guards were occupied elsewhere.”

If she valued her safety, she knew that her time at Browan was at an end. She’d leave at first light. Surely there was another keep nearby. One where a residing lord valued his property and those inside the walls.

The young man nodded. “Perhaps you are right. I will bid you good evening then and thank-you for your kind assistance.”

Without waiting for him and his companions to leave, Rhian paced back and forth, resuming her search for a ladder down to the bailey.

The man cleared his throat. When she peered at him, he motioned toward her left with the torch. “If you are searching for a ladder, there is one a few feet that way.” Without another word he turned and left. The men with him followed, their renewed snickers echoing off into the night.

To her great relief, she managed to descend the ladder without breaking her neck. The relative quiet of the inner bailey provided her a small semblance of peace as she crossed the nearly dark yard. The two guards she encountered paid her little heed other than asking her business at Browan. It amazed her that once she admitted to being a serving wench, they waved her on her way. Aye, she’d have no regrets about leaving in the morning. She had no intentions of being in residence when this keep fell to the next enemy who approached.