Angel of the Knight (8 page)

A few miles and he would be home. He walked on, his thoughts occupying the time. He had Laron plotting against him, Ivette ready to scratch his eyes out and a plain, daft woman as his betrothed. Not to mention a mysterious woman bathing in his pond.

Half an hour later, Falke entered the castle and shuffled over to the nearest fireplace. Ozbern rounded the corner. “Where in blazes have you been?” Noticing the damp clothes, he added, “And what have you been doing?”

“Aye, Lord Falke.” Ivette entered in turn, with an
entourage of knights and ladies. Titus, Laron and Ferris pushed their way to the front.

“I’ve had an encounter with an angel.”

“What?” Ozbern wrinkled his brow. “Have you gone daft?”

“Nay.” Falke took a seat on the hearth and pulled off his boots. Water sizzled on the hot stones. His clothes hung like weights on his shoulders. “I have seen a face Helen of Troy would grow jealous of. Eyes like twin jewels, blue with fire in their depths. Hair made of moonbeams. The exact same shade as—”

“Strands of silver. Small like a young girl, yet a body that tells all she is a woman.” Titus drew away as he spoke, his eyes wide, his voice shaking. “She knows! She knows and follows me here! Ferris, gather our men! We leave this place come the morrow.” The errant knight raced away, leaving behind a perplexed crowd.

Ferris crossed his arms over his narrow chest. His small dark gaze studied Falke with unhidden intensity. “This woman—you spoke with her?”

“Spoke. Touched. Kissed.” Falke smiled at the memory.

“Falke!” Ivette screeched. “You shame yourself as you shame me.” She turned and waited for the ladies to follow. Falke could see their desire to hear his story and their fear of Ivette’s wrath. A snap of a fan, and the ladies meekly fell into step behind Ivette.

“So you are certain this woman was real? No
specter? No ghost?” Ferris continued to interrogate Falke.

“Aye. Those lips were warm and inviting.”

“And where is my cousin?” A gleam came to Ferris’s eye, one Falke found strangely unnerving. Titus was evil, but Ferris added cunning and youth to the mixture. By far, Falke found him the most dangerous.

“In her chamber,” Ozbern answered. “You’ll find four men posted outside her door.” The information served as a warning. “While Lady Wren—Gwendolyn—resides at Mistedge, she’ll come to no harm.”

“I would think nothing else.” Ferris’s thin lips drew into a sly smile. Letting his voice rise so that the nobles could hear, he added, “For the only way Falke can escape his commitment to her would be should she die. A man not held by honor might resort to murder to free himself. Or luck.” Placing the ember of suspicion in the minds of the assembled knights, Ferris sauntered away. Laron threw Falke a smug smile, then followed his newfound friend. The remaining knights departed, but with whispers and mumbling.

“An angel, Falke?” Ozbern murmured. “Do you seek to turn these men against you? And what of Titus? I thought the old man feared nothing except the devil himself. What has this strange woman to do with him?”

“I know not.” Falke warmed his hands at the fire.
“But one thing is certain—I will find her again. And she will not escape me.”

“This woman can wait. But Titus cannot. Lady Wren cannot leave come the morrow.”

A deep growl rumbled in Falke’s chest. Ferris and Laron must have sealed a deal. If Gwendolyn died suspiciously, Laron would have a good chance of stirring the vassals to mutiny. Falke had counted on Titus’s greed to keep him at Mistedge longer, giving him time to arrange a convent stay for his betrothed.

“Give the Cravenmore men ample drink. ’Twill be hard to move so many with heavy heads. We may delay their leaving for a day.”

“And then?”

“I will think of something.”

“’Twould seem our luck has gone from good to bad.” Ozbern stirred the fire with a long iron poker.

Falke brought his head up and stared at his friend. The warning of the woman in the woods reverberated in his mind. Who was she? How came she to know him so well? Once again he wondered if she might be in league with his enemies. Hadn’t the mention of her sent Titus scurrying for his home?

Falke had been kissed by angel twice now in his life. Was he twice blessed? Or twice cursed?

G
wendolyn peered out the window of her room, watching the serfs in the inner yard just beginning their daily chores. The knotted strands of hair over her eyes seemed like prison bars, trapping her soul within. Why couldn’t she be outside, laughing and singing in the sunlight? Why couldn’t she dress in soft gowns and flirt with young knights?

Defiance exploded her well-built armor of caution and she combed back her hair, exposing her face. The filtered light from the room’s only window bathed her cheeks with warmth. She closed her eyelids and let the sunshine cause speckles of light to dance on the insides of her eyelids. The soft warmth made her remember Falke, the way his hand had felt on hers, and the heat of his lips when he had kissed her last night.

Nay! Falke had not kissed
her
, Lady Wren, the plain, squat woman who was his betrothed. The knight had tried to seduce a beautiful woman. A stranger to him.

Jealousy raked a stinging wound in Gwendolyn’s heart. Falke had no idea that his angel near the pond had been, in truth, drab Lady Wren. To him, she was a dullard, a jest of nature. Gwendolyn snorted at the absurdity of her emotions, how could she be jealous of herself?

Temptation teased her better judgment. Just a bit of hair dye, swaddling around her waist and playacting built her disguise. Falke would welcome a union with his night angel, but Gwendolyn dared not tell the truth, not yet. She still had doubts about the knight’s integrity.

“My child?” The door creaked open as Darianne entered, followed by Cyrus.

With reluctance, Gwendolyn opened her eyes and gave her foster mother a quiet smile. “Titus should be ready to leave soon. I’ve just a few more things to collect.” She bit back her disappointment and returned to packing her few possessions in a vain attempt to drive away the heartache.

Word of the “angel” in the woods had swept through the castle. Her carelessness had levied a heavy toll. Titus had ordered all of the Cravenmore entourage to depart. As dawn brightened the sky, her optimism dimmed. Looking around the tiny cell, clean and tidy now from their work, she sighed, “I don’t know if I can stand going back.”

“Only for a year,” Cyrus said, trying to reassure her. He gave his wife a helpless glance. “’Tis just this talk of ghosts and such that has Titus running scared. We’ll be back for another chance.”

“Gwendolyn…” Darianne folded her fingers together and studied her foster daughter. “The talk is Lord Falke spoke with…kissed…this woman, this angel.”

Heat blossomed across Gwendolyn’s cheeks as warmth swirled in the pit of her stomach. “He saw me before I had time to reapply the dye to my hair. Falke has no inkling ’twas me he tried to seduce.”

“And did he, child?” Darianne tilted Gwendolyn’s chin up and studied her. “No man would wait a year to claim you.”

Gwendolyn shook her head. “He took but a kiss, but I’ve lived under Titus’s roof long enough to know he wanted much more. Would he have taken more and showed the true mettle of his worth? I know not, for I escaped before he had the chance. Now ’twill be another year before I can find answers.”

Another year with Titus. Another year of groveling at his feet and pretending not to understand the cruel jokes and blows. Despair washed over her like a summer flood. The wavering flame of hope washed away in the tide. Why couldn’t Falke de Chretian be a man she could trust and believe in?

Her arm still tingled when she remembered the warmth of his fingers. Goose bumps ran down her neck as she recalled the soft whisper of his words against her ear. Flutters of excitement buffeted her stomach. A gentle touch and kind words, the first she’d ever experienced from a man other than Cyrus…
Then to have it all collapse with that ominous announcement of their departure. Another year!

“Have you discovered anything of Lord Falke’s character, other than he is enraptured by this angel?” Darianne asked with a smile.

Volumes
, Gwendolyn thought. Though nothing that helped their cause. Falke de Chretian disavowed any trace of honor. Grimaced at the code of chivalry. Thought a witty smile would buy him anything or anyone he chose. Ignored his villeins and disregarded the soldiers’ disrespect.

But one trait remained dear to her heart—the camaraderie he shared with the knight Ozbern was forged in true friendship.

Two men, so vastly different. Falke, tall with broad shoulders and the gait of man at ease in battle. Hair the color of sunshine, a smug grin on his full, sensual lips. Ozbern, shorter than many knights, yet taller than most when it came to conscience and morals. His dark curly head was ofttimes shaking in censure over some sharp retort of Falke’s. They would share a laugh, a toast, a bawdy remark, and then Gwendolyn would experience the pangs of loneliness.

No one knew that in the shadows of the castle, occasionally right at their heels, she listened attentively. But always alone. Never included. Seeing the ladies dressed in fine wools and silks made Gwendolyn long for the trappings of feminine youth. What she would give for an opportunity to dance in the
hall, to share laughter with a friend, to share life with a man who loved her as she was!

’Twas useless to wish. Her dreams would not come true. As she plopped down on a trunk, Gwendolyn answered, “Though tongues wag about me, thinking I cannot understand, I have learned little. Chretian’s men brag of his fighting ability and quick wits. His enemies condemn him for his brashness and uncanny luck.”

“Someone’s coming. ’Tis probably the guard.” Darianne spread her skirt to hide Gwendolyn from view. “Hurry, cover your face.”

The racing footsteps echoed off the stone walls, heading toward their tiny room. “’Tis me.” Lucas’s pale face peered around the door. His sandy topknot waved like a flag of friendship. “I come to say ye need not hurry.”

The sound of her foster parents’ collective sigh resounded in the room. Cyrus asked, “And why is that?”

“The ale and wine flowed freely among Cravenmoor last night. Lord Falke entertained the whole crew, with orders that as this was to be their last night, their cups should never be empty. There’s not a man among them that can seat a horse. Titus is nursing a heavy head and a churning gut. The only one with clear senses is the dark one.”

“Ferris?” Gwendolyn asked.

“Aye,” Lucas agreed. “He’s out swearin’ in the stables. ’Twill be noon before most Cravenmoor
knights rise, and then they’ll be sufferin’ the drops and thick heads.”

Gwendolyn shot her foster parents a worried frown. Overindulgent hospitality did not seem a likely reason for Falke’s sudden generosity. Why didn’t he want Titus to leave the castle? How long did he intend to detain them?

Lucas sidled over to Gwendolyn and looked at her with wide brown eyes. “The salve ye gave me for me back eased the pain from them bruises.”

“I’m glad my medicine—” Gwendolyn clamped her lips tightly together. She had almost forgotten to stammer. “—help.” Darianne shot her a chastising stare.

Lucas’s smile faded. “Milady, it’s been three days that me mum’s been feelin’ poorly. Da says she’s just lazy, but ’tis not like her. I wish ye could see her and help her.”

Gwendolyn’s heart melted, for she knew well the fear the boy experienced. But wandering the castle unnoticed was difficult enough. To enter the village and administer there undetected would be nearly impossible. Tending the ill required that she ask questions. Insightful questions that would strip her of her masquerade.

She took a scarf from her bag and reached into her pockets. “Mayhap an infusion of chamomile and yarrow will comfort her.” Her arms went around his thin body and she hugged him to her waist.

“Mum needs help. Me da’s naught but a drunk. Beats me and Mum and the little ’uns. The whole
village looks down on us because of ’im.” Great tears rolled down his cheeks. He looked at Gwendolyn for guidance. She could only hold the child close.

“Don’t let them see how their words hurt you.” All pretense of her dull wit disappeared as she tried to comfort him. “You need to be strong for your mother’s sake.” She sank down to be at eye level with him. Between loud sniffs, he nodded and wiped his face with the sleeve of his oversize shirt.

“You let that boy see too much,” Cyrus said critically.

“He’s a good boy,” Gwendolyn murmured. Lucas’s tears soaked through her thin overtunic and straight to her heart. The lad was a good child. He had kept quiet about Greatheart and had even aided her in nursing the animal. And it tore at Gwendolyn’s very fiber not to share her herbal knowledge. A quick trip shouldn’t be too hard to cover up, with all of Cravenmoor sleeping off a drunk. Especially if Darianne and Cyrus helped. But getting to the village…She would need Greatheart for that.

“Lucas, come here.” Cyrus pulled the boy away from his charge. “Lady Gwendolyn still must be very careful. If anyone were to find out that she is not what she seems, it could go hard on her.”

“I understand.” The hope in the boy’s eyes diminished, replaced with sorrow.

“I’ll see her.” Gwendolyn pretended not to notice her foster parents’ looks of disapproval. “If my uncle’s
men are still in a stupor, we will go. But we must be quick.”

Gratitude lifted the despair from the boy’s shoulders. “Thank ye, Lady Wren. I just know Mum is sick and ye will be able to help her, just like that horse.” He rushed forward and hugged Gwendolyn tightly around the waist once more. His pale face blushed with color, then he rushed from the room. The clatter of his steps faded with his retreat.

“You can’t see that woman.” Cyrus rose and pointed his finger at Gwendolyn.

“She’s sick. If I can help her, I will.” Gwendolyn straightened her back.

“You can’t afford to expose yourself that much,” Darianne argued.

Tears started to form in Gwendolyn’s eyes. Anguish flooded her heart and threatened to rip it apart. “I’m sorry, but I can’t not help her. I can’t keep from Lucas’s mother the medicine that might heal her. That would make me as guilty as Titus.”

The older woman’s gnarled hand stroked through the tangles of Gwendolyn’s hair. “Ah, child. I pray each night for the Lord to take the nightmare away from you.”

“Nay, Darianne.” Gwendolyn rose and wiped the tears from her eyes. “’Tis that memory that fuels my hatred for Titus and gives me the will to survive his tortures.”

She rummaged in their bags. “I will need Cyrus to attend me in the village. Tell Ferris you must walk Greatheart to see if his legs are sound. I will meet
you outside the wall. Darianne, should I need more herbs, I will send Lucas to you.”

“But what of your guards?” Cyrus raised both hands high in disgust. “Lord Falke is having you watched. I’ve yet to determine if it’s for your safety, or…” He let the rest of his statement hang in the air. ’Twas plain Gwendolyn was in peril, but from Falke or some other?

“If Darianne assists me, none will know I’ve left.”

The older woman shook her finger at Gwendolyn.

“’Tis too dangerous.”

Unmindful of her foster parents’ warning, Gwendolyn pulled Darianne’s faded crimson mantle from a parcel. She stuffed her extra gown into the front of her chemise, forming a loose-hanging bosom. From her medicine bag, she grabbed a handful of fine white powder and sprinkled her hair and face. Turning in a circle, she rounded her shoulders and clutched her hands in an arthritic curl. Like magic, the young girl transformed herself into an old woman.

“This is not Cravenmoor, with knights and serfs besotted with ale,” Cyrus argued in a low hiss.

“They’ve been fooled before. We go unnoticed. None wish to take a close look at me.”

Bringing the younger woman’s hands to her lips, Darianne kissed each. “Go, but be on your guard.” Her voice sounded tired and old, but resigned to the decision. She wrapped herself in Gwendolyn’s gray mantle, covering her face and assuming a hunched
and crippled walk. “I have lit enough candles in that chapel to light all of London.”

“And pray God heeds your messages, or no amount of subterfuge will save us.”

“Christ’s blood, I should put an end to this madness.” Cyrus looked into his foster daughter’s eyes and sighed. “But I know you’ll not rest until you’ve seen the woman.”

Lucas barreled into the room, delight plain on his young face. “They’s all asleep, Lady Wren. Are ye coming?”

“Aye.” Gwendolyn slipped from the room, followed by Cyrus and Lucas.

Outside her room, Cyrus chatted with the guard. “I must see to the stallion, and my wife needs to gather herbs for Lady Gwendolyn’s medication. The girl is still inside.” He pointed to Darianne, who, posing as her foster daughter, was seated on a trunk. “She may wander to the chapel later. Stay with her. She tends to be careless with a flame.”

The handsome, auburn-haired knight eyed the mantle-wrapped figure rocking slowly on the trunk. “I will see to her.”

“Come, Wife, we shall not be long.” Cyrus stressed each word as a warning to his adopted child.

With Lucas ahead, scouting for observers, Gwendolyn made her way down the steps to the great hall. There Cyrus left her, heading directly for the stable.

Keeping near the wall, Gwendolyn avoided the ladies gossiping near the hearth as they sewed new gowns. Ferris sat at a trestle table, deep in conversation
with the thick-necked knight, Sir Laron. Although her back was to the knights, Lady Ivette nodded her head occasionally, as though agreeing with them. Gwendolyn pulled the scarf over her face and scurried out the door.

Down the central steps and across the inner bailey, she retained the slow steps of an old woman. Lucas pulled on her hand, his eagerness to help his mother jeopardizing Gwendolyn’s disguise. Even with her head down, she sensed something amiss.

People were working, but halfhearted. Instead of a sentry at the outer bailey door, only a lance rested where a soldier should be standing at attention. A glance to her left showed the infantryman on his knees gambling with another soldier.

Wet laundry remained in a basket near the wall, mildewing in the shade. Women gossiped near the well, neglecting their duties. Sir Falke needed to take control of his holdings and quickly, before there was nothing left to take.