Chapter 12

Avalene recognized the dragon that was emblazoned on the chest of every man who surrounded her. At first her brain had trouble comprehending that she had stumbled across a band of Segrave soldiers in the middle of the wilderness. Her luck was astonishing.

Later there would be time to decide if it was good luck or bad. At the moment she was fully occupied trying to control her horse and recover from the fright of her life. One of the soldiers swiftly dismounted and took hold of the horse's bridle to make certain the animal wouldn't bolt again, but her hands were fisted in Bodkin's mane and she couldn't seem to let go. She could scarce absorb the fact that she was even alive. The man who held her bridle was saying something, but only two of the words he spoke penetrated her senses, two words that stood out as clearly in her mind as the crack of lightning:

"Lord Faulke."

Her horrified gaze went to the obvious leader of the soldiers as he maneuvered his horse to face hers. All she could do was stare at the dark-haired man. The man she was supposed to marry. Faulke Segrave.

She shook her head. This was wrong. They weren't supposed to meet this way. She wondered if her expression looked as appalled as his. This could not be happening.

How long had she dreamed of this moment, her heart filled with anticipation and excitement? Their first meeting was to take place in the great hall at Coleway where she would be dressed in her finest gown, ready to impress Faulke with her poise and grace. Instead she was soaking wet in the midst of a muddy forest and surely looked her worst. Even more humiliating, she was literally scared speechless.

Her stomach roiled and her relief at being rescued evaporated. For an awful moment she thought she was going to be sick. Faulke Segrave was not supposed to be here. Not yet. Their betrothal was not yet finalized. She was supposed to go to her father's fortress in Wales. She was supposed to spend the next few weeks with Sir Percival.

Sir Percival! She cast a wild look over her shoulder but the road behind her was empty. He was gone, vanished along with all of her foolish fantasies about him. Reality crashed down upon her, robbing her of breath. They would never again be together. She might never see him again. Her reputation was destroyed, and now she would never commit the crime that had ruined her. And Percival would be lucky to escape this forest with his life, if Faulke learned he was nearby.

Her heart pounded so hard that she was certain the others must have heard the terrible rhythm, and then an awful shudder wracked her body. Every part of her felt suddenly numb, her body frozen in place while her mind struggled uselessly to awaken from a nightmare. Except she was already awake and the truth refused to be silenced. She forced herself to take stock of the man who now held her future in his hands.

A strange calm settled over her as she studied Faulke Segrave. She felt an odd sense of detachment that allowed her to view him as if he were any stranger she would meet under unusual circumstances. She noticed that he had the natural air of a leader about him, a look of intelligence and confidence that would inspire men to follow him. The black wool hood of his cloak was pushed back to give her a clear view of his face, a face well matched to the minstrels' descriptions she had based her own imaginings upon. High cheekbones emphasized eyes that were a deep shade of blue, and a few days' growth of beard covered a strong, square jaw.

For a man rumored to have murdered at least two of his wives, he looked pleasant enough. Most would call him handsome. His voice was inoffensive as well. Not half as pleasing as Sir Percival's, she amended, but far from offensive.

Except that he was shouting at her.

Granted, her ears were still ringing from the blast of lightning, but she was not deaf. She stared at his mouth and tried to make sense of his words.

"Do you understand what I am asking, my lady?"

She had no idea what he had just asked. Perhaps he had inquired if she had suffered any injuries. That would be a sensible question to ask, considering the circumstances. "I shall be fine."

"I assumed that much." He spoke in the measured tones that most people reserved for the slow-witted. "However, I asked your name."

"Oh." That made sense. For the time it took to blink her eyes. Why would he ask her name? Who else did he expect to find on this road?

Something wasn't right. Her initial feeling that he shouldn't be here became a certainty. How had he learned of her escape from Coleway, and how could he have found them so quickly?

Her heart gave a painful stutter. Faulke had no idea that she was the woman he intended to marry. She was a stranger to them, a woman on a runaway horse who could be anyone. She could lie, a lie that would give Percival and his men time to find her or time to escape. If Percival came across them in pursuit of her, she would have to think of some way to warn him to go along with the lie.

"She is not right in the head," said the man closest to Segrave. "Look into her eyes, cousin. 'Tis madness I see."

Her gaze moved between the two men and she noticed a superficial resemblance, dark hair, blue eyes, but her attention returned to Faulke as he nudged his horse a few steps closer to hers and stared hard into her face.

"She is frightened," he said at last. "God alone knows what that animal did to her. Lady Avalene needs time to recover from her ordeal."

Her tattered heart gave a sickly flutter. So, they did know who she was. But why were they even looking for her? And what did he think her horse had done to her? Wasn't it obvious that she was unharmed?

It suddenly occurred to her that the animal in question wasn't her horse. He was referring to Sir Percival and the treatment she had received in his care. Somehow they knew that she had left Coleway with Sir Percival, and they thought he had taken advantage of the fact that they were not chaperoned.

Her mouth hung open until she realized the expression probably confirmed their notion that she was indeed lack-witted. How dare they call Percival an animal! She was the one who had seduced him, the one who had decided to sin. He had not forced her to do anything against her will.

Her anger turned to astonishment as she watched Faulke's eyes soften and fill with what looked like pity. "Can you tell us what happened, my lady? What threats did the cur make that convinced you to leave Coleway with him?"

Oh good Lord, this was worse than anything she had imagined. They truly thought Sir Percival was some sort of blackguard. "I…Uhm…I am fine."

The look the cousins exchanged was telling. Now they were certain she was an idiot. She honestly didn't know if that was a good thing or bad.

"She is lack-witted," the cousin declared. "Most likely she was lack-witted long before the King's Assassin had his way with her. Why else would her father hide her at Coleway all these years? 'Tis obvious he wanted to conceal her condition."

"You are too quick to judge, Richard." Faulke glanced at his cousin. "Did you not learn your lesson from the squire?"

"He told us all he knew," Richard argued, "and then he threatened to reveal the plot to her uncle unless we paid him double. He got what he deserved."

"The squire saw the assassin's face," Faulke pointed out. "We have not. There was no need to kill him."

"All of Coleway saw him," Richard said, and then he nodded toward Avalene. "I'll wager she saw much more than his face."

Faulke rubbed his jaw. "Did he…harm you, my lady?"

She was still stuck on Richard's casual mention of the King's Assassin to answer the question.

Until that moment, she had thought the King's Assassin was a legend; a preposterous tale of a ghostly infidel who floated through solid stone walls to find and execute traitors. Some versions of the tale said his victims died of fright, that he could materialize from thin air and disappear just as easily after his wicked deeds were done. Others said he cut the throats of his victims while they slept and then drank their blood. Most of the stories were exaggerations, but all agreed that anyone plotting against the king should not sleep easy at night.

Faulke and Richard spoke of the King's Assassin as if he were a real man. As if he were Sir Percival. And they thought she was lack-witted?

Sir Percival was a noble and chivalrous knight, as far removed from the evil creature reputed to be the King's Assassin as…Well, she could not think of two men who could possibly be more different. The idea that they were one and the same was so absurd that she felt a bubble of laughter build inside her. It was hysterical laughter; shrill, frantic sounds that were half laughter, half sobs. Good Lord, what was wrong with her?

Faulke and his men obviously wondered the same. They stared at her as if she had just lost whatever they thought was left of her mind. Their incredulous expressions only made her laugh harder.

It was just as obvious that they had no idea what to do with a hysterical and possibly unbalanced woman. Percival might roll his eyes at some of her antics, but he had never doubted her sanity. He would know that she needed him to put his arms around her right now. He would know how to make her feel safe and protected. But he would never hold her again.

The laughter dissolved away until there was nothing left except her sobs. She wanted Sir Percival. At the same time, she prayed to God to keep him far away from the Segraves. She feared the challenge over her honor would come much sooner than either she or Percival had ever anticipated, and Percival was clearly outnumbered. He and his men would be slaughtered.

She was aware of Faulke giving out orders during her hysterics, but she paid little heed until she realized a group of soldiers were preparing to search for Percival and his men. There would be no formal challenge, nor even the semblance of a fair fight. The Segraves would simply cut them down.

"Nay!" she cried out. The men who weren't already staring at her fell silent and turned expectantly. She needed to explain that Sir Percival was not the enemy, and they should not murder him before she could tell them why they had fled from the castle. An explanation might make a difference, but there were too many parts of the story to sort out, she was still shaking, taking gasping breaths, and there was no time to explain. She panicked and said the first thing that came into her head. "You will not find him on the road!"

Oh, good Lord. That was exactly where they would find him.

Faulke gave her a considering look, and then turned to his cousin. "Take half the men and search the road for tracks leading from the forest. Find out where she came from, then report back to me."

"Aye, my lord."

"Heed me well," Faulke warned Richard. "I want him alive. In fact, send a rider back to tell me where he is before you attempt to take him."

"Aye, cousin." Richard's reluctance to follow the order was evident in his tone.

Faulke waited until Richard and his men rode off, then he dismounted and began issuing orders to set up a temporary camp. Eventually his attention returned to Avalene. She remained frozen in place, watching helplessly as Richard and his men disappeared around a bend in the road.

Faulke held out his hand to her. "You can rest beneath the shelter until my cousin returns with word of the assassin."

It was not an offer. She glanced at her own hands and realized that she had loosened her hold on the reins sometime during her hysterics. After a few deep, steadying breaths, she managed to slide her leg over the saddle but her knees gave out the moment her feet touched the ground. Faulke caught her easily by the shoulders, and then he placed one arm behind her knees and swept her up against his chest.

Until a few days ago she had never been carried about by a man. It seemed only natural to make comparisons. Both times she felt gratitude, but with Sir Percival there had always been something more, an awareness of him as only a woman can be aware of a man, an awareness that made her feel breathless and giddy. Every time Percival touched her she felt a warm flush spread throughout her whole body.

With Faulke, she was simply grateful that he hadn't let her land in the mud and even more grateful when he set her down upon a soft, dry fur that one of the soldiers had placed beneath the shelter. Her clothes were soaked and she was chilled to the bone, but at least she was on solid ground again and out of the elements. Her muscles had been tensed for so long that they felt shaky and disjointed, as useless as broken bow strings.

She glanced up to find Faulke eyeing the furs as if he contemplated taking a seat next to her. In the end he simply folded his arms across his chest and watched her as if she were some strange creature that might yet prove dangerous. "Are you hungry?"

She shook her head.

"Where was he taking you?"

She tried to decide if it would be better to tell the truth or to lie, but found she couldn't focus her thoughts enough to make up anything believable. The truth it was. "First to London, and then to my father. Sir Percival did nothing wrong; he was simply following my father's orders." She watched as he almost imperceptibly shook his head. "Are there soldiers from Coleway searching for me? Perhaps the steward and Lord Brunor?"

"I know not." He clasped his hands behind his back, his gaze contemplative as he looked at the ground. "We had a spy at Coleway who came to me soon after you left the castle. We were on your trail before anyone at Coleway knew you were missing. Even so, they will probably send search parties to the west."

That explained what they were doing here, but not why they were at Coleway to begin with. And how had they missed stumbling across the search party from Coleway that Percival said was in pursuit? He gave her a look that she supposed was intended to impart something meaningful and knowing. Whatever it was went over her head.

"The only reason we rode east is because we already knew you were not with the real Sir Percival, and the man who took you would never escort you to Wales."

"What are you talking about?" What Faulke said made little sense. Did he still think Percival was the King's Assassin? Ridiculous. "I left Coleway with my father's knight, Sir Percival."

"You are mistaken," he said in a calm voice. "My spies in London sent word that the most trusted and feared agent of the king was sent to abduct you from Coleway—the King's Assassin. The logical escape route would be the road to London, which is exactly where we found you."

"Sir Percival is not an agent of the king. We were bound to London, but only because he had to rescue me from a plot to force me into marriage to Coleway's steward. 'Tis true!" she insisted, when Faulke gave her a skeptical look. "I overheard my aunt and uncle talking about a plan to catch Sir Percival alone with me to ruin my reputation and force me into a marriage with the steward before you or my father could intervene. My father knew something was amiss at Coleway and that was the reason he wanted me returned to Weston Castle before he made any announcements concerning my marriage."

"Then you know of our betrothal?"

That proclamation caught her off guard. She put one hand to her throat. "We are betrothed?"

"Aye, more or less," he said at last. "Our families have agreed to the terms but we are obliged to wait upon the king's approval before we can receive the church's blessing. However, considering the circumstances, no one will question my right to marry you immediately."

"Wh-what?"

"I have negotiated a betrothal in good faith with your father. 'Tis my responsibility as your betrothed to safeguard your life as well as your reputation." His gaze raked over her as if she were a prize mare up for inspection at a fair, a prize he found lacking. "The plan that Coleway's steward hatched to force you into marriage will now work to my benefit, although it will be our marriage that will restore your honor."

"You cannot marry me without the king's permission." It was the only argument she could think of, even as all the implications crystallized in her mind. Whatever doubts she had about the reasons Faulke Segrave wished to marry her were gone. If she were nothing more than the daughter of a Marcher baron, he would break the betrothal. That he intended to go forward with the marriage meant her Welsh heritage was far more important than her reputation. The Segraves were plotting civil war.

"Oh, I can indeed," he countered. "The betrothal is a mere formality. Even without this…complication, we would have been wed within a few months. I was under the impression that your father had sent word to Coleway about our impending betrothal to give you time to prepare yourself to leave your uncle's household."

"He did," she admitted, "but even his last missive said nothing was finalized."

"The missive delivered by the man masquerading as Sir Percival?" he asked, even as he shook his head. "I am certain the real Sir Percival carried a more informative letter on the matter. In any event, I have found you and that is all that matters. The king can no longer interfere."

She shook her head. "We must await the king's approval."

He studied her face again, and then spoke slowly and in a slightly louder voice than was necessary. "You fled Coleway to escape a marriage your father would never agree to. You were alone with a man who was masquerading as your father's knight. An immediate marriage is the only means of saving your reputation. We shall be wed as soon as we reach Wales." He gave her a pointed look. Suddenly he reached down and took her chin in his hand, tilting her face to one side and then the other. "Were you…mistreated in any way?"

"I am fine; just a little shaken." She understood what he was asking and she tried to think of something that would distract him from the subject. She pulled away from his offensive grasp, trying to make it seem a casual move. "I am curious about why you seem so certain that Sir Percival is not…well, Sir Percival. He had a message bearing my father's seal. He wore my father's device on his surcoat. He knows things that only a knight in my father's household could know. What makes you think he is not who he says he is?"

"I do not think he lied about his identity," Faulke said. "I know he lied. The real Sir Percival was to contact me before he entered Coleway so we could review the plans to get you safely from the castle. I have been camped along the road from Wales to Coleway for a week, and Sir Percival had still not passed that way before our spy let us know that you were gone. The real Sir Percival never reached Coleway."

A low rumble of thunder emphasized his words and this time she did shudder. He glanced up at the canopy of leaves where the rain had started to fall harder, and then eyed the lean-to again.

"Do you mind if I join you?" he asked, indicating the furs.

She scooted over as far as the small shelter would allow and tucked her skirts closer when he took a seat next to her, sitting cross-legged, angled to face her. He suddenly seemed much larger.

He dragged a hand through his hair, pushing back the wet strands from his face, and then he calmly proceeded with his story. "You were deceived, my lady. The man you spent time with, the man you allowed to take you from Coleway? He is a cold-blooded killer. We were all surprised to find that you were still alive. Indeed, your good health is the only reason I have any doubts that he is the King's Assassin. He has never before been known to let one of his victims live, and you would be far less trouble to the king if you were dead. We thought certain he would…dispose of you soon after you left Coleway. My hope was to capture him or one of his men and discover where they had placed your body or other proof of their crime."

He spoke of her death in such a detached tone that the meaning of his words did not seem possible. She spoke her reasoning aloud, as much to reassure herself as to convince him of the truth. "Sir Percival had ample opportunity to kill me and make good an escape on his own. He is not the King's Assassin."

"Perhaps not," he allowed, "but my spies in London were quite certain the assignment was given to the King's Assassin, and I have never known them to be wrong. There is also the growing possibility that he was specifically ordered to bring you back to London alive. 'Tis the only explanation for your continued good health at his hands, no matter who he might be."

She tilted her head to one side. "I do not understand."

He eyed her expectantly for several moments, as if the answer should be obvious.

"Why would the king want me in London?" she asked. "Please, I am trying to understand, but nothing makes sense."

"Our fathers are at court even now to present our betrothal contract for the king's approval," he said at last. "The king's approval should be a mere formality. No Marcher baron or his heir has ever been denied the king's blessing to wed the bride of his choosing. If the king denies the contract, everyone will see the refusal for exactly what it is; another obvious effort by Edward to limit the powers of every Marcher baron in Wales. My father will take a refusal as an open invitation to incite rebellion among the other barons. Edward knows this as well as he knows that the results would be much the same if you were to conveniently die shortly before our betrothal. He has no choice but to agree to a contract that will put key fortresses under our control and make him vulnerable in Wales should we ever rebel.

"However, once Edward approves the contract, you and I are tied for life as surely as if we were wed. The king can say he had you fetched to London as a surprise for our betrothal, but come up with any number of excuses to keep you from me. Based upon your lineage and the fate of most Llewellyn descendants, my guess is that witnesses you have never met will suddenly appear and swear you spoke to them of a rebellion. You will likely be sent to the Tower on some trumped-up charge of treason. Edward is known to manufacture evidence when it suits his interests, and you are a mere woman. He can imprison you for the rest of your life without formal charges and our betrothal contract means I will never be allowed to wed another. I am my father's only heir, I have no sons, and you are the last of your mother's line. As long as we are both alive, betrothed and yet unwed, both our lines are extinguished."

Her heart rebelled at the idea of Faulke as her husband, of the intimacies she would be forced to endure. And yet those emotions paled next to the thought of spending the rest of her life imprisoned in the Tower. She had visited the dungeons at Coleway on occasion and the pitiful prisoners Sir Brunor kept there. They were mostly thieves and poachers who were released within a few months, but a great many sickened and died within the first weeks. Even those who survived were greatly changed from the people they were when they went into dungeons. She could not picture herself as one of those listless, walking skeletons.

Something of her horror must have shown in her expression. He leaned forward to brush his knuckles across her cheek and she drew away from him without thinking. He ignored her reaction and managed a reassuring smile. "Do not worry, my lady. I will protect you from the king and his henchman. If I am right, and I am most certain that I am, you are worth far more to everyone alive than you are dead. The king's agents will not harm you, and I will keep you safe."

She would feel better about his pledge to protect her if she wasn't so suspicious of his entire story. He was mistaken about Sir Percival. He was mistaken about the king. The man she knew could not be the villain that Faulke claimed. Her king would never knowingly imprison an innocent woman for a lifetime. Yet Faulke swore the real Sir Percival had never entered Coleway. And a great many of her mother's relatives, both the innocent and the guilty, had died in the Tower.

Once again she glanced around her before she realized she was looking for Sir Percival, hardly caring that the evidence was mounting against him. Surely Faulke was trying to frighten her into agreeing to his plan of a hasty marriage. Everything he said about Percival were lies or some vast misunderstanding. She could not be so completely mistaken in her judgment of the man. No matter Percival's true identity, she had never doubted his pledge to protect her. He would be looking for her. He would find this camp eventually, or Richard would find him and bring him back, and then everything would be explained to everyone's satisfaction. This was all a horrible mistake.

"Tell me, Lady Avalene, how did you escape?" Faulke asked.

She looked up at him and blinked once, caught off guard by the question. She did not view a near-death experience as an escape. "Lightning struck a tree just as I rode beneath it and my horse bolted. I would not have willingly left Sir Percival's company."

"Ah, just so," he mused. "You thought yourself safe."

"I knew myself safe," she countered, before she thought better of the retort.

Faulke's gaze turned speculative. "There are rumors that the King's Assassin often wears the garb of an infidel. Even though he is no heathen, many believe that he is a foreigner. Did the man you knew as Sir Percival wear any strange clothing or speak any foreign languages?"

She blinked one more time, and then she giggled. Horrified, she clapped a hand over her mouth but the muffled sounds kept coming out of her. Sir Percival, the King's Assassin. The idea of it truly boggled her mind.

At the same time, a silent voice asked how many more coincidences she could ignore. Faulke insisted that the man who arrived at Coleway could not possibly be Sir Percival. The man who claimed to be Sir Percival had worn gray, foreign-looking garments the night he had entered her chamber at Coleway. He moved almost silently and handled a knife exceedingly well. He and his men, and even the child in their company, all spoke Italian. Percival warned that a search party from Coleway was just hours behind them, and yet it was the Segraves who were behind them. Her mind struggled to wrap itself around the possibilities.

Faulke was back to staring at her as if she were crazed and possibly dangerous. The last of her laughter died away as the impossible became plausible.

The excuse to ride to London and then take a ship to Wales suddenly sounded preposterous. She had been a fool to believe they had to travel east to end their journey at a destination far to the west. No one traveled by ship if they could avoid it. Her father would not risk her life on such a foolish journey, and he would not send so few men to escort her. Everything Faulke told her rang of truth. Everything. He had not made a mistake. She had. In more ways than he could possibly realize.

The man she knew as Sir Percival was not her father's knight.

Faulke had told her as much several times now, but the words had never truly registered because the idea was too incredible to even consider. Now they registered. Indeed, they made perfect sense. Everything made sudden sense.

She should have recognized from the start that something was wrong with Sir Percival, or, more to the point, that everything was too right. If she prayed God to fashion a man for her, Percival would be the answer. Everything about him was perfect, from his looks to his manner to his character. Somehow he had known how to attract her interest, how to dazzle her with his worldly charm that, now that she thought about it, seemed oddly out of place for a humble household knight. A considerable amount of time spent at the royal court would account for that polish and sophistication. He had used all of his wiles to make her feel safe in his company, to cast himself as the knight errant sent to her rescue. He played the role flawlessly.

She felt sick.

Aye, his astonishing attraction to her was the next warning that went unheeded. Handsome men did not fall at her feet, besotted by her beauty, tempted beyond reason to steal kisses and intimate caresses. All he had to do was smile at her and she pushed aside her misgivings to bask in the warmth of his regard, thrilled that he wanted her, too, flattered that her perfect knight was equally smitten. Or so it seemed. Deep down there had been a lingering certainty that he would come to his senses and grow tired of her, that he would realize she was not as pretty or desirable as he made her feel, that her charm would fade as quickly as it had for every other man. And still she had opened her heart and allowed him in. The horror was not that she had fallen in love. It was that she had allowed herself to fall in love with a man who didn't exist.

"Are you unwell?" Faulke asked. He watched her changing expressions with alarm. "You look very pale."

"I'm fine," she lied. There was a dull roaring sound in her ears. Everything began to grow dark around the edges of her vision. Faulke looked as if he were reaching for her through a long tunnel. Her eyes drifted shut and she let the darkness take her.