Angel of the Knight

by Hall, Diana

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.

  Chapter Eight

  The narrow walkway on the outer wall barely allowed Falke and Ozbern to walk in tandem. At the sentry posts, neither man gave way, forcing the guard to come to attention and step back or risk being knocked over the high wall. Falke did not bother to engage in conversation with his friend, for his mind was back at the pool with his night angel.

  With Titus and his men nursing wine-soaked heads, Falke had time to recall each sensuous detail of his adventure last night.

  The wood-sweet smell of her skin haunted him. Each perfect curve of her body was scorched in his mind. Desire rippled in his loins as he recalled the feel of her young, lithe body. Overhead, the morning sun seemed harsh, making him long for the cool silver light of the moon and his angel’s hair. Night had always beckoned with lonely arms, but now the moonlight tempted him with the slender limbs of Artemis. How could such a vision send terror through a ruffian like Titus?

  “What’s happening in the village?” Ozbern pulled up short and pointed toward the huts.

  Crossing his arms over his chest, Falke tucked away his memories, then concentrated on the activity in the village. A bonfire burned in the center green. Peasants trudged back and forth from the huts to the fire, carrying bundles and casting them into the flames. Even from this distance, Falke could sense the urgency. Something or someone had put spurs to his villeins.

  “’ello, the castle.” From near the barbican, a voice boomed. “Have the lord come speak with me.”

  “Nobles don’t take orders from smithies,” the marshal shouted. “Enter and make petition same as any man.”

  “Can’t.” The voice shouted back, anger in his tone. “Tell Lord Falke that Lady Wren is with me.”

  “She’s suppose to be with Alric,” Falke hissed as he and Ozbern raced toward the central tower.

  “She is. Or was,” Ozbern answered breathlessly as they climbed the tower stairs.

  At the top, Falke shoved aside the startled marshal and peered down. A giant of a man stood below. Leather apron and bulging arm muscles marked him as the blacksmith. “A woman-beater and drunk.” His angel’s warning took on new meaning as Falke spotted the short, plump shape standing next to the man—Lady Wren. One blow from the smithy could crush her skull.

  “I swear I saw her in the chapel.” Ozbern shook his head in disbelief.

  “Free the woman, blacksmith.” Falke yanked the spear from the marshal and took aim on the big man’s heart.

  “Nay.” Lady Wren stepped forward and placed a protective hand across the smithy’s chest. Falke still had a straight shot at the man’s heart, directly over her head. “We cannot enter the castle. Nor may any of you leave.”

  Ozbern threw his hands in the air. “Now we are laid to siege by a girl and a commoner?”

  “Aye, Sir Ozbern.” Lady Wren lifted her head and shook away the tangles covering her face. Determination tilted her pointed chin. “Mistedge is at siege, but not from us, but by pestilence.” She spoke without her stammer, and apprehension crept up Falke’s spine. It must be dire indeed for Lady Wren to give up her ruse.

  “’Tis a fever, milord.” The blacksmith pointed his thick finger at Falke’s weapon. “And ye’ll not win this battle with sticks and such.”

  “Most of the children are affected. This fever spreads fast, takes many.” Lady Wren spoke slowly, but Falke sensed ’twas not due to playacting, but from dread.

  Fever! Another turn from his usually good fortune. Was his night apparition really an angel? Had he switched his luck from good to bad with a stolen kiss? The idea caused his throat to dry and his heart to pound. Nay, her lips were real, the softness of her skin not a mirage. If she was a villager, then her life could be in danger.

  The walkway became crowded with men and servants. Tension and panic wove through the gathering crowd. As heads popped up along the wall, Lady Wren stepped behind the bulky smith.

  The giant leaned down to listen as she whispered in his ear. Straightening, he shouted, “’Twould seem the village is the only place stricken. If we are kept apart, mayhap this plague will go no farther.”

  There was no other choice. Falke could not risk the illness spreading throughout the keep. “Close the gate,” he ordered.

  “Nay, milord,” a servant woman called in anquish. “Me son is out there, and me husband.”

  “Close the gate!” Falke spoke through clenched teeth. He gave the marshal a narrow-eyed stare.

  The marshal sprang to life and shouted the order. Ropes creaked, then whirled as the soldiers manning the gate wheel lowered the iron grate. With a clang, the heavy bars sealed the castle from the outside world. Falke threw down his weapon, useless against this foe that would rob him of his home.

  “There be a woman…” the smith continued, relaying what Lady Wren whispered to him. “…Darianne, she’ll be knowin’ what to send. Lower the supplies over the wall. For now, we be needin’ blankets and a heap of strong soap.”

  “’Twill be done straightaway. Robert!” Falke called as he spotted the knight on the wall. “Get Darianne—I’ve a hunch you’ll find her in the chapel. Fetch whatever the villagers will need.”

  “I’ll be back with a cart to haul the supplies.” The blacksmith smiled down at Lady Wren. “I’ll be taking the lady back to the village now.”

  “Nay,” Falke shouted.

  Lady Wren paused, but did not speak. When she lifted her face, Falke saw no fear in her azure stare. Instead, he saw a resolve akin to that of a warrior entering battle. Whatever lay beneath the surface of this woman, ’twas not cowardice.

  “Do what you must. Anything you need will be given to you. And Lady Wren?” Falke suspected who the village healer must be. “God’s blessing be on you. I wish yo
u well in your task.”

  She nodded, then shuffled away with the big man, resuming her crippled step. Panic at the threat of illness had blinded most inhabitants of the castle to her momentary slips of speech. With luck, she might still keep her masquerade a secret. But what did he know of good fortune? ’Twould seem his had finally run dry.

  “Ozbern, see that a sentry is stationed at the road and tell him Lord Falke will have his head if one man, woman or child carries this fever within the castle.”

  Falke and Ozbern pushed past the men on the wall and made for the stairs. At the bottom, Falke headed for the arch separating the inner and outer yards. “I’ll see to sealing the inner bailey tunnels. You take the outer.”

  “Aye.” Ozbern turned on his heel, then asked, “Falke, how could Lady Wren escape the castle so easily? And why was she in the village? Despite the whispers, ’twas plain the smithy took his orders from her.”

  “I don’t think either of us have really seen that girl. I don’t even think she knows who she is herself.” Falke spoke more to himself than to his friend as they parted to prepare Mistedge for siege.

  “What’s all the wallerin’ about, love?” the young wench called from the pile of fresh hay.

  “’Tis your da and…that woman from the castle—Lady Wren, they call her. The sight of ’er is enough to scare ye sober. And I think that’s just what she’s done to your da.” The soldier readjusted his breeches as he peered out of the barn window.

  “They ain’t found us, have they?” His companion sat up, her long hair partially covering her naked breasts.

  “Nay.” The soldier’s gaze rested on the girl’s nipples. A hardening in his loins caused him to lick his lips. “Nesta, your folks ain’t gonna find us here in the hayloft.” He kissed her swollen lips and his hands clamped on to her soft mounds.

  “Elined!” She giggled and halfheartedly brushed him away. “We just finished and ye want to go again?”

  He resumed fondling her chest and lowered her to the fluffy straw. “I can’t help it, love.” He kissed each nipple. “I am so hot, I think I’m on fire.” He shed his breeches once more.