The Lady and the Falconer

by Laurel O'Donnell

  When Logan lifted his gaze, the guard was standing before him.

  “What are you doing here, falconer?” the guard demanded. His gaze flicked quickly to the staff in Logan’s hands, then darted back to meet Logan’s stare.

  Logan remained quiet, certain the guard could understand the resolve that now filled his own eyes, certain he could see his jaw clench tightly, certain he could sense his muscles coiling taut in his body. He sharply flicked his wrist, bringing the bottom end of his staff up into his open, waiting palm.

  The guard was just as quick, his hand curling around the hilt of his blade, his elbow bending, releasing the sword from its sheath. He turned the drawn blade back and forth in front of him, the torchlight shimmering on its glossy silver surface, the fire’s glare dripping along the blade as if it were freshly drawn blood.

  Logan could only think of Peter lying in a pile of his own refuse, chained to the wall like some pathetic caged animal, his skin hanging on him like some ragged piece of cloth as starvation ravaged his body. He let his knees go limp, and his body suddenly dropped toward the floor as he whipped the end of the staff toward the guard’s legs. The heavy wooden pole hit the man’s right knee. The big man grunted painfully as his legs buckled beneath him, and he dipped his sword to the floor so the sharp edge could prop him up.

  Logan swung the staff again, knocking the blade away. The guard plummeted forward, landing on the stone floor with a tremendous thud, the metal covering his arm grating harshly against the rough rock.

  Logan brought his staff down on the back of the man’s head. The man grunted once and then was still. Logan bent to retrieve the key from the guard’s belt. He quickly removed the torch from the wall and disappeared down the dark corridor of the dungeon.

  “Peter?” he called into the eerie veil of darkness that lurked beyond the circle of light thrown from his torch. But all that greeted him was an echo of his own voice and the plip plip of water dripping somewhere in the distance. Logan stepped deeper into the black heart of the dungeon.

  He stopped at the first cell door he came to, stepping closer to the small, rust-covered bars that lined the window opening. He peered through them, calling softly, as if afraid to wake the dead, “Peter?”

  A moan sounded from within.

  It could be Peter. It could be my brother... or it could be some raving lunatic ready to smash my skull to get free. Logan tightened his grip on his staff and stuck the key into the lock. With a click, the thick wooden door opened. He swung the door wide, thrusting the torch into the small cell. The light cut through the blackness like the sun breaking through a hole in a blanket of dark clouds. The occupant groaned, shielding his eyes. He was a skeletal old man, his clothing ragged, sheared away from years of wear. Beneath the ripped and tattered clothing hanging from his thin body, Logan could see open, pustulant sores. Leprosy!

  Logan backed quickly out of the cell, closing the door. Dread filled him. What if Peter…? Logan shook his head, refusing to acknowledge the thought, even the possibility.

  The next cell was empty, as was the third one, both containing only piles of old bones and scraps of clothing. But as Logan swung the door open on the last cell, he saw a young man sitting cross-legged on the ground, his back to him. His heart skipped a beat. My brother! He thrust the torch at the prisoner, trying to get a better look, taking a joyful step forward. “Peter?” Logan whispered hopefully.

  The man didn’t answer and Logan felt a tightening of anxiety in the pit of his stomach. He moved closer, stepping around the still form. As the light crept forward to fully reveal the man, Logan’s happiness died.

  The face staring at him was not Peter’s. The vacant eyes were dull with madness.

  Logan backed out of the cell, shutting the door quietly behind him. Bereft, he returned to the land of the living -- a living hell for him. His brother was not here. His hopes of the last months suddenly shattered into nothingness. He was the only member of the Grey family left. He cursed himself for even daring to hope. He had learned long ago that hope was the longing of fools, and here he was again proving himself to be just that -- a fool.

  He returned the torch to the wall and found himself staring down at the unconscious guard. His head was tilted to the side, his neck bared to the dancing torchlight that flickered across his skin. What are you doing here, falconer? Logan clearly remembered the guard asking. The man had recognized him. Logan knew he couldn’t risk being imprisoned, being the subject of suspicion. He couldn’t chance the guard telling anyone he had come to the dungeon.

  Too much was at stake.

  A strange calm settled over him as he raised his staff over his head.

  ***

  Logan made his way through the keep to the main door that led outside to the inner ward. He paused in the opening, listening to the calls of the guards from the walkways above. He lifted his head to the sky. It was bright red as the rising sun stretched its fingers over the world. Even with the early hour there was much activity outside. He heard steady, heavy pounding as scaffolds were being secured to the castle walls. He could smell the acrid stench of burning oil being readied for the siege. People rushed around as if the world were ending.

  It brought back the memory of preparations for another siege, a siege from long ago. Logan glanced at the open gate that led to the outer ward. It had been there that his brother warned him not to go. He could still clearly see the image of his brother -- that worried expression on Peter’s face-- in his mind’s eye.

  Just then the bells of the chapel chimed throughout the courtyard, bringing him out of his reverie. Many people paused in their duties and hurried past him toward the morning mass.

  He stepped outside into the sun’s rays. The smell of burning wood from the Great Hall’s hearth filled the air. He could almost taste the porridge that he was certain was brewing in a cauldron over the hot flames. Nearby he saw two men loading a final barrel of ale into a horse-drawn cart. Opposite the ale house, three women were setting their laundry aside, quickly putting their scrubbing boards away.

  Logan walked further into the ward, fondly studying his surroundings. One of the biggest fears he’d had of returning to Castle Fulton was that a merchant or a servant would recognize him and call out to him. But that had not happened. No one knew him. And the one or two he remembered probably recalled only a slim boy, not the man he had grown into.

  His mind drifted back to his brother... to his life here. All the happy days of childhood spent inside these very walls. But he could not remember how happiness felt. He could not recall the joyful abandon of his youth. It had been so long ago, another lifetime. Now all he felt was bitterness. His dreams were filled with regret, and he often awoke in a sweat, cursing himself for his impulsiveness.

  Peter is dead, he thought. And nothing can change that. Not the idle gossip of friends, not all my hoping. My family is gone.

  The reborn memories of his brother had brought to life the grief he’d thought he had buried all those years ago. He had believed he could control the anguish, but being back home was harder than he’d thought, as the nightmares attested to. Now he would have to push aside the memories again, to concentrate on revenge, the only thing he had left. Thank God, Farindale is not in residence, Logan thought. I would slit his throat on sight. His fists clenched.

  “Yes!” he heard a voice call out. “Ask Peter Grey!”

  Chapter Three

  Logan froze. Tingles of bated excitement shot through his entire body. He thought for a moment it was just his imagination. He thought for a moment his ears were playing tricks on him. He whirled to search for the person who had said his brother’s name.

  She stood across the courtyard, her brown hair waving in the wind, her hands resting on a slim waist, a grin curving her full lips. Perhaps he was dreaming and this woman was an angel come to tell him that his brother was gone.

  Then, she turned away and headed toward the gate to the outer ward. Anxiety filled him. Could Peter possibly be alive?
he wondered, his breath suddenly tight in his chest. This woman might be my only link to him. Impulsively, he found himself racing after her, skirting carts and sheep to keep up with her, fighting to keep from losing sight of her.

  Just as she left the inner ward and entered the outer ward, a man grabbed her arm, halting her movement. Logan came to an abrupt stop, his gaze sweeping over him. The man’s immaculate, bowl-cut, blond hair made Logan’s lip curl in distaste, as did the rich blue velvet jupon he wore, a sure sign that the pompous noble had not done a hard day’s work in his life. The nobleman’s eyes quickly scanned the courtyard, and Logan’s instincts told him to stay hidden. He melted into the shadows of the stone wall.

  “You’re not at mass this morning,” the man said to the woman after surveying the ward.

  Even though the wind was blowing toward Logan, pushing their words his way, he still had to strain to hear them.

  “Neither are you,” she replied. “Perhaps it’s an appropriate place for you to be... at your betrothed’s side.”

  “There is much work to be done.”

  “You haven’t lifted a finger yet, Graham.”

  “I didn’t say I would do the work,” the man she called Graham said with a smile.

  The woman pulled her arm free. “No, you didn’t. But I intend to do as much as I can.”

  “As always, m’lady, your heart is quite large where the peasants are concerned.”

  Logan saw her body stiffen, and he was surprised to find he was suddenly clutching his staff so tightly that his knuckles hurt.

  Another man, a peasant wearing soiled breeches and a patched tunic, burst through the open gates. The man scanned the area, breathing hard, before running up to Graham and the woman, calling, “Lady Solace! Lady Solace! It’s Dorothy!”

  “Dorothy?” Solace echoed.

  “She’s having her baby!”

  “Now?” Solace asked in disbelief. “She isn’t due for a month.”

  “Agnes is with her in the village now. But no one else will stay.”

  As Solace turned to snatch the reins of a horse tethered to a wagon, a tidal wave of dread surged through Logan, so powerful that it left him momentarily incapacitated. Visions of his own impetuousness filled his mind. She was so young, as he had been. So naive.

  Suddenly, he was bolting for her, seizing her arm.

  The command was out of his mouth before he could stop it. “Don’t go!”

  She tried to pull her arm free, but his grip tightened. “What are you doing?” she demanded in astonishment. “Let go.”

  For a moment, Logan didn’t speak. She had the largest green eyes he had ever seen. “Think about what you’re doing,” he finally ordered, forcing himself to look away from her dazzling eyes.

  “I have no other choice,” she responded.

  “There are always choices.”

  Solace glanced coolly at his hand. After a moment, he removed it from her arm. She turned away from him and hoisted herself onto the horse, settling her petite form on its back. She glanced down at him, her green eyes cool with disdain. “I don’t see you rushing to her aid,” she snapped and spurred the horse.

  “Solace, wait!” Graham called.

  Logan watched Solace urge the horse into a run, her brown hair flapping behind her as the animal picked up speed. He heard Graham mutter a curse, then the man raced toward the stables. A second later, the noble was riding out of the castle after her. Logan watched as she disappeared down the road to the village, his stomach churning with dread and frustration. He knew Peter must have felt these same dark emotions as he’d watched him ride out of the castle. Logan set his shoulders, steeling himself against the twisting of his stomach. His jaw clenched so tight that his teeth ached. He had no time to be worrying about some impetuous woman. He had to find his brother.

  But how was he going to do that when his only link to Peter was riding out of the castle?

  ***

  The nerve of that falconer, Solace thought for the hundredth time, trying to stop me from coming to Dorothy’s aid. She knelt beside the small pallet Dorothy was lying on and smoothed the woman’s dark hair away from her sweaty face. Poor Dorothy tossed her head from side to side, as if she were denying the fact that it hurt so badly, groaning as she moved. Solace cast a glance at the only other occupant in the room, the midwife Agnes. Her wrinkled face was puckered in concentration as she waited between Dorothy’s spread legs.

  A pounding at the door jarred Solace. Is Barclay’s army here already? she wondered. But the voice that came from behind the door was not Barclay’s, nor that of any other man to be concerned with. “They’re coming!” Graham hollered from the other side of the wooden door.

  Solace dipped a cloth into the basin of water beside the bed and dabbed the woman’s forehead, whispering, “Don’t worry, Dorothy. Everything will be fine.”

  Another pounding sounded at the door. “Lady Solace!” Graham cried out again.

  “Agnes?” Solace implored, trying to keep the nervousness out of her voice.

  “Not long now,” the old woman answered in an excited voice. “I can see the head.”

  “Solace!” Graham shouted again.

  Solace cast an annoyed glance at the door before squeezing Dorothy’s hand and saying, “I’ll be right back.”

  “Don’t take long, dear,” Agnes cautioned.

  Solace rushed to the cottage door and threw it open. Graham stood before Solace with his fist raised as though he were going to pound on the wood again. His hazel eyes were filled with desperation and anger. Behind him, the street was vacant and grim, pale moonlight bathing thatch-roofed homes and wooden storefronts in a bleak light. Solace frowned at the sliver of moon. How had so much time slipped away? she wondered.

  “They’re almost here,” Graham exclaimed. “I’m sick of standing here waiting for you. You’ve been inside all day.”

  “The labor’s taking longer than it should,” Solace explained.

  “One of the guards passed and told me Barclay was just outside the town. They’ll start burning the village any minute! We have to go!”

  “I can’t leave Dorothy,” Solace insisted.

  A flush of redness swelled into Graham’s cheeks. “Well, I’m not staying! I won’t give up my life just for some peasant and her whelp!”

  Calm settled over Solace, and a fierce protectiveness filled her. “Then go. No one ever called you a brave man, Graham.”

  Graham’s teeth clenched, and his hand tightened to a fist. “If you weren’t a woman, I’d drive my sword through you.”

  “I don’t think you’d have the courage,” she whispered, her eyes narrowing.

  Graham turned his back on her and headed for the horses.

  “Hook the horse to the wagon!” Solace called after him. She cursed her free-speaking tongue as she closed the door. She could have gotten him to stay with sweet words and a stroking of that enormous ego. But she despised his weakness and cowardice. Couldn’t he see how frightened she truly was? Yet even though she was scared, she could not leave this helpless woman alone in the throes of childbirth. Not even with Barclay and his army descending on her castle.

  Barclay had picked their most vulnerable time to attack -- while her father was away at Parliament, planning to conquer the French with King Richard and leaving her stepmother in charge of Castle Fulton. It just didn’t make sense, Solace thought. Why was Barclay attacking Fulton? They had never done anything to him. He had never been an ally, but he had never been an enemy either. She wondered what he hoped to gain by laying siege to Castle Fulton. Did he need the lands? Were his crops failing?

  A scream from the room behind her jolted her back to reality, and she rushed to Dorothy’s side. She grabbed the cloth from the bedside and dabbed the woman’s forehead, turning to look at Agnes. That woman’s wise old eyes were centered on the new life about to be born. Solace wanted Agnes to leave and seek the safety of the castle. As she opened her mouth to tell her so, Dorothy’s cry rent the air a
nd Solace turned to whisper soothing words to her.

  It wasn’t long afterward that the first cry of life resounded in the room.

  “Get them ready to move,” Solace whispered hurriedly to Agnes. “I’m going to check on the wagon.”

  As soon as Solace stepped from the building into the night, the strong scent of smoke stung her nose.

  Barclay was in the village!

  She spotted the wagon and horse tethered near the side of the house and gave a brief prayer of thanks to God that Graham had not left them stranded. She whirled toward the house to find Agnes helping Dorothy from the building. Dorothy clutched a small baby girl wrapped in blankets tightly to her bosom as she hurried from the cottage. Solace grabbed Dorothy’s arm, helping her into the back of the wagon. She turned to assist Agnes, but the woman was already easing herself into the cart.

  Solace ran to the front of the wagon and climbed in, lashing the horse, driving him down the vacant street toward the castle. She gripped the reins tightly, wishing desperately that some of the soldiers or mercenaries had accompanied her, but she had left in such a hurry the only one who knew she had gone was Graham... and that falconer. If handsome looks were bravery, she would be as safe as a kitten curled up beside a roaring hearth.

  The wagon hit a bump and Solace was almost knocked from her seat, but she held onto the reins with two hands and drove the horse on with a snap of her wrists. She quickly glanced over her shoulder into the back of the wagon to see Dorothy holding the baby to her breast, shielding the infant from the rough ride as best she could.

  Smoke from the burning village swirled around Solace, blown by the fierce winds. The gusts whipped her hair wildly about her. She turned around to face the road, wishing she could make out the welcoming sight of an open drawbridge, but she was still too far away to see in the darkness. Her heart pounded in her chest. She had to make it. If not for her own sake, then at least for the sake of the mother and her newborn babe.