Angel of the Knight (11 page)

F
rom beneath the tattered war tent, a knight begged for comfort. “Lady Wren!” he croaked.

Gwendolyn looped a strand of hair behind her ear and eased the crick in her neck before turning toward the canopy that served as an infirmary. She lifted a wooden bowl to the man’s lips and waited patiently as he sipped the strong tea. Leaning back, he rested, and his hand patted hers in thanks.

“Lady Wren, ken ye check this tea and see if’n ’tis strong enough?” A village woman wiped her face with the edge of her apron and waved Gwendolyn toward the black kettle near the bonfire.

“Mummy, I’m so hot,” a child wailed from a cot nearby.

Her composure worn as thin as the rag she called a gown and Gwendolyn fought down the wave of panic that threatened to derail her. The past week had seen the fever spread throughout the village and the outer bailey of the castle. As yet the inner keep remained
protected, along with the keep’s inhabitants. Her uncle and the Cravenmoor nobles remained tightly sealed within the safety of the high walls.

And that served her well. With men, women, soldiers and children falling ill, Gwendolyn had been forced to shed all vestiges of her playacting. Panic had subsided after Gwendolyn began issuing instructions and organizing work crews. Now, after a week of caring for the fevered, the serfs were too tired to worry.

“Lucas, fresh water, please,” Gwendolyn ordered as she swiped a cloth from a stack of clean laundry, then joined the child and mother. The boy hurried to obey, then trotted off to aid another.

Sprinkling lavender seed into the water, Gwendolyn soaked the cloth, then wrung it damp. Softening her tone, she instructed the woman, “Blot this on your daughter’s head to cool the fever and ease her headache.”

“Aye, Lady Wren.” The child’s cries lessened to a distressed mewing as her mother mimicked Gwendolyn’s actions.

Standing, Gwendolyn surveyed the bustling serfs. No matter their age, if they were able to stand, she had put them to work. Children stripped medicinal leaves from twigs for brewing, old men and women collected kindling, the able-bodied washed linens, prepared tea or stitched death shrouds. And still chores remained to be done.

“Arry, fetch some clean linen and change the bedding
on these cots.” Gwendolyn pointed toward the sweat-soaked bed clothes of several soldiers.

“Aye, Lady Wren.” The titan jumped to complete the task. He twisted the ear of a boy snuggled up on a stack of blankets. “Get up, ye lazy good for nothing. If Lady Wren don’t rest, then ye don’t rest.”

A hidden smile tugged at Gwendolyn’s lips. ’Twas said the reformed were the hardest to live with, she thought. And Arry was certainly proving the point. Even after burying his daughter, Nesta, in the common grave, he had returned to work. His newfound sanctity served as a model for the rest of the village.

With Arry overseeing the laundry, Gwendolyn made for the bonfire to check her medicinal tea. The moss-colored liquid simmered in a great iron kettle. Pillows of steam rose, scenting the area with borage, bay, burnet and lovage.

Gwendolyn stirred the concoction with a heavy ladle, noting the color and thickness. “Aye, ’tis strong enough, Anwen. Cut it with a bit of honey for the little ones. ’Twill make the taste easier, though not by much.”

The young woman nodded. “The smell is bad enough, but the taste!” She shuddered and scrunched up her mouth. “’Twas lucky I came down with the fever only for a few days. I had to hold my nose to force it down.”

“And we’ll do the same to those soldiers if they refuse again.” Gwendolyn crossed her arms and moved to the canopy where most of the infirm lay.

Rows of sick people lay on makeshift cots and
straw pallets. Tired relatives waved away the insects swarming over the ill. Up and down the rows, women gave the caretakers bowls of tea and clean water to force down the fevered patients’ throats.

A painful sorrow struck Gwendolyn in the heart. So many had died already, and the death count still climbed. She lowered her head and covered her mouth with her hand. Tears stung her eyes along with dejection. How could she hope to save these people? Yet even as she asked herself the question, she began to walk up and down the rows, checking on each patient.

Her inquiries were met with warmth and hope. To each she offered a bit of praise or instruction. Just a few moments of tenderness meant the world to these people so near death. For some, ’twas all the kindness they had ever experienced in their short lives.

Like Falke had offered her
. Nay! She could not afford the luxury of thinking of him and the bits of tenderness he had shown her. A gentle hand upon her shoulder in the great hall. Kindness in his tone when he spoke to her and Cyrus. And the taste of desire as his lips touched her mouth
. Stop this!
She chastised herself as the memory of his musky smell caused strange emotions to flutter in the pit of her stomach.

“Lady Wren, come quick!”

She turned to see Lucas pointing toward his father. Arry carried Ozbern toward the sick ward, the knight barely able to hold his head upright.

“Lucas, be quick and clear a bed.” Gwendolyn
rushed to meet the blacksmith. One touch of Ozbern’s forehead and she knew the pestilence had found another victim.

“Ken ye save ’im?” Arry asked with real concern.

The knight’s hard work and soft humor had endeared him to all the peasants. And to Gwendolyn, too. Never once had he questioned her actions or orders, and he had taken over the visits to the castle’s inner wall, thereby enabling Gwendolyn to keep out of Titus and Ferris’s sight. And Falke’s. The lord of Mistedge remained in safety, while his people, and now his friend, fought for their lives.

“I will do my best,” she answered.

She owed the knight much. It had been Ozbern who had shamed the soldiers and kept them from storming the inner keep in panic. And it had been he who had lifted their spirits with stories of his and Falke’s escapades. Though in every tale ’twas Falke who saved the day, the serfs’ allegiance rested with Ozbern. The villagers still did not trust Sir Falke, who remained within the inner keep, away from the danger of the illness.

“Lay him here,” she ordered Arry as they reached the tent. With care, the blacksmith placed his charge on the makeshift bed.

“Lady…Wren.” Ozbern clutched her sleeve. “You…go to the gate.” His arm dropped, his strength sapped by the effort.

“Hush. You must rest,” she murmured consolingly.

“Nay.” Ozbern shook his head and coughed.
“Alone…Falke’s alone. Laron…Ferris want to take Mistedge.” Ozbern drew a deep, rattling breath. “Falke needs this place. Promise me you’ll go.” His eyes opened wide and he made to rise from his bed.

“I’ll send Arry.” ’Twas one thing to show a bit of her true self in the village, quite another to flaunt it under Ferris’s nose. To call out at the castle wall and converse with the staff would reveal too much.

“Must be you.” Ozbern pulled himself to a sitting position, blinking his eyes into focus. “More than you seem. Like Falke. He needs to know.” With effort Ozbern swung his legs to the ground.

“I will go,” she promised. Anything to get him to rest. From behind her, she heard Cyrus snort his disapproval. Ignoring her foster father, Gwendolyn pushed the fainting knight back down. “I’ll go, Sir Ozbern. Rest easy.” At a wave of her hand, a chipped wooden bowl of thick green tea filled her palm, handed her by a villager. “Drink this.” As usual, the words were a command and not a request.

“Lucas, fetch me two donkeys for carrying supplies from the castle. Blodyn,” Gwendolyn called to a woman stirring a cauldron of dirty linen, “have we need of more lye?”

“Aye, Lady Wren, we will by the morrow if you insist on fresh linen for each.”

“Then ’tis more lye I’ll get. Each time those sheets are drenched in sweat they’re to be changed and washed with hot water and strong soap.”

“If Lady Wren says ’tis to be, then ’twill be.” Blodyn nodded toward the women stringing the cloth
to dry. No complaints came forth; all were too tired to do more than just comply.

Cyrus stepped in front of Gwendolyn, his brows wrinkled and his lips set with determination. “Any one of us can fetch supplies. It need not be you.”

“I promised.”

Gwendolyn hid the true reason for her desire to go to the castle wall. Ozbern’s words pricked at her conscience. Lord Falke’s easy laugh and quick wit did not portray a man alone in the world. Nor did he seem particularly interested in Mistedge. To her knowledge, he had never even visited the peasant village. He seemed to spend his time charming the women, infuriating the vassals and gaming with his men.

Yet she had ofttimes observed that Falke’s cerulean eyes did not reflect the roguish smile on his full lips. Even when Lady Ivette flirted outrageously with him, his gaze would be on the knights behind her or nearby. In the depth of his stare, Gwendolyn detected a hidden center. And if she was not an expert on hiding one’s soul, who was?

“This is trouble, lass,” Cyrus warned. “You’ve been fortunate thus far that Titus has not found you out. Best take Arry with you to do your talking.”

“If ’twould make you feel better.”

“The only way I’m going to feel at ease is if you don’t go.” Gwendolyn opened her mouth to protest, but Cyrus placed his fingertips over her mouth. “But I know ’tis a useless wish.”

“Lady Wren, I’ve found the donkeys.” Lucas
rushed toward her, the two flea-ravaged beasts in tow.

“Good work. Now get your father and we’ll make our way to the castle gate.”

“Is he here yet?” Falke climbed the wall steps two at a time. The wooden stair creaked from the hard stamp of his feet. His eyes scanned the muddy expanse that lay between the gatehouse and the first cottage. The bright silk of the yellow tent near the woods caused his heart to quicken with dread. The old war shelter served the dying, now from illness instead of battle.

“Nay, milord. Sir Ozbern’s not been to the gate today.” The young squire stood tall and snapped to attention, almost smacking himself in the face with his lance.

Cursing under his breath, Falke tried not to vent his frustration on the lad. God’s Wounds, he wanted no part of Mistedge or Laron’s treachery. ’Twould be better to roam the country as a mercenary than to lose Ozbern. No land or keep was worth his friend’s life. Falke itched to leave the confines of castle. Over two-thirds of Mistedge’s army lay under the canopy in the village. Whatever mischief Laron might think up, he could not plan a siege with so many ill, nor would an army invade when plague ran rampant. For now, Falke’s only fear was for his friend.

“Milord, someone approaches.” The sandy-haired squire dropped his lance in excitement. “Aye, ’tis a tall man, the smithy I think. And there’s a boy and
an old woman.” The squire blushed and he gave Falke a half smile. “Sorry, milord, ’tis your betrothed with them.”

“No one else?” Pushing aside the bony lad, Falke held his breath as his gaze sought the approaching group. Air escaped his lungs in a sharp blast. No Ozbern. Falke rubbed his forehead with his fingertips. The tightness in his throat matched the clenching of his jaw.

“Is Lord Falke about?” The blacksmith’s voice resounded like a call of doom across the empty yard.

“Aye, I am here.” Swallowing his grief, Falke lifted his head and waved.

His betrothed shuffled from one foot to another. She kept her head down and her words barely reached him. “Sir Ozbern bade me come.”

A clatter on the stairs halted her message. A contingent of knights climbed up the wooden ladder and joined Falke on the narrow walkway. The men fanned out on either side of him. Laron and Ferris stood at his elbow, grim smiles on their faces.

“Go on, woman, how goes it in the village? Has the fever run its course yet?” Laron demanded.

If a person could be transformed Falke would swear he witnessed it in the grass below. Instead of a caterpiller to a beautiful butterfly, the woman before him reversed the process. Gwendolyn’s plump form seemed to become squatter and more misshapen before his eyes. Her chin dropped to her chest and the mass of bog-colored hair tumbled over her face. She whispered something to the smithy and the boy.

“Milord, we still have new sick coming in. Your friend fell ill today along with ten more. We be need’n more lye, borage, lovage and food. And Lady Wren wants to be talk’n with her woman, Darianne. Fetch her to the wall.” Arry let out a long breath from the unaccustomed speech.

“Fetch her?” Ferris threw back his head and laughed. “Who do you think you are speaking to, man? We are knights, not common servants.”

Falke noted the sudden stillness of the woman below. Her fists shoved into the folds of her skirts. Her toe twisted into the hard-packed ground and a feeling of déjà vu swept through him.

Now was not the time for hunches or intuition. Ozbern needed aid and needed it now. Falke ignored the ripple of discomfort that ran down his spine and ordered, “Find the woman she seeks.” His gaze pierced the nervous squire’s, and Falke took a few menacing steps. The lad tumbled down the stairs to fulfill the command.

“She’ll be here soon.” Falke had to ask the next question although he was afraid of the answer. “Ozbern? How does he fare?”

“The same as the others, burning with fever. Some made it through, some didn’t.” Arry tilted his large head at Gwendolyn. “She be the one to know. She’s been shoving tea and medicine down everyone’s throat.”

“Then they are doomed for sure,” Ferris said with a laugh.

Lady Wren was tending the ill? Falke felt relief
and apprehension. He knew well her expertise at tending her horse, but what of communicating with the superstitious peasants? If the villagers had turned to Lady Wren for guidance, then the situation must be dire indeed.

Lady Wren spoke, her words barely discernible, yet Falke detected a trace of fortitude and strength. “I’ll do my best, though there’s many in the same lot as he.” She lifted her head and shaded her eyes from the blaring sun. “Your friend is dear to many in the village.” These words sounded stronger and contained a hint of censure toward Falke.