Angel of the Knight (10 page)

T
he narrow walkway on the outer wall barely allowed Falke and Ozbern to walk in tandem. At the sentry posts, neither man gave way, forcing the guard to come to attention and step back or risk being knocked over the high wall. Falke did not bother to engage in conversation with his friend, for his mind was back at the pool with his night angel.

With Titus and his men nursing wine-soaked heads, Falke had time to recall each sensuous detail of his adventure last night.

The wood-sweet smell of her skin haunted him. Each perfect curve of her body was scorched in his mind. Desire rippled in his loins as he recalled the feel of her young, lithe body. Overhead, the morning sun seemed harsh, making him long for the cool silver light of the moon and his angel’s hair. Night had always beckoned with lonely arms, but now the moonlight tempted him with the slender limbs of Artemis. How could such a vision send terror through a ruffian like Titus?

“What’s happening in the village?” Ozbern pulled up short and pointed toward the huts.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Falke tucked away his memories, then concentrated on the activity in the village. A bonfire burned in the center green. Peasants trudged back and forth from the huts to the fire, carrying bundles and casting them into the flames. Even from this distance, Falke could sense the urgency. Something or someone had put spurs to his villeins.

“’ello, the castle.” From near the barbican, a voice boomed. “Have the lord come speak with me.”

“Nobles don’t take orders from smithies,” the marshal shouted. “Enter and make petition same as any man.”

“Can’t.” The voice shouted back, anger in his tone. “Tell Lord Falke that Lady Wren is with me.”

“She’s suppose to be with Alric,” Falke hissed as he and Ozbern raced toward the central tower.

“She is. Or was,” Ozbern answered breathlessly as they climbed the tower stairs.

At the top, Falke shoved aside the startled marshal and peered down. A giant of a man stood below. Leather apron and bulging arm muscles marked him as the blacksmith. “A woman-beater and drunk.” His angel’s warning took on new meaning as Falke spotted the short, plump shape standing next to the man—Lady Wren. One blow from the smithy could crush her skull.

“I swear I saw her in the chapel.” Ozbern shook his head in disbelief.

“Free the woman, blacksmith.” Falke yanked the spear from the marshal and took aim on the big man’s heart.

“Nay.” Lady Wren stepped forward and placed a protective hand across the smithy’s chest. Falke still had a straight shot at the man’s heart, directly over her head. “We cannot enter the castle. Nor may any of you leave.”

Ozbern threw his hands in the air. “Now we are laid to siege by a girl and a commoner?”

“Aye, Sir Ozbern.” Lady Wren lifted her head and shook away the tangles covering her face. Determination tilted her pointed chin. “Mistedge is at siege, but not from us, but by pestilence.” She spoke without her stammer, and apprehension crept up Falke’s spine. It must be dire indeed for Lady Wren to give up her ruse.

“’Tis a fever, milord.” The blacksmith pointed his thick finger at Falke’s weapon. “And ye’ll not win this battle with sticks and such.”

“Most of the children are affected. This fever spreads fast, takes many.” Lady Wren spoke slowly, but Falke sensed ’twas not due to playacting, but from dread.

Fever! Another turn from his usually good fortune. Was his night apparition really an angel? Had he switched his luck from good to bad with a stolen kiss? The idea caused his throat to dry and his heart to pound. Nay, her lips were real, the softness of her
skin not a mirage. If she was a villager, then her life could be in danger.

The walkway became crowded with men and servants. Tension and panic wove through the gathering crowd. As heads popped up along the wall, Lady Wren stepped behind the bulky smith.

The giant leaned down to listen as she whispered in his ear. Straightening, he shouted, “’Twould seem the village is the only place stricken. If we are kept apart, mayhap this plague will go no farther.”

There was no other choice. Falke could not risk the illness spreading throughout the keep. “Close the gate,” he ordered.

“Nay, milord,” a servant woman called in anquish. “Me son is out there, and me husband.”

“Close the gate!” Falke spoke through clenched teeth. He gave the marshal a narrow-eyed stare.

The marshal sprang to life and shouted the order. Ropes creaked, then whirled as the soldiers manning the gate wheel lowered the iron grate. With a clang, the heavy bars sealed the castle from the outside world. Falke threw down his weapon, useless against this foe that would rob him of his home.

“There be a woman…” the smith continued, relaying what Lady Wren whispered to him. “…Darianne, she’ll be knowin’ what to send. Lower the supplies over the wall. For now, we be needin’ blankets and a heap of strong soap.”

“’Twill be done straightaway. Robert!” Falke called as he spotted the knight on the wall. “Get
Darianne—I’ve a hunch you’ll find her in the chapel. Fetch whatever the villagers will need.”

“I’ll be back with a cart to haul the supplies.” The blacksmith smiled down at Lady Wren. “I’ll be taking the lady back to the village now.”

“Nay,” Falke shouted.

Lady Wren paused, but did not speak. When she lifted her face, Falke saw no fear in her azure stare. Instead, he saw a resolve akin to that of a warrior entering battle. Whatever lay beneath the surface of this woman, ’twas not cowardice.

“Do what you must. Anything you need will be given to you. And Lady Wren?” Falke suspected who the village healer must be. “God’s blessing be on you. I wish you well in your task.”

She nodded, then shuffled away with the big man, resuming her crippled step. Panic at the threat of illness had blinded most inhabitants of the castle to her momentary slips of speech. With luck, she might still keep her masquerade a secret. But what did he know of good fortune? ’Twould seem his had finally run dry.

“Ozbern, see that a sentry is stationed at the road and tell him Lord Falke will have his head if one man, woman or child carries this fever within the castle.”

Falke and Ozbern pushed past the men on the wall and made for the stairs. At the bottom, Falke headed for the arch separating the inner and outer yards. “I’ll see to sealing the inner bailey tunnels. You take the outer.”

“Aye.” Ozbern turned on his heel, then asked, “Falke, how could Lady Wren escape the castle so easily? And why was she in the village? Despite the whispers, ’twas plain the smithy took his orders from her.”

“I don’t think either of us have really seen that girl. I don’t even think she knows who she is herself.” Falke spoke more to himself than to his friend as they parted to prepare Mistedge for siege.

“What’s all the wallerin’ about, love?” the young wench called from the pile of fresh hay.

“’Tis your da and…that woman from the castle—Lady Wren, they call her. The sight of ’er is enough to scare ye sober. And I think that’s just what she’s done to your da.” The soldier readjusted his breeches as he peered out of the barn window.

“They ain’t found us, have they?” His companion sat up, her long hair partially covering her naked breasts.

“Nay.” The soldier’s gaze rested on the girl’s nipples. A hardening in his loins caused him to lick his lips. “Nesta, your folks ain’t gonna find us here in the hayloft.” He kissed her swollen lips and his hands clamped on to her soft mounds.

“Elined!” She giggled and halfheartedly brushed him away. “We just finished and ye want to go again?”

He resumed fondling her chest and lowered her to the fluffy straw. “I can’t help it, love.” He kissed
each nipple. “I am so hot, I think I’m on fire.” He shed his breeches once more.

“Aye, hot I am.” Sweat slickened Nesta’s skin, and her face flushed with heat. “Won’t they miss ye at the barracks?”

“Me brother’ll cover for me. Don’t worry.” The throbbing in his groin suddenly joined with a steady, painful beat in his head. His climax came and went, but the pounding in his head remained.

“That’s enough for today.” Nesta rubbed her temple and rolled away. “I gotta see about me mum.” She swayed slightly when she stood and climbed down the ladder from the loft to the main floor.

Elined took his time putting his breeches back in order. The crashing pain in his head wouldn’t relent. Once back inside the bailey walls, he could get a good cold draft of ale and find some corner to catch a nap. Then he’d join his brother and friends for some games of chance. He lumbered down the ladder and made his way back inside the walls of Mistedge by use of an escape tunnel.

“Brother!” A large hand came down on Elined’s back. “Where have you been?”

Elined turned and faced his younger brother’s scornful gaze. “Just out havin’ fun, Fergus.”

“Were you in the village? Tell me the truth, Elined. Lord Falke’s put the whole area off-limits because of fever. Were you there with that girl again?”

Fergus was always so narrow-minded about right and wrong. If Elinid told the truth, Fergus might report
him and then he would be stuck in that village. He had smelled and seen the results of plague before. The ghastly stench and nightmares had haunted him for months. Not again.

“I was gamin’ with some of the guards on the outer wall. I haven’t seen Nesta for two days.”

His brother narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips. “Thank God. Mind you, keep away from that wench until the fever’s passed. You look dead on your feet. Go into the guardroom and take a rest. I’ll take your watch on the outer wall.”

“My thanks, Fergus.” Elined clasped his brother on the shoulder and sauntered back to the soldiers’ dormitory. Three guards were drinking and gambling in a corner. Elined joined them and took a long swill of ale from their jug. The pounding in his head intensified. He rolled onto a pallet and loosened his tunic. Heat radiated from his body. His joints ached each time he moved. Sleep overtook him in a wave of intense fatigue.

Falke stood on the inner bailey wall, his mind seething with questions but no answers. He watched Ozbern stride across the outer courtyard to the guardsmen’s dormitory. His friend would choose several men to quarter off the village and see to the tunnels.

Isolating the village was a hard move, but necessary. Fevers spread like wildfires, and protecting the castle would ensure aid to the crofters. Lady Wren
understood that; she had requested the order. So why was he riddled with guilt?

Falke surveyed the outer courtyard. The yard was full of soldiers, some wrestling on the exercise field, most loitering, unconcerned about an enemy attack. Falke didn’t blame them. They were all waiting until lordship of the keep was firmly established before they showed allegiance. If the men sided with him and he lost, their lives would be forfeit. The danger to Mistedge lay within its walls, not from outside.

“Falke, come to the wall.”

The sound of Ozbern’s concerned voice warned Falke his bad luck had not changed. He started for the stairs.

“Nay, Falke, do not open the inner gate.”

A tremor of real fear gripped him as Ozbern’s voice called out with urgency and foreboding.

“Ozbern?” Falke knew the answer to his unspoken question even before he saw the slumped figure of a young soldier being carried from the dormitory.

“He’s sick with the fever. I’m having him taken to the village. Seems he has a wench who’ll lift her skirts for him. He got more than he bargained for the last time.”

The full impact of his friend’s words hit him. Ozbern was stranded outside. Falke was alone inside the keep with Alric, Robert, and a castle full of vassals who wished him ill.

His friend’s dark head shook back and forth. “Falke, you know what you must do.”

“Aye, though ’tis hard, my friend.” Before issuing
the command that would separate him from his comrade, Falke said, “We will speak each day. You will come to the wall to gather supplies.” The words conveyed Falke’s hidden fears—that Ozbern could well fall ill himself.

“Close the inner gate.” Bitterness made Falke’s tone harsh and unrelenting. Men who had been loafing before ran toward the arch as the heavy gate fell.

The splintery sound of the thick bar sliding across the doorway brought cries of outrage from the outer courtyard. The shouts and curses drew noblemen and castle servants from inside the keep.

“What’s going on?” Laron demanded. “The servants are in a panic.”

“The gate is down. Are we prisoners?” Mistedge’s most senior vassal, Lord Baldwin, queried.

“Aye.” Falke pointed to the village and the dark smoke against the crystal-blue sky. The universal purge of disease silenced the men. “A fever has struck the village. Sir Ozbern has found a soldier in the guardroom with the illness. Hopefully, the fever’s not spread within the keep proper as yet.”

“As usual, you’re too late to be of any real help to those people,” Laron snapped. “They’ll die in droves.”

“Not I!” Ferris pushed aside the knights and faced Falke. “I’m leaving, whether Titus or anyone else from Cravenmore can sit a horse or not.”

“You’ll go nowhere.” Falke stalked the smaller man. Looming over Ferris, Falke spoke slowly, clearly, his tone iced with ominous certainty. “You
may leave this keep, but not these lands. I’ll kill you myself before I allow you to spread this ague about the countryside. Besides, your lady cousin is in the village.”

“So your damnable luck prevails.” Ferris curled his lips in a sarcastic smile. “She dies from fever and you escape marriage.”

Laron’s face twisted into a smug grin. “Come, Ferris, let us inform Titus of his niece’s peril. And of Sir Falke’s negligence in protecting her. And his people.”

Falke slammed his fist into his palm as the two knights left. The sympathetic gazes that passed between the nobles and Ferris made Falke want to gag. Not one of them cared whether Lady Wren lived or died; they only wanted to hedge their bets should Laron wrest power from Falke.

Separating himself from the nobles, the servants and his few remaining loyal men, Falke watched the black smoke. The dark cloud mushroomed in shape and moved with ominous fingers toward the castle of Mistedge.