She watched his retreat and wondered why she had ever trusted him. ’Twas simple—because she’d been too distraught to think straight. Grief had made her more than eager to seek revenge on Guillaume’s murderer.
And now she’d made Sir John an enemy. An enemy who threatened to kill Howard.
Sir John left her no choice. She would have to set aside her new plans of letting King Stephen deal with Faucon and fulfill the old ones.
She still thirsted for his blood, but would she be able to take his life? Is that what Guillaume would have wanted?
She turned back to the wall, watching the flurry of nighttime activities in the outer bailey. Fires for cooking and warmth glowed from the doorway of each cottage and hut. The smells of food being prepared set her stomach rolling.
The calls and laughter of those gathering their tools and closing their shops for the day made her smile wistfully. They were going home to wives, husbands and children. Their lives might be poor and humble compared to hers, but they had someone to go home to, someplace to call home.
While she had nothing and no one. Nay, her chance at having someplace to consider her own was lost. She closed her eyes tightly against the tears. Her chance at having a happy, fulfilling life had been taken from her.
Lyonesse turned and glared across Taniere’s inner courtyard. Her heated stare swept across the muddy practice yard, past the stables and mews to fly up the earthen motte that supported the high walls of the keep. Aye, lost because the monster locked inside the tower knew not the meaning of honor.
He’d killed Guillaume as if the man had been nothing but a mere foot soldier, instead of heir to a title and great wealth. It would have been of more benefit to take Guillaume for ransom, than killing him in such a cowardly fashion. No sane man would have mutilated Guillaume beyond recognition. Only someone of the devil’s ilk could have committed such a deed. Someone like Faucon. What savagery lurked in the soul of the man she’d imprisoned? Perhaps he had no soul.
Perhaps killing him would not be a sin.
She crossed her arms tightly across her stomach. Every time she thought of Guillaume’s death, bile rose to choke her. Pain, as sharp as that from a thrusted sword, pierced her temples.
She would never get used to not having Guillaume about. He had paged at Ryonne. Under her father’s tutelage he had grown into manhood. Once he’d become an adult, he had a man’s responsibilities. While many of his duties took him away from Ryonne for long periods, he’d never been away from her heart.
Anger thickened her blood. Renewed rage fired her resolve. Aye, she still desired revenge. From between clenched teeth, Lyonesse vowed, “Misbegotten spawn of Satan, you will pay dearly for what you have done.”
A cool gust of wind made her shiver. Determined to end her growing nightmares this very night, Lyonesse pulled her cloak closer about her and marched toward the keep.
The skin on the back of her neck prickled, making her stop in midstep. Someone or something was watching her. Watching her like a predator stalking its prey.
From the shelter of the forest he watched, biding his time. Faucon still lived. His minion’s announcement hadn’t been needed. He’d felt it in his heart. The gut-wrenching taunts rustled in the leaves—he lives, he lives.
Glaring across the open expanse of land separating Taniere’s walls from the dense forest, he lifted his gaze to the keep. The beast had killed the most important person in the world, and her son. For that Faucon would pay.
For now Faucon drew breath—safely locked in one of the towers. But soon—very soon the devil’s heart would cease beating and his breath would come no more.
When Faucon lost his life only one person would be held to blame. Lyonesse.
For five years he’d planned Faucon’s death. The time had stretched like an eternity before him. An endless, lonely eternity. Lyonesse made a grave error by taking the murderer captive instead of dispatching him to his master. For that she would suffer the pangs of hell.
Rhys stared through the arrow slit and watched the sun sink from view. His heart fell in unison with the light of this remarkably strange day.
He cursed his forced inactivity. The idle solitude permitted unbidden images to form in his mind. Memories that he had not previously allowed to disturb, or interrupt his life, now threatened to overwhelm him.
The rushing thoughts were so vivid he could hear and see them. Shapeless thoughts from years past transformed into actions of now. Rhys groaned at the sound of a newborn baby’s cry. His groans turned to a strangled gasp of horror when the screams of a dying infant and mother invaded his senses.
A sword cutting through his flesh would not be as painful as the piercing wails that rang relentlessly in his own mind. He could hear her accusations and her laughter.
She’d taken a naive, eager boy to husband and had effortlessly crushed his hopes and dreams with her vileness.
“By the Rood, cease.” His growl bounced off the bare walls of the empty cell.
He jumped to his feet and paced the small confines of his tower jail. The act did little to comfort him. Nor did it provide the action his body desperately needed to quell the unwelcome memories.
The arrow slit silently beckoned to him. Drawn to teasing thoughts of freedom, Rhys paused before the narrow opening and gazed down at the baileys and walls below.
He watched two lone figures on the closer wall. Unable to hear their words, he could only assess their moods by the posturing of their bodies. The quick motions of his captor expressed her agitation and impatience. While the tense, stiff movements of the man conveyed tightly leashed anger.
They took turns glancing up at this tower while continuing their animated discussion. Obviously, he was the topic of their argument. With a dismissive shrug, Rhys let his attention wander. He looked beyond the outer wall.
A large expanse of cleared land lay between the keep and the woods. No force of men would be able to approach the keep unseen. Not even his own.
The outer bailey of the keep drew his attention. Fires burned inside the thatched huts. It seemed like a lifetime since he’d enjoyed the contentment of hearth and home.
The lingering warmth and joy shared at his parents’ hearth had once made him long for a wife and children of his own. A bitter marriage and too many deaths had driven that childish longing to an early grave.
He rested his forehead against the damp stone wall. What unholy saint drew those thoughts from the bowels of hell?
A key grated in the lock of the tower door, drawing him away from the arrow slit and away from his building gloom.
A young page carried a wooden tray laden with food and set the tray on the floor before turning to Rhys.
The boy looked up at him and asked, “You are the devil Faucon?”
Rhys smiled at the child’s boldness. Only by keeping his voice low was he able to contain his laughter. “Aye, ’tis what some call me.”
The lad squinted. “Why do you not look like a demon?”
Rhys crossed his arms against his chest, then looked down his nose at the imp. “What should a demon look like?”
An innocent knowledge of devils rushed from the child’s mouth. “You should have horns and a tail. How do you wear boots over hoofed feet?” He paused to point down at the tray. “A true demon would not eat this food. It is already dead.”
Rhys kicked his foot toward the tray, forced a growl to his voice and asked, “How do you know I will not eat you instead of this rubbish?” He took a step closer to the boy. “Should you not run for your life?”
The child drew his small shoulders back, held his ground and tilted his head up a little farther. He