men around her. They would help her exact revenge.
Their leader, John, had devised this plan to capture Faucon. By spreading word about Guillaume’s death and telling all who would listen of Faucon’s cowardice, John had been certain the murderer would seek him out. When the vile knave came looking for John, they would all be ready.
Lyonesse swallowed back the ever-threatening tears. While the act of capturing the Devil of Faucon would not lessen the tears, it would lighten her heart to know she’d avenged Guillaume.
If God smiled upon her quest for revenge, she’d have Faucon’s lifeless body at her feet this day. By the time she finished with him, everyone would know he was not the great bird of prey they’d dubbed him. She would relish proving the tales false. All would know he was nothing more than a man. A man who could die like any other.
The abrupt rustling of bushes and tree limbs from farther up the path signaled the approach of riders.
Lyonesse peered through the branches and smiled. Their wait was almost at an end.
Rhys tugged lightly at the reins. The stallion suddenly became skittish. Steps that had been sure and steady a moment ago, now faltered. The horse weaved back and forth across the road, snorting and tossing his head.
“Easy, boy.” He patted the thick, black neck in an attempt to calm the animal. The usually placid beast rolled his eyes to look up at the rider. Rhys agreed with the wild glance. He felt it, too—something was wrong. The hair on the back of his neck tingled with anticipation. A flash of cold passed down his spine.
He raised his hand, bringing the five men following him to a halt.
Rhys slowly continued ahead. He stared into the woods, but could see nothing that should upset the horse, or himself, in this manner. Yet the forest was too silent. He reached down and touched the wooden scabbard encasing his sword.
A shrill whistle split the air. Rhys gripped his knees tighter into the rearing horse’s ribs. He grasped the hilt of his sword with one hand and yanked at the reins with his other.
His men charged forward. In the same instant another force dropped from the trees and sprang from behind bushes, effectively cutting Rhys off from his men.
Before he could pull his sword free, a thick fisherman’s net dropped over him and his horse. He clawed and tore at the confining snare, cursing his inability to free himself.
“Nay. Hold.” In the din of swords crossing and men cursing, his shout went unheeded.
Gloved hands reached out and jerked at his steed’s bridle. When the animal was brought to an unwilling stop, Rhys felt the sharp tip of metal press into his side.
Unable to swing his sword, he kicked out and knocked the threatening blade away. Three more blades quickly replaced the one. After forcing his fingers to relax, he dropped his own sword and shouted for his men to hold their weapons.
They immediately followed his order and offered no resistance as the enemy escorted them back down the road.
One of the men holding a sword to Rhys’s side asked, “Are you prepared to die, Faucon?”
Rhys gritted his teeth against the sharp pain of a blade twisting through the links of his chain mail and into his flesh.
A small figure dropped from a tree limb. “Nay! Hold your sword, Sir John. I want him taken alive. For now.”
Rhys sucked in a quick breath when his assailant pushed and twisted the blade a little more before pulling the tip free. The jagged cut would not heal as quickly as a clean slice. He had an insane urge to bellow in rage when his blood ran hot down his side. He would rather die from a well-aimed blade than from an infection.
Aiming his attention down at the newcomer, Rhys sought to ignore the fire burning from his wound. Surely this wasn’t their leader? Huge, green eyes stared out of a small, pale face. This was nothing more than a child.
Rhys lifted one eyebrow. A child playing knight in his grandsire’s old, hardened-leather armor. How long was the lad going to just stand there and say nothing? Rhys had not the leisure to partake in any childish pranks.
A leather glove too large for the hand it covered quickly swiped through the air. Rhys growled as the men around his horse reached up and pulled him from the animal.
The confining net prevented him from landing on his feet. He gasped at the pain jolting through his side, yet Rhys rolled to his knees the instant he hit the ground.
He swung his tightly balled hand at the closest face. The pleasure he felt as his fist made contact with flesh was short-lived. He immediately quit struggling when the cold bite of a sword slipped easily between the links of his hauberk and coif to press briefly against his neck.
While three men kept their swords trained on his chest, two others tore away the net. Thoughts of escape flooded his mind, but the idea vanished as the man called John leveled the side of his blade against Rhys’s neck. No one moved. Instead, they looked to the boy for guidance.
Rhys glared at the lad. His heart lurched to his throat at what he perceived.
Unblemished, pale flesh was broken by full, rose-hued lips. A courtesan would kill for lashes as long as the red-tinged ones framing the overlarge eyes. It would take more than ill-fitting armor to hide the female beneath men’s clothing.
Certain the shimmering glare would lacerate him as surely as any uncut emerald, Rhys returned the glowering stare and asked, “What do you want from me?”
“I want nothing from you, Faucon.” She laughed at him. “Nothing, except your worthless soul.”
He already knew the answer, still he asked, “Why? Why do you seek my soul?”
“Why?” She ripped off one of her metal-studded leather gloves and slapped his face.
A trickle of blood ran down his cheek. “If I am to die, I would at the very least like to know the reason.”
She lifted her glove, as if to strike him again and paused. With one hand raised in the air and one red-tinged eyebrow higher than the other, she stared at him for a moment. “No.” She shook her head and lowered her hand. “No. You do not play with a simple girl, Faucon. You will not force me to forget my motives in a fit of rage.”
“Then answer my question.”
Calmly slipping the overlarge glove back onto her hand, she said nothing.
It mattered not. Rhys did not need to hear the words from her lips. Guillaume du Pree had no sisters, but he had been betrothed. The hatred written plainly on the face before him held the answer to his unasked question. Lyonesse of Ryonne had captured him.
The lady’s well-planned actions would likely end in his death. King Stephen and The Earl of York had been wrong in their assumption that none from Ryonne or du Pree’s holding would seek retribution for du Pree’s murder until the month was up.
Her continued silence filled him with sudden rage. Rhys sought words to reason with her.
“I did not murder your betrothed.”
“You lie, Faucon.”
“Waste
