07

Canterbury, England, 1068

There was a great deal of incitement and laughter around him and Fallon sat in the midst of it all and yet was apart from it.

He peered up from the brim of his cup, the ale barely consumed as he surveyed his clan as they conversed with serving wenches and sipped merrily from their beakers. An assortment of food lay dispersed along the trestle table but Fallon found little appetite to dispatch of any of it.

His troubled thoughts carried him away, to a place where he’d rather be, a place where it ‘twas only him and a red-haired beauty.

Alana.

He had dreamt of her many nights, his mind continuously tormented with the memory of earth and flowers, of a silken strand of red hair that had glided so smoothly between his fingers, of lips so delicate a pink, he ached to taste.

Every pain in his body brought on her memory; the image of a Saxon maiden whose compassionate heart had revived him, and yet had stolen a piece of him.

There had been countless women since that time, but none could appease the insatiable desire for the fiery beauty that had stolen his heart.

His fingers curled tightly around his cup as he was brought back to the day he awoke to find him in a bed that was not a makeshift pallet and to see a woman of plain countenance tending his wounds.

Soon after he had been informed that the Saxon village had been burned to the ground and naught remained but soot and blackened debris. Most of the inhabitants of the village had escaped and only a few men were killed in defending what was now a pile of ashes.

When he first learned of this, he was overcome with a maddening rage. He had given a promise and that promise was broken. A village was destroyed and several villagers lay dead and his mysterious Alana, had vanished.

“What troubles you, milord?”

Fallon blinked to awareness and peered to the man at his left. Ranulf had been his right-hand man for some years but foremost his trusted companion. He was a bear of a man with a barrel-chest that bore more scars than one could count. His hair, naturally dark was kept shaved thin to the scalp. His roughened face bore a large nose which from previous brawls, was hooked and a prominent scar that cut clear through his right brow. His voice was thunderous and tremendous, instilling fear in those who did not know him.

They had reason to fear him. Ranulf was a short fuse; his manner aggressive and at times intractable when driven to madness. Any reason to brawl was a good enough reason. Many viewed him as an intense man with scars, a battle-hardened man that thrived in combat and pain. Fallon knew the man well enough to know that his scars went deeper than the surface and that combat was a means of release.

Aside from his beastly appearance and aggressive nature, he was unquestionably loyal and impeccable in battle.

“Ah, he thinks of his pretty lass.” Goaded Ivan from his right, his eyes glinting like sapphires with a hint of humor as he lounged casually in a chair, his legs crossed comfortably atop the surface of the table.

Ivan was as impulsive as he was reckless with fine aristocratic features that fooled limitless women into believing he was as charming as he appeared. He was a beguiling youth that came and went as he pleased, never committing and entertaining his days with inquiries. He was tall and exceptionally lean with a cropped due of mahogany hair and a square chin and straight nose. His easygoing manner tugged on the patience of others but his skill in battle compensated for his impulsiveness.

Smirking a wide indifferent grin, Ivan reached over and slapped Fallon coolly on the back as he motioned to the women in the room. “Have you a pick, Chieftain?”

Fallon grumbled irritably as he lifted his beaker and drank of ale. He eyed the women in the room from over the brim of his cup but neither was of interest to him.

Ivan chuckled lightly and shrugged his lean shoulders as he kicked his feet down to the floor and strolled from the hall.

“If you’d like, I’ll skewer the bastard and be done with it.”

Fallon’s mouth stretched into a grin as he peered at the man now settling into Ivan’s chair. He was not nearly as large in stature as the others but what he lacked in size he made up for in prowess and wit.

Gavin was the soundless sort, usually occupied with his thoughts but occasionally he would spat a few retorts.

Fallon took immediate notice to the pairs of female eyes drawn to the man at his right. Gavin was just as aware of the attention he received as his hazel eyes moved appreciatively over the women eyeing him.

“Have you word of William, my liege?” Ranulf asked, changing the matter.

Fallon inhaled a deep breath as he set his cup down and a dull pain surfaced in his chest. Even after several months of revitalizing there was still a moderate ache that would resurface time and again.

Since the battle at Senlac Hill, William had devoted all his attention to his accomplished land. He had engrossed himself in building structures of stone all throughout England, the first being built at Hastings, wasting little time in establishing order.

For their aid in battle and the downfall of Harold Godwinson, William granted all his knights land and title, disposing Saxon landowners of their keeps and instilling them with Norman knights.

Fallon was granted ownership of Linden keep. It was a magnificent fortress with high stone walls and large round towers and an extended curtain wall that trailed the outside walls.

When he first came upon the sadly composed structure when given mastery over it, it’s previous inhabitants fleeing the structure at word of his arrival; it was barely a structure of weak walls and rotted timber. With as much time and devotion, he and his men quickly set out to rebuild what was now a formidable fortress, erect to withstand any imposing force. It needed much more constructing and various inanimate objects to fill its empty rooms but in another year’s time, Linden would be complete.

A servant entered the hall and bypassed the serving wenches. Fallon peered up from his untouched plate as the man appeared at his side. “Milord, a missive has arrived for you.” He extended the enclosed letter.

Fallon accepted it and dismissed him. He ripped open the seal and scanned the scrawl with narrowed eyes.

“What is it, my liege?” Ranulf asked curiously.

Gavin leaned forward, noticing a sudden tension around Fallon’s mouth.

“My presence has been requested by a Lord Emerson McLeod.”

Gavin frowned, “McLeod?”

“He is Saxon.” Growled Ranulf distastefully.

“What does he inquire?” Gavin asked.

“He wishes to enlist me in a matter concerning his land.”

“His land?” Ranulf scoffed.

Fallon smirked, “He says his allegiance is with William.”

“Hah!” Ivan expressed loudly as he sauntered into the hall. “No Saxon is loyal to the Conqueror.”

Fallon held up his hand and the room fell silent, “I have reason to believe this man is true to his word. He claims the matter is important. Ready the horses.”

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