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.”
THE LADY AND THE FALCONER
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 causing 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 a
nd 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.”
Solace looked at the cold stones beneath her feet. “I did what you said, Father. I’ve tended Peter daily.”
“You’ve seen what he did to Peter,” Father Davis said sternly. “You can’t marry him.”
Solace raised her eyes, determination shining brightly in them. “I want to.”
Disbelief and hurt flashed across Father Davis’s face. “But Solace –”
“You gave your word,” Solace argued. “I want to marry him. I have to.”
Father Davis sighed. “I will not go back on my word. If it’s what you wish.”
Solace nodded, grasping his hands. “Thank you.”
“You don’t know what you’re asking,” he said and eased his hands from her grip. “I wish you would change your mind. Think about it.” He gently touched her cheek and disappeared down the hallway.
Solace watched him for a moment. She had thought about it. Long and hard. It was the only way to stop Logan. And she would do anything.
Then why did she feel so horrible? Was what she was doing wrong? She rubbed her eyes. Logan’s image came unbidden. His warm smile, his soft touch, his silver eyes filled her mind.
Why? Why had he killed her father?
She pushed herself from the wall, doubts plaguing her mind. Her decision was made. She glanced up and saw a monk standing in the shadows of the great doors, watching her.
She turned and headed to her room.
***
Solace stared at the snow as it fell from the sky, falling over the lands like frozen tears. Then she remembered Logan’s face as he’d thrust the blade into her father’s heart. How could she have been so wrong about Logan? She had loved him with all her heart, all her being. It was as if he had killed her instead of her father.
She heard the door to her room open and close, but did not look up to see who it was.
A cup was thrust before her.
Solace looked down at it and then raised her gaze to meet Beth’s glacial blue eyes. It seemed everything around her was cold. “What’s this?” she wondered.
“It will cure all your problems,” Beth answered softly.
Solace’s eyes narrowed before shifting back to the drink. She took the offered cup.
“It’s quick and you won’t be in any pain,” Beth assured her.
Solace stared at the beckoning liquid. She should have been surprised and repulsed, but she was neither. She accepted Beth’s offering, nonplused. In the torchlight, the dark liquid looked like blood.
“Drink it,” Beth cooed. “I’ll marry Barclay, have his child and he will still be rightful heir of Fulton. Everyone will be happy.”
Solace licked her lips. It was tempting, so tempting. But she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t leave her people to Beth’s care. She lowered the cup to her lap. “I can’t,” she said.
“Why not?” Beth demanded. “It’s the only solution there is.”
“I don’t believe killing myself is a solution,” Solace whispered.
“Then perhaps some one else will do it.”
Startled, Solace raised her eyes to her sister, but Beth had already turned her back and was headed toward the door.
***
That night, Solace slept fitfully, if at all. Logan’s mercury eyes haunted her dreams; his gentle touch and rumbling laughter plagued her senses. She awoke again and again, only to fall into a restless sleep.
She moved through the next day like a sleepwalker. A strange mist had settled about her, a mist of confusion, of depression. Then she found herself in the chapel, kneeling before a statue of the Virgin Mary, praying for guidance.
She swallowed down a lump of despair. When she felt a hand on her shoulder, she raised teary eyes to find Father Davis standing beside her.
“Solace,” he whispered, hurt by the pain in her eyes. “What is it?”
“Father, I don’t think I can do this,” she whispered.
The priest’s eyes went wide with shock, then a frown crossed his wrinkled brow. “You have to marry Barclay,” he said quickly.
“What?” she gasped.
“It’s the best thing for you. I’ve been too harsh on the Baron.”
“But –”
“I’m sure he’ll make a wonderful husband.” Father Davis stood, wiping a tear from her cheek. “You’re doing the right thing.” He patted her hand reassuringly, then turned and moved down the aisle toward the back of the chapel.
Solace couldn’t keep her mouth from dropping open. Had Barclay gotten to him? Threatened him somehow? She turned back to her prayers, hoping the few other monks kneeling in the pews in prayer could not read her impious thoughts.
The monks were everywhere. There was nowhere Solace could go to be alone, so the day bef
ore her wedding she went to the battlements, seeking calm in her churning emotions. The biting wind tore at her cloak, whipping her hair out behind her. She faced the wind, letting it sting her cheeks and water her eyes.
The land was frozen, the fields barren. Tomorrow it would all be over. Solace wondered what Barclay would do when he found out she wasn’t a virgin. She wondered if he would kill her. She wondered if he would care.
She wondered where Logan was. Was he continuing to plan the attack against Castle Fulton? Was he thinking about her?
Tears rose in her eyes as she thought of the time they had spent together. She had been filled with joy whenever they had been together. She had reveled in the secretive looks they had shared. And now all that filled her soul was emptiness.
She would be Barclay’s wife. And she would loathe him.
“Thinking of jumping off the battlements?”
Barclay’s voice sent a chill through her, and she blinked back her tears. “No, m’lord,” she whispered.
“Good,” he murmured, moving up behind her. “I don’t want you dead just yet.” He trailed a hand along the length of her arm.
She stiffened at his touch, feeling strangely violated.
His fingers moved to caress her cheek, her neck.
Solace pulled away from him. “I prefer to wait until our wedding night.”
“I insist,” he smiled, lowering his head to hers.
Solace backed into the wall. “And I insist we wait.”
Barclay’s gaze devoured her, from her toes to the tips of her long hair. A deep growl came from his throat, and Solace hid her shudder beneath a feigned chill.
“It’s so cold,” she said, moving forward to step around him.
He didn’t budge and Solace shrank away from him. His blue eyes burned as he suddenly seized her hand, pressing it against the bulge in his pants. “I plan to take you in ways that are not natural. And you will not protest.”
Solace tried to pull her hand free, but he pressed it harder against himself.
“I have plans for you that would make a whore blush.”
Solace wanted to run, screaming, from him. But she forced calm into her voice as she met his gaze, stilling her struggles. “I’m sure you do, m’lord.”
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