Prologue

      Scarborough—Yorkshire

      England—1142

      Murder.

      The accusation rippled through the crowded hall. Carried from one courtier to the next, the word found its way back to the man accused of the foul deed.

      Murder.

      “Rhys, Lord of Faucon, for the murder of Guillaume du Pree your lands and properties are forfeit to the crown.”

      The black-robed holy man smiled with satanic glee as he finished his proclamation. “Your life will be forfeited to the devil you have served.”

      From his chair on the raised dais King Stephen leaned forward. “Rhys?” He waited but a heartbeat before continuing. “Faucon, have you nothing to say?”

      Rhys wanted to say much, but he bit back his sarcastic retort. The hard, cold floor beneath his knees helped keep his tongue in check. Chained like a dog, he was in no position to test King Stephen’s humor.

      Instead, Rhys searched the crowded hall for one ally who would vouch for his honor. Those who would do so were oddly absent from this gathering.

      He strained against the chains binding his arms behind him. His muscles burned with pain. Rhys glanced across the torch-lit hall, seeking the three men who’d roused him from his much-needed slumber. They glared back at him. Their odd array of blackening eyes, swollen lips and bloodied noses gave him a measure of satisfaction. He’d not made their task an easy one.

      “Answer your king!” The cleric scurried toward Rhys. The man’s robe flapped about his stout legs.

      Rhys looked up at King Stephen, ignoring what seemed to him nothing more than a short, cawing crow. He weighed his words carefully. His life and the continued welfare of his family rested on his ability to control his tongue. “Sire, I have killed many men while serving under your standard. Who is to say whether those who perished during the heat of battle were friend or foe?”

      “No one asked you about an honorable battle. We are speaking of a coward’s ambush.” The squawking man positioned himself in front of Rhys. With fisted hands resting on his ample hips, the holy man glowered at him.

      Even though Rhys knelt on the floor, the cleric’s hard stare was nearly at eye level. This man of God—if he truly was—had the power to take away all Rhys held dear. And it seemed at this moment a possibility.

      The cleric shook his fist at Rhys. “You whoreson of the devil. What say you for killing the good master du Pree?”

      Rhys burned the man’s features into his mind. He would not forget, nor forgive, the man’s actions this day.

      He addressed the king. “Who accuses me of this foul deed?”

      The cleric sputtered. “Who? What matter does that make? You are guilty and the Lord Almighty will see justice done.”

      The noise in the hall grew louder as those gathered voiced their opinion of du Pree’s murder.