Angel of the Knight (9 page)

The marshal in the tower barely noticed as she and the boy left the barbican. Presently, Cyrus appeared, leading Greatheart. The old stallion sniffed her shoulder, then curled back his limber lips, smiling a horsey grin.

Cyrus gave her a leg up. Thankfully, the wall guards took little interest. She doubted her ride into the village would be reported. Reaching down, she lifted Lucas up behind her, then Cyrus climbed on. The weight of three would slow the stallion, but as
a destrier he was accustomed to carrying the weight of a grown man in full armor.

She would be to the village and back before any were the wiser.

“What possessed you to keep that dingy animal here?” Ivette cornered Falke in the great hall. Her fingers latched onto his arm in a possessive lock.

“To what are you referring?” He opened his eyes wide and acted obtuse. His plan had worked better than he hoped. Not a single Cravenmoor knight, aside from Ferris, could sit upright, much less seat a horse. Wasting his fine wine on the doltish Cravenmoor nobles had been a painful loss, but had achieved the desired results. Nothing made a man sicker than too much of the fermented grapes from Champagne.

Ivette clutched his arm. All trace of demureness vanished. Her blue-black eyes glinted with irritation. “Do you intend to marry her?”

Falke freed himself from her grasp. Now the lady showed a glimpse of her true self. No sweet words or gentle carriage here. “Lady Gwendolyn stays because it suits me. That is all you need know.”

Her demeanor softening, she trailed her fingers up his arm and brushed his ear as she licked her lips. “Falke, I beg pardon if I sounded harsh. ’Tis only that I don’t want you to make a mistake you’ll come to regret.” Ivette waited to see if her change in tactics proved more successful.

“I appreciate your concern for me, but ’tis for naught. I can take care of myself.”

Her chest rose and fell, her full lips creased in an inviting smile. “’Tis just that I’m afraid you might feel honor bound to do something about that creature.”

“Honor bound?” He spread his arms wide and stepped back. “Dear lady, I thought you knew me better than that. If ’tis honor you wish to discuss, then you’d best seek out my sire, Bernard de Chretian. If you do not know his reputation, I assure you, he will be more than glad to inform you of it.”

Today Ivette’s beauty suffocated Falke. Her perfume stuck to his skin.

“Come, let us not quibble over so insignificant a thing,” Ivette crooned. “The girl is nothing, and even if you do have to marry her, we can still be together. You can send her off to a convent and I can remain as your chatelaine. ’Tis obvious that girl cannot run a keep.”

A crooked smile formed on his lips. “Really?” Falke didn’t like the way Ivette planned his future for him. ’Twould do her good to be put in her place. “I think with a good washing she might be presentable. I mean, I only have to bed her often enough to get a child on her once or twice. The room would be dark.”

Ivette’s lips formed a perfect oval. Her face flushed with ire. “You’re impossible. First I must contend with your halfwit bride, then your escapade
last night with another woman. Do not think you can treat me this way!” She flounced off.

“Well, now you’ve done it.” Ozbern lazed against the stone archway. “Now there’s none at Mistedge on your side.”

Falke shrugged one shoulder and strolled over to his friend. “’Tis easier that way—I know whom not to trust.”

“Aye, everyone.” Ozbern chuckled. “What about the girl?”

“In her room. Neither she nor her servants know of the danger. Keep the guard. I want proof of Laron and Ferris’s deviltry. When Laron is discredited, the mutiny against me will falter.”

“I put Landrick on the day watch and Alric at night. I’ve said nothing to them of her not having a twisted leg.”

Falke caught a glint of amusement in his friend’s gaze. “A lonely night vigil will be just what the amorous Alric will want. Have you two been dicing again?”

“Alric won, but I win this game.”

“Ozbern, I do believe I’m getting to be a bad influence on you. When we first met, you’d never have thought to use your position for such petty revenge.”

“When we first met, I didn’t have a position,” Ozbern reminded his commander.

Falke glanced down at the one man he could really call friend. Ozbern’s shiny armor of respectability was tarnished by their friendship, yet he never mentioned it. Falke’s second served as a very vocal conscience,
while Falke in turn provided the too-serious knight an outlet for fun and humor. They were a good match for command. A good enough match to find a way out of the predicament Falke found himself in.

“What of this woman you say you met in the woods?” Looking dour, Ozbern broached the tender subject.

“Did meet,” Falke corrected. “The wine loosened many tongues last night in the Cravenmoor rooms, but all became silent when I spoke of the woman. She is real. And just the mention of her puts the fear of God into them all. Not an easy task.”

“The archangel Gabriel with his fiery sword would find Titus a challenge.” Ozbern’s frown tipped to a knowing smile. “What power does this beautiful woman hold over Cravenmoor?”

“I know not. But I will find out.” Falke scratched his chin. “For now, we must find a way to keep Titus here another day. Post the gossip that the woman I met was a girl whose parents live in the woods for fear her beauty would be too much of a temptation. That may lessen Titus’s fears and, along with his greed, make him stay a few nights longer.”

“As you will. But we cannot postpone his departure forever.”

“Harris has ridden to a nearby abbey. I would have Lady Wren enter those walls, where she would be safe until I can deal with Titus and Laron. We need but stall him until my squire returns.”

“Robert is the gossiper, and already has eyes on
a kitchen wench. He will drop the information as he whispers sweet words in her ear. Before the midday meal, all will know your angel is flesh and blood.” His second gave him a jaunty salute and headed for the soldiers’ dormitory to find Robert.

Falke strolled into the garden, welcoming the warmth of the sun and the absence of Ivette. Flirtation and seduction had withered to nagging and impatience. As far as Ivette was concerned, in Aunt Celestine’s absence she was the lady of Mistedge manor. Falke could no more see sharing a life with her than with Lady Wren. So far, the quiet, plump girl had intrigued him more in just a few days than Ivette had since he’d met her.

A loneliness settled around his heart—loneliness for a mate, someone to share long stories with, to laugh at a silly tale or help lighten a sorrow. His cousin had found such a woman, one that matched him in temper and love. Roen’s wife could not be classified as a beauty. She stood toe-to-toe with her husband, having her say, never backing down, though Roen stood a head taller and bore the physique of a warrior. And at such moments, Falke would swear Lenora’s fiery mane of hair sparked, as did her whole person. Aye, when Lenora had her passions inflamed, she glowed with a beauty all could see.

What would it be like to have such a woman? A woman whose passions came from a natural state and not from a seductress’s instruction? Falke pushed away the irritating questions. Women such as that
didn’t seek out men like himself. Oh, he was good enough for a short tumble when their husbands were away, but not the sort they married. Nay, a man like Ozbern, steadfast and loyal, was what a woman—a true lady—sought. And Falke was none of those things, nor would he ever be.

T
he black fields lay fallow as Gwendolyn and her friends rode past. Oxen that should be tied to the yoke grazed idly in the pasture. Spring sowing was already dangerously late. Seeds of barley, oats, peas and beans should already be lying in carefully plowed rows. If work continued at this pace, the winter would be hard indeed.

Time-worn paths from the huts to the various fields formed a mosaic of avenues. Gwendolyn reined Greatheart toward the center of the village. Chickens squawked as the warhorse disturbed their search for insects along the muddy lane. Near the well, which usually bustled with activity, only a few women gossiped, while their children played in the dirt.

A woman grabbed her toddler when Gwendolyn smiled at him. “She’s got the evil eye,” the mother warned her child.

“Devil’s spawn is what I heard,” another woman added.

The hateful whispers hung in the air and Gwendolyn felt their sting, though by now she should be impervious to insults. But Falke’s kiss had opened a fissure in her heart. Daring to dream of a life with him also made her painfully aware of how others saw her, how Falke no doubt saw her. Ugly, dull and a cripple.

“There’s our place, milady.”

Lucas’s excited shout tugged Gwendolyn back from her melancholy. The boy pointed to a broken-down hut with a partially caved-in roof. The whole structure leaned dangerously to one side. Gwendolyn reined Greatheart to a stop and Cyrus dismounted, then gave Lucas a hand down.

Thick mud oozed into Gwendolyn’s worn leather slippers when her feet hit the ground. Leaving Cyrus to tether the warhorse, she grabbed her bag of herbs and followed the boy into the hut.

The smell of old rushes and animal feces stung her nose when she passed the hut’s arched doorway. Food scraps and empty gourds littered the earthen floor. A rotting trestle table filled the center of the single room. A skinny hen snagged spiders from beneath it. To the left, a lean-to separated a scrawny cow from the living area.

A feeble voice called, “Who’s here?”

“’Tis her, Mum. Lady Wren’s come to tend ye.” Lucas ran to the back and knelt next to a thin straw pallet. Covered with a ragged blanket, a frail woman tried to lift her head and peer past her son. Sweat darkened her red hair. A flush covered her wan face.

Gwendolyn approached the ill woman. “I can help.” Pulling her extra gown from her tunic, she plumped it up and gently put it under the woman’s head. She noticed the shallow rise and fall of Lucas’s mother’s chest and the rasping sound of her breath.

The woman’s eyes grew wide and she waved Gwendolyn away while trying to pull her son closer. “Leave me and my son be. Don’t lay your evil eye upon us.” A spasm of dry coughs shook her weakened frame.

“Mum, Lady Wren is a good woman.” Lucas gave Gwendolyn a beseeching gaze. “’Tis just the fever that’s got her talking so.”

Like a salve, the boy’s faith eased the bite of the mother’s words. Gwendolyn ruffled his hair until the cowlick stood at attention. “Do not worry, Lucas, I understand.”

From behind her, she heard Cyrus clear his throat, a reminder that she must not forget to play the dullard. She laid her palm against the woman’s forehead. Heat burned her hand.

“Lucas, need clean water.” Gwendolyn worried her lower lip as the boy rushed from the room. The fever was much too high, and the labored breathing did not bode well. This was no simple illness, to be cured with an infusion or tea. Gwendolyn could afford no pretense. “Pray tell me, how long have you had the fever?”

“Gwendolyn, be careful!” Cyrus cautioned.

The woman on the pallet fluttered her eyelids and fought to form words with her cracked lips. “Two
days a headache. Fever came today.” Teary eyes studied Gwendolyn with despair. “Ken ye help me, like the boy says?”

“I can try.” Gwendolyn ignored her foster father’s dark looks.

The sick woman swallowed and rested her hands on her chest. “Take care of me boy when I go. Nesta, she’s me oldest, ken take care of herself after I die.”

“You’re not a dy’n, Mum.” Lucas stood in the middle of the room with a leaky bucket of water. A muddy puddle formed and increased the odor of staleness. He dropped the bucket and ran to his mother’s side. “Lady Wren ken fix ye up, just like she did me back and her horse. Ye’ll see.”

“I need you to be strong so that I can help your mother.” Gwendolyn pulled the lad aside. “There are ways to pull down the fever and clear her lungs, but ’tis hard work.”

Waving at the debris around her, she ordered, “First, all of the old rushes must be taken out and burned. Burned, mind you, not just thrown in the refuse. These blankets must be washed in hot water.”

“I ken do it, Lady Wren.” The boy jumped up and scooped a handful of rushes from the floor. As he headed out the door, his thin legs pumped with new vigor and determination.

“A cough and the fever.” Cyrus emptied the water bucket into a cook pot and placed it on the hearth embers. “And her breathing?”

“’Tis slow. I can hear the fluid in her lungs.”
Rubbing her temples, Gwendolyn added, “’Twill be difficult to tend her with all this filth—”

Cyrus threw his arms into the air. “Tend? You can’t do it.” He lowered his voice. “Already you have shown that boy and woman too much. If you stay, all will know you have your wits about you. At Cravenmoor, Darianne and I could cover for you. The serfs believed Isolde’s ghost left the medicines. But here—”

“Is a woman in need,” Gwendolyn answered. “’Tis but one woman. She will keep my secret.”

A dark shadow blotted out the meager light from the doorway. Gwendolyn turned and gasped. A mountain of a man stood in the doorway. In one hand he held a hammer like a weapon, in the other a chipped crockery jug. From the overpowering smell, she knew both the jug and man were filled with strong ale.

“Wife, get your arse up and fetch me some food.” Grabbing the table corner to stabilize himself, he pulled himself to a seat and rested his head upon the rotting table.

Lucas skipped into the room and skidded to a stop. One look at the drunken man and the newfound hope in his young eyes drained away. His knees quivered and his upper lip twitched. Keeping his eyes on the large man, the boy made a wide berth around the table.

“Boy!” The man roared to life and dug his thick fingers into Lucas’s thin shoulders. “Get me some drink.”

“Aye, Da.” Lucas’s voice shook with fear and pain. “I’ll get ye a new jug.”

Appeased, he released Lucas. The drunk struggled to focus his bleary eyes on Gwendolyn and Cyrus. “Get outta here afore I throw ye out.” He took in his wife’s form on the floor. “I said for ye to get up and get me some food.”

“Your wife is ill.” Gwendolyn motioned for Lucas to join her.

“She’s lazy,” the drunk roared back.

“She’s sick,” Gwendolyn shouted, and then stiffened. Ten years of living with Titus had taught her one thing—there was no reasoning with a drunk. “I’ll get you something to eat.”

“See to it fast, wench. And bring me my jug.”

“Oh, I’ll see to it,” Gwendolyn muttered. She grabbed the fresh jug of ale from Lucas’s hand and pointed to her bag of herbs. Cyrus brought her the satchel and watched silently as she stuffed a handful of dry, dark leaves into the jug.

“What are you up to?” Cyrus asked.

“Bringing him his jug, and I hope he chokes on it.” Gwendolyn slammed the container down on the table and watched with a satisfied grin as the smithy took a long swig.

“Food!” Lucas’s father ordered.

“’Tis coming.” Gwendolyn returned to the hearth. Whispering, she advised, “Go sit with your mother, Lucas.”

“But, Lady Wren, me da’s a mean one when he’s drunk.”

“He won’t be drunk or mean for long.” Gwendolyn gave the boy a cryptic smile and a wink. Glancing over to where Lucas’s father gulped ale, she slowly began to count. By the time she reached five, the potion began to take effect.

“Saint preserve me. What did ye do to me, ye old crone?” Doubling over, the blacksmith clutched his gut and staggered outside. The instant he cleared the door and took a deep breath of fresh air, he spewed out the contents of his stomach. Between crying bouts and the dry heaves, he croaked, “Help me, someone. The witch from the castle’s poisoned me.”

Spectators assembled around Gwendolyn, Cyrus, Lucas and the sputtering, cursing, still-vomiting smithy.

“About time someone did something about that drunk blacksmith,” one woman sniffed.

“Aye, that Arry and his family are a disgrace. Drunk more’n half the time.” A man passed judgment with a sanctimonious air. None of the villeins made a motion to assist the smithy.

Weak and still suffering from the stomach cramps brought on by Gwendolyn’s herbs, Arry begged for mercy.

“So, you’ve only let one boy, his mother and now this drunk know you’ve got your wits about you,” Cyrus commented dryly. “Are you planning on telling anyone else?”

“Just a few,” Gwendolyn admitted. Turning to the assembled men and women, she informed them of the situation. “Arry’s wife is ill. I need help in tending
her.” Her announcement brought a marked uneasiness to the crowd.

The villagers took a collective breath and made the sign of the cross as they realized Gwendolyn spoke clearly and intelligently.

“Arry’s done me no good deed.” A woman brushed her sun-spotted hands back and forth as though brushing away crumbs. “I owe him nothing. Nor ye.”

“But I can’t stay here. I can show you how to tend her. What herbs to give.” Gwendolyn searched the tiny group for one caring soul. She found none.

“What ails Cadel?” From the back of the crowd, a bulky woman pushed forward.

“’Tis headaches, followed by fever. I’ve seen it before.”

“Is it…deadly?” the woman asked as she placed a hand over her heart. Fear stiffened the lines on her square face.

“Aye,” Gwendolyn answered. “Especially to the old and the very young.” The terror that appeared in the serf woman’s eyes made Gwendolyn ask, “Do you know of someone else who is ill?”

“Nay!” The woman fingered the collar of her tunic and glanced about at her neighbors. Her voice softer and near to breaking, she asked, “Can you heal Cadel and any others?”

“With help, I may, though I can promise nothing.” Gwendolyn could see panic in the woman’s eyes. Looking over the group of villeins, she noted the same expression mirrored in the eyes of several
men and women. “If any of you feel ill, or have sick families, bring them to the smithy’s hut. We must work together if we are to save any.”

In an unnatural quiet, the villeins dispersed. They exchanged anxious glances as they ducked into their huts or wandered to the fields.

“One boy, one woman, one drunk and now a whole village. What am I to do with you?” Cyrus shook his head in dispair. “And what are we to do with him?” The knight pointed to Arry, who had managed to crawl to his hands and knees.

Gwendolyn stood over the prone man and kicked his shoulder with the tip of her leather slipper. It hurt her protruding toe, but she got the blacksmith’s attention. “Arry the blacksmith, do you hear me?”

A groan came as a reply. She decided to interpret it as an agreement. “I did not poison you, only purged your body of the ale you consumed. For the moment, you are sober, and for that you can thank me. But to remain sober—that rests on your head. Your wife is in sore need of a husband, your son in need of father.”

Arry squinted open one dark brown eye. “Cadel is really sick, isn’t she?”

“Aye, that she is.” Thankfully, a glimmer of caring showed in the giant’s eye. That faint light encouraged Gwendolyn to go on. “She’ll die unless my orders are followed exactly.”

Shuddering, Arry staggered to his feet. He wiped his face with the back of his sleeve. “I’m not much of a man—the drink swallowed up what there was.
But Cadel has always stood by me, so I’ll stand by her now. I fear ’tis little help we’ll get from the rest of the village. We were never a close people as is. Lord Merin expected his villeins to care for themselves. What do ye want me to do?”

“Help your son clear the rushes and put in fresh ones. Then I need buckets of water. The room must be cleaned and washed with lye. All the blankets must be washed in strong soap and the animals removed to another barn. Then—”

Cyrus’s hand on her shoulder stopped the list of directions. His anguished sigh made her turn. Coming down the path from the village, a thin line of people walked with leadened steps toward her. First in line was the woman who had questioned her about Cadel. In her arms she carried two young children, a boy and a girl. Soft whimpers and the children’s restless movements explained the mother’s distress.

Behind her, husbands helped wives, wives supported the tall bodies of their husbands, and more mothers hugged sick children to their breasts.

Arry slapped his hand over his mouth. “My God, ’tis a plague upon us.”

“Get to work,” Gwendolyn ordered. “I’ve seen this fever before. Death is by no means certain, though ’twill take a fight to overcome it. Are you man enough to battle for your family?”

“’Tis the first sober moment I’ve had in years. And to think ’tis due to a little bird like you.” Holding his gut, he added, “Though ’tis quite a peck you managed to deliver.”

The giant waved the approaching villagers into his home. “Aye, Lady Wren, I’ll fight. We’ll all fight. I’m thinkin’ you’re more than ye let on. A warrior we ken follow and win with.”

Gwendolyn swallowed hard and looked at the still faces of the people around her. Now was not the time to play the cripple or the imbecile. Time was the enemy. The days ahead would be filled with the sounds of ill children and parents. And with the sounds of mourning.