The Knight's Prisoner (Medieval Discipline 1)

The Red Fox. Even if logic hadn't told her it was him, the way her hairs pricked on her arms confirmed it.

“Sit,” he said, indicating a stool with the lift of his chin.

She sat on it, her heart pounding, her mouth dry.

“What's your name?”

She licked her lips. “Danewyn, sir.”

“My lord,” Sir Ferrum corrected her.

“My lord,” she murmured.

“Danewyn,” he said musingly, still studying her. Sir Ferrum stood in the background, his arms folded across his enormous chest.

“Do you know who I am?”

“No, sir,” she answered immediately. “I mean, no, my lord.” Better to lie—they would never release her if they believed she knew his identity.

“That's a lie,” the Red Fox said evenly.

Her already racing heart picked up more speed.

“What do you know about the Red Fox, Danewyn?” he asked.

Her eyes darted to Sir Ferrum. He had overheard her behind the tavern, as she'd feared. She licked her lips again. “Nothing,” she said, her voice cracking.

The Red Fox raised his eyebrows in a look that had a distinct warning to it.

“I mean—I know nothing more than what I said at the tavern. I should not have said such a thing. I am sorry.”

As if an apology was going to set her free.

“Tell me what exactly you said.”

She drew in a deep breath. “I believe I said the Red Fox will rise again.”

The Red Fox's eyes bored into her. “Why would you say such a thing?”

She blew out her held breath. “I didn't like the way Benton's soldier handled me, that's all. I made it up,” she lied.

The Red Fox shook his head slightly. “Another lie. You'll be punished for those. Lies irritate me, Danewyn.”

“Yes, sir.”

“My lord,” Sir Ferrum corrected her again.

“Yes, my lord,” she whispered, realizing with dismay that the use of the title acknowledged her understanding that he was, indeed, the Lost Prince.

“Try again—the truth, this time.”

She hesitated. She had learned at an early age not to reveal her gift of Sight. The priests condemned the Sight as devilry, and those who still practiced the old ways, did so in secret. The times when she had revealed her gift, she'd been beaten for lying or shunned as strange. Yet the Red Fox—Prince Philip—seemed to think he could tell the truth from a lie.

“It was a premonition that came to me in the moment.”

The prince walked closer to her and stared. “What was the premonition?”

She shrugged. “Just what I said.” She cast her mind back to the knowing sense she'd had. Her eyes went unfocused and she felt a prickling of it. When her voice spoke it sounded with the deeper resonance it took on when she used the Sight. “The soldier I was with will be in two battles against you. Battles that will both be lost.” She focused her eyes on the prince again.

He took a step closer and ran his finger along the hairs that were standing up on her arms. “Does this always happen when you use your gift?” he asked softly.

The surge of emotion that choked her came as a surprise. He had believed her. Or it seemed he had. The rightful prince of Briton believed in her Sight when no one else had. She had to take a few deep breaths before she could answer.

“Yes, my lord. At least, I think so.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “Sometimes it's the hairs back here.”

The prince smiled before turning to her captor. “Ferrum, send Edwin to fetch me a pair of dice.”

Ferrum. The name suited him. She felt inexplicably drawn to the knight. Something about the way he'd been so careful with her—even as he'd taken her by force—had left her wanting more. Her eyes rested on the place where he'd been standing for a moment, and when they returned to the prince, he was looking at her curiously.

“Do you have family in London?”

“Yes, my lord,” she lied, watching Sir Ferrum cross the tent to hand the prince the dice.

He accepted the dice without taking his eyes off her, and put a finger under her chin to lift her face to his. “Mayhap you didn't understand me when I asked you not to lie.” His voice held a dangerous sort of quiet that made her swallow convulsively.

“No family. No friends?”

She glared at him, flushing. “I have friends,” she snapped, then felt her stomach clench wondering if that, too, were a lie. She paid rent to live in the back of a woman's house, but calling her a friend was a stretch. And there was Coenred, the tavern-keeper. But he wasn't really a friend, either. In fact, she didn't like him at all. She brought her eyes reluctantly back to the prince's. He had cocked his head to one side, considering her.

He rolled the dice on the makeshift table, shielding them from her view with his body. “What did I roll, Danewyn?”