Chapter 13

The problem with fainting was that nothing got solved in the short amount of time you were unconscious. Avalene awoke beneath the lean-to just as heartsick and miserable as ever. The only good to come from the embarrassing episode was solitude. Faulke had apparently decided he had better things to do than sit with a woman who might keel over again at any moment. Actually, he had politely asked if she felt better, assured her that one of his men would fetch him if she felt ill again, and then excused himself. She was left to her own devices, although the weather kept her from venturing beyond the lean-to.

The rain had stopped more than an hour ago but she was still soaked through and freezing. Dusk fell early in the forest, along with the temperature. She would give almost anything for the oblivion of unconsciousness or the warmth of a fire. Instead she rubbed her arms, wriggled her legs, hugged herself and shivered, then started the routine all over again.

It was obvious that Faulke had ordered everyone to be ready to leave at a moment's notice. Most of the men had dismounted in the hours since Richard's departure, but none of the horses were unsaddled and only the packhorses were hobbled to graze. There were no fires, no more warm furs or dry cloaks. Other than an occasional stare of curiosity, the men left her alone with her thoughts. Faulke glanced in her direction every so often as well, but he, too, seemed satisfied to leave her be. Perhaps he thought she needed time to come to terms with this change in her circumstances. She doubted a lifetime would be enough to absorb it all.

She looked around the campsite at the men who surrounded her and realized again that this was the sort of escort she had expected from her father; more than a score of mounted soldiers plus Faulke and his cousin Richard. Had she really believed that her father would send a lone knight, two soldiers, and a child?

One of Percival's particularly appealing smiles flashed through her memory and the butterflies took flight again in her stomach, quickly followed by a dull thump of pain in her chest.

There was something seriously wrong with her. She had honed her instincts for survival when it came to men and Percival had effortlessly brushed aside her defenses as if they were nothing. She told herself over and over that what she felt for him had been nothing more than an infatuation. Granted, it was a particularly strong infatuation, but an infatuation nonetheless. She had deluded herself into thinking she loved him. Love was not based upon lies and betrayal, and there was no escaping the fact that her interpretation of love had been based upon both.

So why did her heart skip a beat each time she thought of him? Why did her breath catch in her throat each time she thought she heard Richard's return, her gaze searching for a glimpse of her faithless knight?

It occurred to her that, while her mind finally knew and accepted the truth, her heart still had trouble letting go of the illusion. She had to crush all of these treacherous feelings before anyone guessed the truth. If Richard brought Percival back as a prisoner, she would have to appear completely unaffected by his presence. She would have to behave as if he meant nothing to her. The task did not seem possible. It seemed every memory of him included a touch or caress that had made her feel warm and safe and…special. He had bewitched her. She was bewitched still, and she was very much afraid that everyone in camp would become aware of that fact if she had to face him.

Her gaze moved over the men and found Faulke again. Her intended husband was handsome, rich, and powerful. Yet she felt nothing at all for him. There were no butterflies in her stomach when she looked upon him, no quickened heartbeat, no feelings of breathlessness. There was a sureness in her, a certainty that went beyond questioning, that she would never experience those feelings with Faulke or any other man. She would never again allow a man to have that much power over her, to toy with her as if her feelings meant nothing, to twist her heart until her whole body ached.

In every way imaginable, it was for the best that the affair with Percival…or whatever his name might be, had ended before it began. She would forget him. Someday. Until then, she should be thankful that their trysts went no further than they did. She had allowed a handsome man to kiss her and caress her, but those were not unforgiveable sins. One day she might appreciate that her first and only taste of passion was with a man she had thought she loved.

She was so engrossed in her morbid thoughts that she barely noticed when Faulke began to walk toward her. There was a wary look in his eye.

"How are you feeling, my lady?"

She lifted her shoulders in a small shrug but remained silent. The more she observed him, the more she realized that there was something about Faulke that made her nervous, a feeling that his benevolence toward her was forced and his kindly demeanor false. However, she allowed for the possibility that she could be misjudging him. Her trust in all men stood on shaky ground. John and Lord Brunor plotted against her while her own father negotiated a betrothal that would surely mark her a traitor, and Percival had made her believe the impossible. Now there was Faulke, determined to marry her regardless of the consequences. If he thought to win her trust with smiles and platitudes, he was in for a rude awakening.

The intervening hours had given her plenty of time to recall all of the things she had said and done over the past few days, things that now made her burn with shame. If nothing else, Percival's betrayal reminded her that she must depend only upon herself. She would trust no one. There seemed little reason to doubt that this truly was Faulke Segrave, and that everything he said was the truth, or the truth as he understood it, but she would not let her guard down again so easily.

"If Richard's search is unsuccessful, we will make camp here for the night," he said. "There will be a fire to warm you."

She rubbed the tips of her fingers with her thumbs. Her skin was so wrinkled from being wet for so long that she could scarce feel her hands. "A fire would be welcome."

Faulke nodded, then clasped his hands behind his back and stared down at her. "We have not had an auspicious beginning, you and I, but I would have you know that I will not hold this…situation against you. He played upon your womanly weaknesses to gain your trust, and your aunt did not help the situation with her plotting. You should never have been left alone with any man for any reason, or been allowed to ride out of the keep without an escort." He took a deep breath and released it very slowly, as if he wanted to say much more on the subject but thought better of it. "The damage is done and we shall eventually put this incident behind us. Once we are wed and I am certain your children will be mine, we shall not speak of him again. Do you understand?"

"Aye," she said carefully. His crude words made her hands clench into fists, but she supposed she should feel lucky that another man was so eager to have her as his wife. There was no doubt in Faulke's mind that they would be wed. However rude his declarations, he would soon be her husband and he deserved to hear the truth. Still, she could not look him in the eye as she said it. "I can set your mind at ease on one matter. He did not bed me. You will still have a virgin bride."

He studied her face for a time and she felt her cheeks grow warm, but then he slowly shook his head. "'Tis better if there is no question in anyone's mind. I would not have our first child born for at least a year after the ceremony, which will leave no doubt about the parentage even if the child should arrive early. My people must be certain that any child you bear will be mine. Indeed, all of Wales must be certain that your children are mine."

"I understand," she said in a quiet voice. Indeed, she understood exactly what he was saying. What she had suspected all along was true; he intended to breed the next Prince of Wales with her.

The plain truth did not insult or disappoint her. She certainly did not expect him to say he intended to marry her for some sort of noble or romantic reasons. Such luxuries were reserved for peasants and errant knights who…

She forced her thoughts away from that dangerous path. That brief moment of her life was over. The small humiliations she had suffered over the years at John's hands were hardly a comparison, but she found herself almost thankful for his callous treatment. John's spitefulness had hardened her, unwittingly given her the strength to withstand this much crueler blow. She would survive this betrayal. Duty and family were all that mattered now. They were all that had ever really mattered.

When news of the negotiations with the Segraves came to Coleway, she had been pleased that her father had managed to find her such a high-ranking husband. Now the only feelings that penetrated the walls around her heart were pain and dull resignation. Perhaps someday she would once again feel some measure of appreciation that she was getting exactly what she had always thought she wanted.

"Have you recalled anything that might prove helpful?" Faulke asked, bringing her out of her reverie. "Perchance did you overhear one of his men call him a name other than Sir Percival?"

She shook her head and answered in a toneless voice. "He was Sir Percival to them. His men are Oliver and Armand. They also claimed to be English, but all three men spoke fluent Italian. And the boy spoke nothing but Arabic and Italian."

He was still "Sir Percival" to her and always would be. Perhaps that would change when she learned his real name, although she was beginning to doubt that would ever happen. With each hour that passed, it was becoming less likely that he would be returning to the camp with Richard. Even knowing of Percival's betrayal, she could not bear to think of what was likely happening to him and his men. Were they still alive? Were they prisoners?

"Will we be wed at Hawksforth?" she asked, desperate to take her mind off Percival and his fate. Hawksforth was the seat of the Segrave family, a massive castle supposedly twice the size of her father's. She made a conscious effort to keep her gaze focused on Faulke rather than on the road where Richard should have reappeared hours ago. "Is that where we will live?"

"We will wed when we reach Wales, as soon as a priest can be found," he said. "Then we will journey to Hawksforth where you will reside. I travel constantly between my family's holdings, so I am rarely at any one fortress for more than a fortnight. However, I suppose I would call Hawksforth my home. My father is in residence there most of the time, along with his advisers."

Now that she had him talking, she decided it was time to pose the question that concerned her most. She struggled to find words that would not sound insulting or treasonous. "Under these circumstances, do you think Edward will withdraw his consent for our marriage and demand an annulment?"

There was a long silence before he answered and she found herself studying his mouth, trying to imagine his lips upon hers. No matter how pleasant Faulke was to look upon, the shudder that ran through her at the thought of kissing him was not in the least pleasant.

"King Edward cannot deny that a hasty marriage was in your best interest to ensure your safety from unscrupulous rogues," he said. "Even if Edward insists upon an annulment, it would take the Church years to dissolve the marriage and I fully intend to have an heir by then, which means the Church would be even less likely to grant an annulment. There will be a fine levied, since I am required by law to obtain my liege lord's consent to wed, but that will be the end of the matter."

A boldness she had not known she possessed seemed to take hold of her. "Since you have no intention of consummating our marriage for several months, perhaps it would be best if I stayed at Weston Castle with my father until—"

"After the trouble I went through to…rescue you, I am not about to give you up for such a paltry reason." He reached down and tilted her chin upward until she met his gaze. His eyes held no warmth; the lines of his face were harsh and forbidding. "Your father understands the benefits of this marriage, and the consequences should he oppose it. Do you understand the consequences, Avalene?"

"Consequences?" she echoed. "What consequences?"

He gave her an intense look as though trying to decide if her question was serious. "Your father's holdings are vulnerable to the de Clare and Mortimer families. His land sits between the lands owned by those powerful earls and the Segraves. If a civil war were to break out, he would need an equally powerful ally to hold the de Clare and Mortimer armies at bay. He needs the Segraves."

"You think the de Clares and Mortimers would remain loyal to the king?" she asked, before realizing her words implied that he would turn traitor.

"I know they will be loyal to themselves and use a war as an excuse to expand their holdings," he answered. "Weston Castle is a ripe plum they will both wish to pluck. If the Segraves pledge an alliance with your father, none of the Marcher lords would dare challenge him. Without an alliance, I would consider laying siege to Weston Castle myself to ensure it did not fall into the hands of the Mortimers or de Clares. Those are the consequences. Do you understand what I am telling you?"

"I do." Her hands twisted nervously in her lap. He had blackmailed her father into the betrothal. She would be this man's wife within a matter of mere days. A week ago she would have felt like dancing with happiness, knowing that her wedding day was at long last upon her. Now the thought of marriage to Faulke Segrave filled her with dread. So much for the idea of a reprieve at her father's castle. What would her father expect her to do in this situation? What could she do? "I would—"

Faulke held up one hand for silence and cocked his head to one side. A moment later he called out, "To arms!"

Instantly all of the men were mounted with their swords drawn while Faulke turned his back to her and drew his own sword. Avalene heard the sounds of approaching riders and held her breath, straining to see into the gathering darkness that shrouded the road. Her breath caught in her throat and her heart pounded as she waited to see if the road would reveal Percival and his men, or just their bodies.

At last she heard Richard call out to his cousin to identify his party in the fading light. A few moments later she scanned the faces of each of the incoming riders, and then she pressed her palms to her forehead and let out a sigh of relief. She did not take time to wonder how Percival and his men had escaped Richard's hunting party. Instead she wondered why she was so relieved they had escaped. She would never see them again. They were criminals who had abducted her from her family. They deserved to be caught and punished.

She shook her head. Despite her wounded feelings, despite everything , Percival and his men had taken good care of her. If she had stayed another night at Coleway, her aunt likely would have forced a scandal. Marriage to Coleway's steward would have been the result. There was no sin in being grateful to Percival for rescuing her from that fate, even though he had done so for his own reasons. Not that it mattered anymore. She would soon be trapped in another marriage that could prove even more disastrous.

She watched Richard dismount, his features set in a hard mask. He and Faulke moved aside to speak in quiet tones, even though it was obvious the search party had failed to capture their quarry. She used that time to study the two men and discovered that Faulke looked much more like his cousin than she had initially realized. It was an unfortunate realization, as she had taken a rather strong and immediate dislike to Richard. One side of Richard's lip curled upward more often than was seemly and she had never cared for men who sneered at anything. Sure enough, Faulke's lip curved into the same expression as he listened to Richard's report and another shudder of foreboding went through her.

What if she could not bring herself to like her husband even a little? What if she could not submit to him, as was her duty? She felt an alarming gagging sensation at the back of her throat just thinking about it. Oh, good Lord, what if Faulke came to realize that he repulsed her?

Some measure of fear must have shown on her face because he held up his hands with the palms facing outward as he walked toward her, a gesture men often used when they approached a skittish horse.

"Do not worry, the coward has fled," he told her. "He must know by now that we have you, and there is nothing he can do against so large a force to steal you away again. You are safe, my lady."

She was surrounded by soldiers who were loyal to the man who would soon be her husband. They had chased off the man who had supposedly wanted to imprison her. She should feel safe. At the very least, she should feel gratitude. All she could think about was the growing revulsion she felt at the thought of kissing Faulke Segrave.

"Lady Avalene?" His brows drew together as he tilted his head to one side. "Is something wrong?"

Everything is wrong! She shook her head, even as she looked away from him. Even as the memory of the kisses she had shared with Percival tormented her with the certain knowledge that they would always be a measure of comparison that this man would never meet. Her gaze moved over Faulke's men and she vaguely realized they were making camp. She seized upon the activity as a way to occupy her mind with something other than lewd thoughts, thankful that her voice sounded almost normal. "Do your men need any assistance with the meal? I could help look for dry wood."

"Nay, we carry dry tinder and kindling, and the men will have to range out to find wood that is not soaked through." He pointed to the furs. "I would rather you stay here where we can keep an eye on you. In fact, I must insist upon it."

She supposed it was considerate of him to explain his reasoning, but it did not change the fact that the lean-to had just become her prison. Percival had not made her feel like a prisoner. She bowed her head and remained silent, wishing she could silence the voice in her head. At last Faulke turned and walked away.

She wasn't certain how much time had passed but the camp was mostly set up when an odd sensation came over her, a feeling of being watched. She tried to examine what she could still see of the darkening forest without being too obvious about what she was doing, but she saw nothing.

The odds that Percival would come back for her were almost nonexistent, but she could not seem to shake the feeling that she was being watched by someone other than Faulke's men. It was a warm, shivering feeling she had every so often that felt familiar, as if she would turn around and find Percival walking up to greet her.

It was a foolish notion, of course, likely born of fear coupled with long hours of sitting in wet, clammy clothing. She was starting to hallucinate, seeing movements out of the corners of her eyes then turning to find nothing. She didn't want to find anything…or did she?

She tried again to imagine what she would say to Percival if she should ever see him again. One question in particular plagued her. "Why am I still alive?"

The murmured words startled her, having come forth without conscious thought. And yet that was the question her mind returned to over and over again. Why had the king sent an assassin to Coleway, only to abduct her? He could have killed her that first night when he came to her chamber. Why didn't he?

Only two answers came to mind. Either the king had ordered her to be taken alive to be imprisoned in the Tower, just as Faulke suspected, or Percival had become immediately enamored of her and found that he couldn't bring himself to carry out her murder. The latter possibility was so fantastical that the notion would have been laughable, were it not a matter of her own life or death. Her ego was not so inflated as to think she had unwittingly captured the fancy of the most cold-blooded assassin in England. Percival had been playing a part, nothing more. And that was assuming Faulke had told her the truth, which raised yet another prospect. Perhaps the man she knew as Sir Percival really was Sir Percival. What if Faulke had lied to her, just as he said Sir Percival had lied? Faulke could be trying to trick her into going willingly into a forced marriage. What if there was no betrothal?

The possibilities fair made her head spin. She lifted her wrinkled hands to rub away the ache in her temples, but her troubled thoughts of Faulke and Percival retreated when a spark of orange fire caught her eye. Soon the flames began to lick away at the black night, a feeble, fluttering dance at first, but eventually the flames rose higher and stronger with the promise of bone-deep heat. The smell of wood smoke and the sight of the fire drew her as easily as they would a moth. The unspoken order to stay in the lean-to was forgotten as she made her way to stand near the flames. The men who were tending the fire glanced up at her, exchanged a look, and then said nothing. She supposed the sound of her chattering teeth decided the matter.

By the time her hands were warmed there were three sizable fires spaced across the clearing, with cook pots hung on spits and the smell of porridge in the air. One of the soldiers offered her a cup filled with a hot gruel made of barley and dried beef. It was a simple meal but warm and nourishing. She thought it odd that Faulke had not shown her the courtesy of bringing her meal or offering his company while she ate, but mostly she was grateful that he left her alone.

When she finished the meal she handed her empty cup to one of the soldiers but remained standing by the fire ring. The heat from the flames continued to seep through her and she all but hugged the fire in an attempt to dry her clothing.

The flames were like snowflakes, she decided. No two were alike and their unending motion soon held her enthralled. The night was quiet with only the sounds of the crackling fires and she stared into the one before her, mesmerized. She caught herself just as she swayed forward and decided it would be a good idea to sit down.

Oddly enough, the soldiers nearest her looked just as captivated by the flames, and then she glanced toward Richard and Faulke and realized they were seated as well. The day had been exhausting for everyone, it seemed. One by one the soldiers lay down to sleep, even though most did not bother to spread out their bedrolls beforehand, and many simply seemed to slowly fall over. Her own eyelids felt weighted with lead. She thought about the lean-to and the furs that would make a soft if not entirely dry bed, but the fire was warmer. It was a little strange that she didn't recall when she had lain down, but the damp, mossy ground made a surprisingly soft pillow against her cheek.

Her last thought before she fell asleep was that something was wrong. She was just too tired to puzzle out what the problem might be.