Angel of the Knight

by Hall, Diana

  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.

  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.

  Chapter Seven

  The 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.