Angel Of The Knight

“Lady Gwendolyn.” Falke rose and knelt beside her. “Pray, come and share my trencher.” He touched her shoulder to draw her attention away from the scraps among the rushes.

Like a frightened rabbit, she froze. Her hands stilled. For such a short woman, she possessed large hands. Long slender fingers ended in torn but clean nails. In fact, although the rest of her was filthy, her hands were scrubbed raw with cleanliness. The smell of strong lye soap overpowered the damp, woodsy odor of her hair.

“Milord, thank you for your kindness.” Her elderly guardian rushed forward. “But ’twould be best if we leave now.” Cyrus helped the girl to her feet. She leaned on his elbow, her left foot dragging as she walked.

“See to it you have hot food from the kitchen.” Falke issued the order, but doubted the man would see the command carried out. The two looked like beaten dogs retreating from a fight.

“You’ll not get away with this scheme.” Laron’s pale face was mottled with fury.

“Aye, that he won’t,” Titus agreed, and gave Falke an evil grin. “I’ve brought her here for a wedding and I’m not taking her back. At least not without compensation for a year’s keep.”

“Of course.” Falke had been prepared for Titus’s ultimatum. Untying the heavy leather pocket at his belt, he dropped the bag in front of Titus. With a greedy gleam in his eye, the old swine grabbed the gold, gauging the weight of it in the palm of his hand.

A sliver of conscience sliced through Falke. Could he really send the girl back with this depraved man? In his mind, the ominous voice of his father rebuked him for the dishonorable act. Falke forced himself to muffle the voice and harden his emotions.

“I appreciate doing business with you,” Titus cackled. “Mayhap we can do a bit more business before I leave.”

An underlying evil lay in his words and slithered along Falke’s spine. Repulsed, he answered, “I think our business has concluded.”

Titus rose and smirked. “’Twould be to your benefit to hear me out.” He gave an evil laugh, then stalked from the room. The rest of the table dispersed quickly, except for Ferris. The willow-thin knight refilled his goblet with wine and cursed his father between sips.

“Robert,” Falke called to one of his younger knights, seated at his right. “’Tis enough wine for tonight. What will Sir Laron think if my men make drunkards of themselves?”

“But, Falke,” his man protested, “’tis only my third…nay, my fourth cup.” He lifted his glass high in the air and spoke in a slurred voice. “Sir Laron…is a knight…who appreciates a good press.” Robert, his fine auburn hair covering his bleary eyes, brought the cup to his lips, overestimated the distance and sloshed wine down the front of his gold tunic. A dark stain spread across the wool.

“I’d expect as much from one of your men.” Laron sniffed with disdain.

Ozbern gave Falke a quizzical look. “He’s too far into his cups to stop him now.”

Falke laughed, then smiled at Robert, who staggered across the room, balancing two wine jugs and several cups. When the young knight reached a bench near the fireplace, he sat and poured another goblet of wine. Robert raised the cup, took one sip, then grew limp. The knight passed out, the crack of bone against wood making Falke flinch in empathic pain.

Robert rolled off the bench and landed facedown in the rushes. Falke rose, surveyed the passed-out figure and commented, “A night in the cold and a heavy head will teach him a lesson.”

The comment dispersed the nobles into small gossiping cliques. Ozbern rose, cocked a brow toward Laron, then sauntered off toward the gallery.

Tension gripped Falke’s neck like a hawk’s talons. He wanted a breath of fresh air and a moment or two of privacy. He strode through the hall to the courtyard.

The fragrance of new grass hung in the cool evening air. Mistedge blossomed with spring’s promise of new beginnings. And the keep offered Falke a promise also, of remaking himself from a cavalier to a lord. With time and patience, all the pieces would fall into place. The vassals. The villeins. Lady Wren? The girl would take much thought, but somehow he would arrange to end the betrothal.

Worry nagged at the back of his mind. His feet followed the garden path as it curved away from the castle. A whiff of old urine and spoiled wine warned him of who waited ahead.

Emerging from the pruned shrubs, Titus broke into a ragged-toothed grin. “A year will come and go afore you know it. What will you do when the time’s up?”

“As I said, I’ll rethink the situation.” Falke tried to sidestep around the corpulent knight.

“’Tis a dangerous trip home.” The malice in Titus’s voice brought Falke to a quick stop. Titus rubbed his beefy hands together. “For fifty gold pieces and a deed to her lands, I’ll see she finds the sharp edge of a sword should we be attacked by, say…bandits. None of those high-and-mighty lords will be able to connect you with her death.”

An unexplainable fear replaced the villainy in his stare. Falke detected a slight wavering in Titus’s voice as he finished, “But the deed must not be done on Cravenmoor soil, nor can a Cravenmoor knight spill her blood.”

Revulsion gagged Falke and he restrained the urge to beat the old man senseless. He could feel the steady throb of blood pounding in his head and heart. And questions. Why was Titus so adamant about the where and who? And why the fear?

“Do we have a deal?” Titus held out his hand as a gesture of goodwill.

Falke ignored the outstretched hand. “I’ll think over your proposal.”

The criminal huffed with indignation and hooked his thumbs on his leather belt. “You were quick to seek me out when foul work was needed before. When you needed information on Stephen’s troops, you came knocking on my door.”

“That was before I realized how you tortured those men for answers. Before I saw their broken bodies in your battle camp.” The tentative grip on his ire slipped. Falke emitted a low growl under his breath.

Titus’s face blanched. He scurried down the path toward the castle. Tension racked Falke’s shoulders and he mentally forced his muscles to relax. God’s blood! Titus had a soul blacker than the pits of hell. Falke would like to wipe the old robber baron’s grin right off his face. More specifically, Falke would like to force every crooked tooth down the bounder’s throat.

Desperate to work off his anger, Falke decided to leave the castle for a brisk run. The evening sun melted to a golden arc just above the horizon and the temperature dropped with springtime quickness. He ambled through the inner bailey gate and noted the marshal dozing at his post. Lack of a sure leader was fast turning the troops soft. If Falke didn’t gain his vassals’ allegiance soon, Mistedge would be ill prepared to ward off an attack.

As he entered the outer bailey, he noted the guards’ chambers. Infantry troops bedded down in the chamber halls and supplies of weapons were housed in the lower levels. Bombastic laughter and ear-burning curses echoed from the row of windows. Several colorful phrases involved Falke and various types of torture devices. Reason wasted little time convincing Falke ’twould be best to steer clear of the soldiers for now.

Set off by itself, the stable offered respite from the chill and a place to collect his thoughts. Postponing the idea of leaving the castle, he slipped inside, and plopped down on a pile of sweet-smelling hay to watch the glorious sunset through the open doorway.

“Thank you.” A husky voice floated to him from within the barn in accented English. “Tell me about horse.” Falke scooted to the shadows to investigate. A shuffle came from the back of the stable, and he spotted a boy’s brown cowlick bobbing inside a stall.

“I couldn’t find Cyrus or Darianne to tell them about the animal’s legs. Ye could have knocked me over with a quill when ye spoke to me. In me own tongue, no less. There’s nobles around here who can’t speak it as well as you. And to think ye be a know’n the heal’n ways, too.”

“Don’t speak much, Lucas.” Only a head taller than the child, Lady Gwendolyn moved from one side of the stall and disappeared again behind the wooden gate. “No tell anyone. My uncle. Go hard on me.”

The boy nodded his head with vigor. “I’ve heard about ’em. I’m thinkin’ ’e’s like me da, Lady Wren—” He stumbled on an apology. “I-I’m sorry, Lady Gwendolyn. ’Tis just that everyone’s been callin’ ye that.”

“’Tis no harm. Hold this bowl. I soak the rags.”

The desire to peek over the gate and survey the operations nagged at Falke. He ducked into the empty stall next to the pair and sought a crack to spy through. The girl’s disclosure intrigued him. She spoke English as well as French? Titus called her an imbecile, but the boy was right—there were many nobles who could not communicate with their serfs as well as she.

She moved with ease around the tiny boxed pen. He couldn’t hear any dragging feet against the wood floor. The limp was another facade. What else did she hide from Titus? Falke remembered a young girl’s wooden doll he had seen in the Holy Lands. In reality, it had been a series of dolls, each smaller than the next, all nested together. How many inner layers resided within the outer shell of Lady Gwendolyn?

“’Twas too long a journey for him.” Genuine concern cracked the even timbre of her voice.

A finger-wide split between two boards offered Falke a view into the next stall. A short candle sputtered light onto Lady Gwendolyn’s hands. Again Falke found himself mesmerized by that part of her body. The muscles in her fingers flexed and contracted while she massaged the inflamed tendons of her mount’s legs. With skilled efficiency, she rubbed a sharp-smelling ointment deep into the horse’s joints.

“Now I’ll wrap them.” She withdrew long strips of brown cloth from the bowl the boy held. The smell of juniper and camphor mixed with the aroma of the liniment. She swaddled each leg with even, parallel turns of the wraps, then wiped her hands on the front of her skirt.

“Will that fix ’em up?” The boy stayed close to Gwendolyn and away from the stallion’s sharp teeth.

“Aye.” She stood and shook the hay from her gown. The kirtle ended in a ragged rip across the front and exposed her ankles to the cool night air. A glance at the wrapping and the gown confirmed the origin of the strips of cloth. How many of the patches on her gown were due to wear and how many due to use as bandages?

“What should I do tomorrow? Remove them strips?” The boy offered his aid, but kept his gaze on the huge head of the animal.

“Nay. Greatheart…not like strangers. Save with me.”

The boy flattened himself against the wall of the stall. Gwendolyn stretched out her hand and rested it on Lucas’s head. She brushed back the curtain of hair from her face, and once again Falke found himself amazed at the color of her eyes—two jewels of brilliant sapphire light.

Her voice deepened and grew steady. “Cyrus or I will nurse him. And Lucas, if anyone asks, tell him Cyrus wrapped the legs. Can you do that?”

Her blue eyes suddenly grew worried. They no longer shone with youth. Instead, Falke saw them dim with ancient wariness. She bit her upper lip and cupped the boy’s chin with her hand. “Lucas, ’tis very important.”

Lucas nodded his head and gave her a big grin. “Lady Wren—I mean Gwendolyn—ye can trust me.”

“Good.” She tossed her head and the matted dark mane again covered most of her face. Her voice became hesitant again. “Check outside. No one can see.” The boy ran out the gate. Falke duckwalked to a corner and waited for the two to leave.

“Goodnight, Greatheart. We lived another day.” Sorrow and courage colored her statement reminding Falke of an old woman who has outlived all those she loved.

“Lady Wren, there’s no one about.” The boy gave her a quick wave from the stable door.

Light, sure steps danced across the floor, then the only sounds were the even breaths of the livestock. Falke peered over the gate. The boy’s and woman’s forms flittered past the stable window and disappeared around the corner.

He braced his arm on the top board and jumped the stall gate. At the door, he searched the dusk for signs she had succeeded in reaching the castle unseen.

From the garden path, Ozbern emerged breathless and panting. “There you are. I’ve been looking for you.”

“Why? Did you see anything?” Had Lady Gwendolyn been spotted?

“Nay, not see. But I heard from Robert.” Ozbern’s tone was rueful and admiring at the same time. “I don’t know what possessed you to have him play the drunk for Laron, but it worked. After the rest of the knights withdrew, Ferris and Laron had quite a conversation. They let their tongues wag until they passed out drunk. Guess what plan they devised?” Ozbern quirked his mouth in an all-knowing grin.

“Ferris offered to kill Lady Wren—Lady Gwendolyn—and frame me for the woman’s demise.” Falke squelched the smug smile on his friend’s face.

“Blast it, Falke, just once I’d like to supply a bit information that you don’t already know.” Ozbern shook his dark mane of hair in self-disgust.

“Titus offered me a similar deal. Though I think Ferris acts alone on this. Titus was adamant that no Cravenmoor people be involved. But father and son are much alike.”

“What kind of people are we dealing with?” Distaste hardened Ozbern’s tone.

Falke walked back to the castle with Ozbern matching his strides. ’Twas a good question his friend asked. A man who offered to kill his ward, a bastard who offered to kill his cousin, and a woman-child who played the buffoon but hid an ember of humanity…The image of her strong hands working with practiced ease created in Falke a desire to erase the sadness that dulled her azure eyes.

“We must keep her here.” The tingling sensation that had nagged at him disappeared with his words.

“And guard her well. Her death would be all Laron needs to set the rest of Merin’s vassals against you.” Ozbern combed back his hair with his fingers.

“See that one of my men is with her at all times,” Falke ordered in a harsh whisper as he pushed open the castle door and entered.

Red-hot embers in the fireplace pulsated with heat, driving away the chill of the outside air. Ivette embroidered near the wide hearth. Her gaze traveled up the stairs toward the solar and main bedchamber. Instead of returning her inquiring smile, Falke slumped into a chair near the fire. The sharp snap of a fan and the stiff crinkle of silk marked her displeasure at his refusal of her unspoken offer this night.

“Go to bed, Ozbern,” he ordered as he stared into the coals. Alone with his thoughts, he stirred the ashes with an iron poker and watched the embers fly up the chimney, wishing his worries would disappear as easily.

His errant vassal and the men of Cravenmoor offered him no real danger. But the girl’s danger materialized because of him. He couldn’t allow her to be hurt due to his plan. He crinkled his eyes in disgust. God’s wounds, if he wasn’t careful he’d start to sound honorable. And that was something he couldn’t allow. Even for the sake of Lady Wren.

Chapter Four

Robert careened around the corner, swept the great hall with a glance, then bounded up the stairs three at a time. Falke watched the anxious young knight race across the upstairs gallery.

“Lost her again?” Ozbern positioned his rook to capture Falke’s bishop.

“Aye, ’twould seem so.” Falke saved his bishop, the move putting Ozbern’s white rook in danger.

Falke’s squire, Harris, stumbled into the great hall, then strolled casually across the floor. When he reached the stairs, he, too, raced up them. Lady Wren’s two bodyguards exchanged shrugs on the balcony.

“Harris doesn’t know where she is, either?” Ozbern moved a pawn to block his rook’s capture.

“’Twould appear so.” Falke stretched his long legs and propped his fingers together as he pretended to study the chessboard. Seated in a small alcove at the far end of the room, he had a location that enabled him to survey the hall’s activities.

Servants bustled around the trestle tables, collecting the trenchers from the midday meal. Hounds milled through the floor rushes, eager to find scraps. Indulgent villeins threw bones and pieces of meat to the appreciative dogs. Though nearly waist high to the women clearing the table, the dogs remained docile, wagging their tails and licking the hands that fed them. Would that Falke’s vassals were as easily subdued.

Upstairs near the solar, Ivette and the ladies of Mistedge had retreated to their sewing and embroidery. His dismissal nearly a fortnight ago had Ivette playing the wounded lover, though they had shared but a kiss.

Seated near the hearth, Laron and Ferris shared a bottle of Norman wine, speaking in low tones and occasionally throwing a speculative glance toward Falke. Titus snored heavily near the high dais, his overindulgence of rich food and strong wine sapping his alertness. ’Twas one enemy Falke need not worry himself with.

He nodded slightly toward the expansive room. “All those who could do the lady harm are accounted for.” A wisp of a smile tugged at Falke’s lips as he slanted a glance toward the shadowy alcove just to his left.

Ozbern leaned across the board and whispered, “’Tis good to see you enjoy this duty.”

“’Tis naught but self-preservation,” Falke insisted.

“But ’tis an honorable decision nonetheless.” Ozbern smiled as he moved his queen.

“Do not read more than is there. I have no honor, wish no honor. I do and say as I please to get what I want.” Falke swore as he spied a bit of skin. A big toe, in fact. Light wavered through the high window behind him and lit on the corner of the alcove, illuminating a worn leather slipper with a toe protruding from the tip. Lady Wren.

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