by Hall, Diana
The knight’s questions tugged Falke’s attention from his bride. “She can sleep in the women’s dormitory.” His gaze flickered back toward the girl, but she had once again hidden her face behind the wild tangle of hair.
“We do better on our own. A high tower room or a cell in the pantry.”
“Those are for servants, not noblemen.”
“’Tis what we’re used to. The more out of the way the better. Away from staring eyes and hurtful phrases.”
“A high tower room then, Sir…” Falke waited, unsure how to address the knight turned maidservant.
“Just Cyrus, Lord Falke. I and the girl will put the stallion in the barn and wait for my wife. If you’d be so good to have a boy show us our room, I’d be most grateful.”
“As you will.” Falke studied the two as they led the charger to the stable, then rejoined the Mistedge nobles, the back of his neck tingling with expectation. For what, he could not say.
“’Tis a perfect match.” Laron clapped Falke on the back. “I assume you’ll be having the ceremony immediately.”
“Laron, stop your jesting.” Ivette waved her shredded handkerchief under her turned-up nose. “The whole crowd from Cravenmoor smell like a sty. I can imagine what that creature must have smelled like.” A sly smile came to Ivette’s full mouth. “She reminds me of that little bird we saw in the garden. Ugly, fat and brown. What was it, Falke—a wren?” Then a soft laugh tumbled from Ivette’s lips. “Why, ’tis not Lady Gwen, she’s fat, little, drab Lady Wren.”
Collective laughter floated over the group. Amused men and women congratulated Ivette on her witty remark. The haunting memory of the bird’s song returned to Falke’s mind.
A bird singing in the garden. But not just any bird—a wren. A bird ofttimes associated with strange happenings. Did the visitation only signal the coming spring or more? Why were his instincts stinging like raw nerves?
He watched the last of the Cravenmoor procession enter the crenulated castle walls. A dust-covered woman separated herself from the line and joined Cyrus and Lady Gwendolyn at the door of stable. The three embraced, and Falke wondered again about the creature who was his intended. Lady Wren? The name did fit her—small, brown and unassuming. And sad. Along with the hate, her sapphire eyes had registered sorrow and longing.
“Falke, are you coming?” Ivette looked up at him with eyes that promised a warm bed filled with pleasure.
“Of course.” Falke entered the castle, but his thoughts remained with the three near the stable. There was time enough to delve into the many questions he had. For now, flirting with Ivette would be a pleasant diversion.
Chapter Three
The servant boy paused outside the fourth-floor chamber and cast Gwendolyn a cautious glance. He whispered to Darianne, “She ain’t dangerous or anything, is she?”
Gwendolyn quelled the urge to start a low wolf howl and really scare the rude child.
“Nay. As long as she’s left alone,” Darianne advised.
The lad pushed open the heavy oak-and-metal door as Darianne ushered Gwendolyn inside the chamber. Cyrus followed, carrying their meager belongings.
The freckle-faced boy handed Darianne an earthen jar. “The chambermaid said there be a lamp on yon wall. Here’s oil for it.”
“Thank you, lad.” Cyrus spoke with regal reserve.
“There’s not many ’twill be up these stairs,” the boy advised gently in a thick English accent. “If’n ye be in need, me name is Lucas. I’m not worth much, but I’ll help ye if I ken. From the look of this room, ye’ll be needin’ me.”
Through the high arched window, afternoon sunlight filtered in, creating a drowsy spring warmth. Crates and trunks lay strewn about the tiny cell. Spiderwebs coated with dust laced boxes and the corners of the room. The stone walls were blank of any whitewash, murals or tapestries. A pile of musty smelling straw lay on the floor as a pallet. Compared to her room at Cravenmoor, these accommodations were majestic to Gwendolyn.
“’Tis fine.” Darianne threw her tattered scarf and mantle across a box and shoved at a trunk to clear space. She motioned for Gwendolyn to sit on the floor. Gwendolyn hesitated, not willing to let her aged friends do all the work. Her foster mother pointed to the boy and again signaled for her to sit.
Lucas cast a wary eye at Gwendolyn sitting crosslegged on the floor. “I’m thinkin’ ye’ll not get much help from ’em. None are partial to climbin’ those stairs or to waitin’ on the likes of her. And then there’s not many here who are jumpin’ at the new lord’s command.”
“Why is that?” Cyrus kept his voice casual, but both he and Gwendolyn waited with impatience for the boy to answer.
“Well, ’tis his manner.” Lucas scratched his head and shrugged his shoulder. “Things just seems to fall ’is way. And then there’s the business of the old lord.”
“What happened to Lord Merin?” Darianne fished about in her bag while she asked the question. Gwendolyn prayed the boy wouldn’t comprehend the inquisition they were putting him through.
“Yesterday, the two of ’em had a row about…” Lucas dropped his voice to a whisper “…marryin’ her.” His voice resumed a normal tone. “Lord Merin rode off at a gallop during the hunt. Weren’t but a short time later, the new lord returns with Lord Merin’s body strapped to the back of his horse and claims the old lord fell from ’e’s palfrey. But for Lady Celestine and Lady Ivette’s standin’ up for ’im, Sir Laron would have had Lord Falke’s head.”
“And do you think ’twas only an accident?” Darianne wiped off a crate to serve as a table.
“I think…” the boy hunched his shoulders and looked down the hall to see that no one approached. “…Lord Falke is one lucky man. His friends are always sayin’ that Sir Falke was kissed by an angel as a baby ’cause he was born on the seventh day of the seventh month and ’e’s the seventh son born. And I think…” his voice grew quiet again and his head nodded like that of a wise old abbot “…that what’s good luck for Lord Falke ain’t always good luck fer everyone else.”
Cyrus raised his white brows and lowered his voice. “I think now you should be on about your business.”
“Aye, I’ll get me ears boxed for sure if I tarry.” A smile flashed across the boy’s lips as he flew from the room. Darianne almost caught his foot in the door when she rushed to seal the chamber.
“Falke’s as bad as Titus.” Gwendolyn jumped up and forced her arthritic foster mother to take a seat. “He killed his uncle for the land. Falke de Chretian could be one of my uncle’s bastards, they’re so much alike.”
“We don’t know that for sure.” Cyrus spread their blankets onto the straw pallet. “Remember, Falke stood up for you against Titus.”
“Was that because of an inner goodness or a wish to show up my uncle?” Gwendolyn played devil’s advocate. She could not forget the anger in Falke’s gaze. His pale blue eyes, so like the clear spring sky, had turned brittle and hard. Full of menace and danger. Like the gleam of a sharp-edge sword. Was that ire directed at Titus because of his treatment of her or from some past confrontation with her uncle?
“We can’t afford to make a mistake about my intended husband. Once he knows the truth, we’re at his mercy.” She pushed her hands deep into her pockets and paced the room.
“Then we wait. And pray.” Darianne spoke the obvious.
Gwendolyn hopped up on a trunk and, on tiptoe, peered out the window. The sun burned through a cloud-filled sky and the tower’s shadow stretched out long and thin on the ground. A group of knights passed below her and the sunlight highlighted the tall blond figure of Falke de Chretian. Wide shoulders moved with casual ease along the upper defense wall. A breeze danced through his long, unbound hair. The rich amber of his velvet tunic shone in the sunlight, and as he moved, the muscles in his arms and legs strained the material.
He walked past the infantrymen stationed on the wall. None of the men came to full attention. Falke passed without seeming to notice the insult given
him.
So Lucas’s opinions were shared by the fighting men as well as the serfs. The boy had mentioned that a knight had opposed Falke. Sir Laron. A decision might be taken out of her hands if he ousted Falke from Mistedge. Would he be a better choice to unveil the truth to?
“I need more information.” Gwendolyn turned to her friends. “And I can’t get it here.”
“And how do you mean to get it?” Cyrus’s voice told her he already knew her answer.
“The usual way. When the nobles are their most talkative…after they’ve drunk their fill of wine and ale.”
“Nay, Gwendolyn, don’t put yourself through that today. There will be time enough tomorrow, when you’ve rested.”
“Time is exactly what we don’t have, Cyrus.” Gwendolyn turned and watched the guardsmen. Their animosity toward Falke blanketed the keep even more than the afternoon shadows. With a sigh, she muttered, “I’m afraid ’tis even shorter than we thought.”
Falke strolled along the defense wall and chose to ignore the black looks the guardsmen threw his way. Give them time and the gossip would die down.
Ozbern placed a restraining hand on Falke’s elbow, then pointed over his shoulder at the soldiers. “They hate you. Your vassals don’t trust you. Laron is no doubt plotting to depose you as lord, and you’re stuck marrying an imbecile.”
“Don’t call her that,” Falke barked, then softened his voice. “Whatever she is, I saw a spark of life in those eyes.”
Ozbern shook his dark curly head. “Whatever she is, or isn’t, do you intend to marry her?”
“God’s blood man, nay. I’m not my father. No one will make my decisions for me.”
The shorter knight let out a long, slow sigh. “Falke, whatever you do, will you think beyond yourself?”
Giving his friend a glib smile, Falke asked, “And what is more important than me?”
“Your uncle and aunt. Crispen’s last wishes. The people of this keep.” Ozbern gripped the stone wall and looked out over the meager peasant village huddled a few miles from the bailey walls. The pitiful huts wallowed in mud, along with the livestock in the small bare pasture. A stench even more imposing than that from the Cravenmoor nobility wafted in the air.
“’Tis not much, I grant you that, but don’t throw away this opportunity in a vain attempt to prove you’re not an honorable man.”
“I’m not.” Deep anger drove straight through Falke’s heart. He tensed his jaw and snarled. “My father taught me well that empty code of chivalry, what it was to be governed by what others think of you. For that hollow code he threw away the love of his life.” Taking a cleansing breath, he looked over the castle wall at the squalid village. “Honor is nothing but a shackle around a man’s soul. I rode to Crispen’s side in battle because he was my friend and my heart told me to do so, not because of some false sense of duty. And despite my actions, Crispen died.”
Disgust sharpened his tone and hardened his face. “And in a farce of nobility, along with King Henry’s strong urgings, my uncle made me his son’s replacement. Merin couldn’t abide me. To him, I was nothing more than a ne’er-do-well who lives off his uncanny luck.”
Ozbern shook his dark head. “’Twas no angel’s kiss that made your sword arm strong, but hours of practice. Nor did any seraphim plot your battle strategy. Despite all your bravado to the opposite, Falke de Chretian, you’re a good man. You deserve this keep. And by heavens, in spite of you, I intend to see you keep it.”
Falke gave Ozbern a rueful smile. “I’m not sure whether to call you friend or foe.”
“Friend. Believe me, only a friend would put up with your attitude.” Ozbern shared a laugh with his leader. “Now, we need a strategy to expedite you from marriage to the lady Wren.”
Falke rubbed his face with his hand and racked his mind for a plan, any plan. Afternoon heat beat down on the wide expanse of his back and he felt like the weight of the huge celestial body rested on his shoulders. Aunt Celestine was adamant about him upholding the contract.
Six years as a mercenary for King Henry had left him and his men bone weary. Falke desperately wanted a place to call his own. But he wasn’t ready to forfeit his freedom to gain his dream. Somehow he had to find an acceptable way to halt or at least postpone his wedding.
“Of course!” He slapped his friend on the back. “I can’t believe how simple the solution is.”
“What have you devised now, my crafty friend?” Ozbern nearly staggered from the blow.
Falke hummed under his breath. “I just need to approach my aunt in the proper contrite mood and I will buy myself at least a year.”
“How?”
“I believe ’tis customary for a period of mourning to pass in honor of the death of a loved one. Also, after today’s shocking revelations about my betrothed, I think ’twould be perfectly understandable for Aunt Celestine to retire to a nearby convent for her mourning. A place of quiet and serene surroundings where my poor aunt can collect her thoughts. And we could have no wedding without her.”
A wry smile came to Ozbern lips. “And with your gift for glib talk, you’re bound to pull it off. ’Twill buy you a year, but what of Laron? He’ll have a year to forge a wedge between you and your vassals.”
“And I’ll have a year to gain their faith.” Falke began to hum a lively peasant song under his breath.
“You’re that confident your plan will work?”
“Don’t they always?” With a jaunty skip, Falke resumed his stroll and hummed louder. He even gave each surly guardsman he passed a wide grin. This plan would work. His plans always worked.
The great hall echoed with the voices of knights and ladies ready to begin the evening meal. Falke scanned the room from his seat at the high table, beaming with self-pride. After hours of cajoling, sympathizing and nodding serenely, Falke had convinced his aunt that she had conceived the idea to enter the convent. Even now, a group of Falke’s own men were escorting her to an abbey. All that remained was to inform the assembled nobles of the delay.
As if drawing up battle lines, the nobility had separated into two sides. Men and women of Mistedge crowded together on the tables to his right. On his left, with ample room to spare, sat the Cravenmoor contingent, minus his betrothed and her servants.
“My cup is empty,” Titus bellowed. Jumping into action, a page rushed to pour scarlet wine into the knight’s cup.
“Give me that.” Titus yanked the jug from the boy’s grip and gave the page a backhanded slap.
“That will be enough.” Falke spoke in a low tone but made sure his voice carried the length of the Cravenmoor table. “My people will not be manhandled.”
The room’s din quieted to a churchlike silence. Titus patted his bloated stomach and belched. “You ain’t the real lord till you marry my niece.”
“The man has a point. Just when will the ceremony take place?” Laron asked from his seat next to Ivette. His lips tilted in a smug smile, a caricature of Falke’s own cavalier expression. “After the wedding, the vassals of Lord Merin will swear their allegiance to the new lord of Mistedge. And not a moment before.”
Mistedge knights turned frosty glares to the high table. An angry mutter of agreement spread from man to man.
“And a wedding will take place.” Falke spoke to stamp out the resentment Laron’s comments had rekindled. “But, as you all saw today, my aunt is in need of rest. Today’s incident has strained Lady Celestine. Therefore, she has decided to enter a convent for a year of mourning. At the end of that time, the contract between Mistedge and Cravenmoor will once again be evaluated.”
“A year!” Laron jumped up from his place, an angry snarl on his face. “You’re just juggling for time.”
“I’m showing proper respect for my deceased uncle,” Falke retorted.
“Laron,” Ivette’s scolding tone interrupted. “A year is the minimum time required to show our loss at the death of our lord and uncle.” She flashed Falke a crafty smile. “In the meantime, Sir Falke wi
ll lead us wisely, I’m sure.”
“Brat, get out here,” Titus shouted.
From the shadows, the girl materialized. With her face hidden by her hair, she walked with slow, agonized steps toward her uncle, then stopped well out of arm’s reach. How many slaps had it taken for her to gauge so effortlessly the length of her uncle’s grasp?
The urge to slash the lecher’s arms from his torso ripped into Falke. His hand clenched the dagger at his belt, turning his knuckles white with checked anger. No living thing deserved the abasement Titus shed on this poor lass.
Falke rose and motioned to the table where her knights sat. “Lady Gwendolyn, you must be hungry. Won’t you be seated and partake of some nourishment?”
Mean-spirited laughter from Titus and his crew greeted Falke’s remark. A flush-faced woman spoke, her gown displaying her soiled chemise beneath and dark love marks on her throat. “Now don’t that sound so fine, Lady Gwendolyn?” Slapping her thigh, the woman threw a gnawed bone at the girl. “She eats with the dogs, like the rest of the animals.”
From the Cravenmoor table, bones, pieces of bread and apple cores rained down on the hapless girl.
“Halt!” Falke’s unbridled contempt and his halfdrawn sword stopped the rain of trash. “God’s wounds, Titus, how can you treat your own blood this way?”
“Don’t be high and mighty with me.” The lecherous old man leaned his elbows heavily on the table. “Your own serfs and nobles call her names. ’Tis Lady Wren they call her.”
Falke’s gaze sought out Lady Ivette’s. The corners of her full lips tilted in a slight smile. Pride in her little rhyme rimmed her mouth.
He looked at the girl scrambling to pick up the leftovers. If she lived on scraps, how had she accumulated so much weight? He doubted he could span her waist with both arms. A streak of empathy coursed through him. Her life with Titus must be miserable.
“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.
