The Lady and the Falconer - Excerpt

The Lady and the Falconer - Prologue

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Prologue

England, 1373

“Ready or not, here I come!” a young girl’s voice cried out in the distance.

Solace Farindale pressed a hand over her mouth and giggled, scrunching lower behind three bales of hay.  She didn’t know where her friend Gwen was hiding because as soon as Helen had begun counting, she’d run into the barn and dove behind the hay.  Lillian, her maidservant, would no doubt be angry that she had dirtied her new velvet dress, but Solace couldn’t resist such a perfect hiding place.  The sweet smell of straw filled her nose, and several strands tickled her back as she settled into her spot.  She loved coming to visit Helen on her farm.  She and Gwen had begged their fathers to let them go, just for the afternoon, and after much pleading the men had reluctantly agreed.  It was half a morning’s ride from Gwen’s home, but well worth it.

Finally, after a brief moment of expectant waiting, Solace peeked through a slit between the hay bales.  The barn was empty.  Several stalls that used to house horses now stood vacant.  Solace knew Helen’s parents had to sell the beasts off because their crops had yielded a poor harvest last year.  Solace scanned the narrow area of the barn that she could see through the opening, but there was still no sign of Helen.  She shrugged and settled back to wait.

Then she heard the barn door creak open.  Her eyes widened and again she placed a hand over her mouth as she slid lower behind the hay, afraid her giggles would give her away.  But there was no scurry of searching feet, no calls of her name.

Solace shifted and peered through the slit between the hay bales.  She glimpsed a woman grabbing a rusty bucket from the ground and carrying it to an empty stall across from her.  It was only Helen’s mother, Anne.  Solace’s gaze flew to the door.  Where is Helen? she wondered.

Anne placed the bucket on the ground next to a small pile of seeds.  She scooped up a handful with her cupped palm and dumped them into the bucket.

“Good afternoon, Anne,” a man called out.  His deep, guttural voice gave the greeting a harshness that belied the innocence of his words.

Solace heard Anne gasp and she tilted her head, leaning closer to the narrow opening between the bales.  She saw two men dressed in chain mail lurking near the door and one man standing inside the barn.  She nervously twirled a strand of dark hair around her finger as a feeling of fear engulfed her.  The tall man wasn’t a good man.  She could sense the evil in him, as if a dark cloud belonged over his head.  His hair was immaculate, styled in a fashionable bowl-cut, black as the night.  The red velvet of his jupon was tailored to his chest and arms, padded somewhat at the chest and shoulders to accent their broadness.  The collar reached all the way to his neck.  He had the coldest blue stare she had ever seen.

“Lord Randol,” Anne greeted with a slight bow.

Randol sauntered closer to her.  “Looks like you’ve kept the barn in good order.”

“It’s our living, m’lord.  We take good care of our things.”

“Perhaps you should take as good care of your lord,” he grumbled.  “Where’s your husband?”

“In the fields, of course, m’lord,” she replied.

Solace watched lord Randol nod as if he already knew what Anne would say.  “I’m here for my taxes, Anne.”

“M’lord, my husband explained to you that the rains and the flooding have washed out most of the crops.”

“You’re three months behind in your payments, Anne,” Randol interjected.