The Dark Knight (26 page)

“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.