Angel of the Knight

by Hall, Diana

  “Aye, hot I am.” Sweat slickened Nesta’s skin, and her face flushed with heat. “Won’t they miss ye at the barracks?”

  “Me brother’ll cover for me. Don’t worry.” The throbbing in his groin suddenly joined with a steady, painful beat in his head. His climax came and went, but the pounding in his head remained.

  “That’s enough for today.” Nesta rubbed her temple and rolled away. “I gotta see about me mum.” She swayed slightly when she stood and climbed down the ladder from the loft to the main floor.

  Elined took his time putting his breeches back in order. The crashing pain in his head wouldn’t relent. Once back inside the bailey walls, he could get a good cold draft of ale and find some corner to catch a nap. Then he’d join his brother and friends for some games of chance. He lumbered down the ladder and made his way back inside the walls of Mistedge by use of an escape tunnel.

  “Brother!” A large hand came down on Elined’s back. “Where have you been?”

  Elined turned and faced his younger brother’s scornful gaze. “Just out havin’ fun, Fergus.”

  “Were you in the village? Tell me the truth, Elined. Lord Falke’s put the whole area off-limits because of fever. Were you there with that girl again?”

  Fergus was always so narrow-minded about right and wrong. If Elinid told the truth, Fergus might report him and then he would be stuck in that village. He had smelled and seen the results of plague before. The ghastly stench and nightmares had haunted him for months. Not again.

  “I was gamin’ with some of the guards on the outer wall. I haven’t seen Nesta for two days.”

  His brother narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips. “Thank God. Mind you, keep away from that wench until the fever’s passed. You look dead on your feet. Go into the guardroom and take a rest. I’ll take your watch on the outer wall.”

  “My thanks, Fergus.” Elined clasped his brother on the shoulder and sauntered back to the soldiers’ dormitory. Three guards were drinking and gambling in a corner. Elined joined them and took a long swill of ale from their jug. The pounding in his head intensified. He rolled onto a pallet and loosened his tunic. Heat radiated from his body. His joints ached each time he moved. Sleep overtook him in a wave of intense fatigue.

  Falke stood on the inner bailey wall, his mind seething with questions but no answers. He watched Ozbern stride across the outer courtyard to the guardsmen’s dormitory. His friend would choose several men to quarter off the village and see to the tunnels.

  Isolating the village was a hard move, but necessary. Fevers spread like wildfires, and protecting the castle would ensure aid to the crofters. Lady Wren understood that; she had requested the order. So why was he riddled with guilt?

  Falke surveyed the outer courtyard. The yard was full of soldiers, some wrestling on the exercise field, most loitering, unconcerned about an enemy attack. Falke didn’t blame them. They were all waiting until lordship of the keep was firmly established before they showed allegiance. If the men sided with him and he lost, their lives would be forfeit. The danger to Mistedge lay within its walls, not from outside.

  “Falke, come to the wall.”

  The sound of Ozbern’s concerned voice warned Falke his bad luck had not changed. He started for the stairs.

  “Nay, Falke, do not open the inner gate.”

  A tremor of real fear gripped him as Ozbern’s voice called out with urgency and foreboding.

  “Ozbern?” Falke knew the answer to his unspoken question even before he saw the slumped figure of a young soldier being carried from the dormitory.

  “He’s sick with the fever. I’m having him taken to the village. Seems he has a wench who’ll lift her skirts for him. He got more than he bargained for the last time.”

  The full impact of his friend’s words hit him. Ozbern was stranded outside. Falke was alone inside the keep with Alric, Robert, and a castle full of vassals who wished him ill.

  His friend’s dark head shook back and forth. “Falke, you know what you must do.”

  “Aye, though ’tis hard, my friend.” Before issuing the command that would separate him from his comrade, Falke said, “We will speak each day. You will come to the wall to gather supplies.” The words conveyed Falke’s hidden fears—that Ozbern could well fall ill himself.

  “Close the inner gate.” Bitterness made Falke’s tone harsh and unrelenting. Men who had been loafing before ran toward the arch as the heavy gate fell.

  The splintery sound of the thick bar sliding across the doorway brought cries of outrage from the outer courtyard. The shouts and curses drew noblemen and castle servants from inside the keep.

  “What’s going on?” Laron demanded. “The servants are in a panic.”

  “The gate is down. Are we prisoners?” Mistedge’s most senior vassal, Lord Baldwin, queried.

  “Aye.” Falke pointed to the village and the dark smoke against the crystal-blue sky. The universal purge of disease silenced the men. “A fever has struck the village. Sir Ozbern has found a soldier in the guardroom with the illness. Hopefully, the fever’s not spread within the keep proper as yet.”

  “As usual, you’re too late to be of any real help to those people,” Laron snapped. “They’ll die in droves.”

  “Not I!” Ferris pushed aside the knights and faced Falke. “I’m leaving, whether Titus or anyone else from Cravenmore can sit a horse or not.”

  “You’ll go nowhere.” Falke stalked the smaller man. Looming over Ferris, Falke spoke slowly, clearly, his tone iced with ominous certainty. “You may leave this keep, but not these lands. I’ll kill you myself before I allow you to spread this ague about the countryside. Besides, your lady cousin is in the village.”

  “So your damnable luck prevails.” Ferris curled his lips in a sarcastic smile. “She dies from fever and you escape marriage.”

  Laron’s face twisted into a smug grin. “Come, Ferris, let us inform Titus of his niece’s peril. And of Sir Falke’s negligence in protecting her. And his people.”

  Falke slammed his fist into his palm as the two knights left. The sympathetic gazes that passed between the nobles and Ferris made Falke want to gag. Not one of them cared whether Lady Wren lived or died; they only wanted to hedge their bets should Laron wrest power from Falke.

  Separating himself from the nobles, the servants and his few remaining loyal men, Falke watched the black smoke. The dark cloud mushroomed in shape and moved with ominous fingers toward the castle of Mistedge.

  Chapter Nine

  From beneath the tattered war tent, a knight begged for comfort. “Lady Wren!” he croaked.

  Gwendolyn looped a strand of hair behind her ear and eased the crick in her neck before turning toward the canopy that served as an infirmary. She lifted a wooden bowl to the man’s lips and waited patiently as he sipped the strong tea. Leaning back, he rested, and his hand patted hers in thanks.

  “Lady Wren, ken ye check this tea and see if’n ’tis strong enough?” A village woman wiped her face with the edge of her apron and waved Gwendolyn toward the black kettle near the bonfire.

  “Mummy, I’m so hot,” a child wailed from a cot nearby.

  Her composure worn as thin as the rag she called a gown and Gwendolyn fought down the wave of panic that threatened to derail her. The past week had seen the fever spread throughout the village and the outer bailey of the castle. As yet the inner keep remained protected, along with the keep’s inhabitants. Her uncle and the Cravenmoor nobles remained tightly sealed within the safety of the high walls.

  And that served her well. With men, women, soldiers and children falling ill, Gwendolyn had been forced to shed all vestiges of her playacting. Panic had subsided after Gwendolyn began issuing instructions and organizing work crews. Now, after a week of caring for the fevered, the serfs were too tired to worry.

  “Lucas, fresh water, please,” Gwendolyn ordered as she swiped a cloth from a stack of clean laundry, then joined the child and mother. The boy hurried to obey, then trotted off
to aid another.

  Sprinkling lavender seed into the water, Gwendolyn soaked the cloth, then wrung it damp. Softening her tone, she instructed the woman, “Blot this on your daughter’s head to cool the fever and ease her headache.”

  “Aye, Lady Wren.” The child’s cries lessened to a distressed mewing as her mother mimicked Gwendolyn’s actions.

  Standing, Gwendolyn surveyed the bustling serfs. No matter their age, if they were able to stand, she had put them to work. Children stripped medicinal leaves from twigs for brewing, old men and women collected kindling, the able-bodied washed linens, prepared tea or stitched death shrouds. And still chores remained to be done.

  “Arry, fetch some clean linen and change the bedding on these cots.” Gwendolyn pointed toward the sweat-soaked bed clothes of several soldiers.

  “Aye, Lady Wren.” The titan jumped to complete the task. He twisted the ear of a boy snuggled up on a stack of blankets. “Get up, ye lazy good for nothing. If Lady Wren don’t rest, then ye don’t rest.”

  A hidden smile tugged at Gwendolyn’s lips. ’Twas said the reformed were the hardest to live with, she thought. And Arry was certainly proving the point. Even after burying his daughter, Nesta, in the common grave, he had returned to work. His newfound sanctity served as a model for the rest of the village.

  With Arry overseeing the laundry, Gwendolyn made for the bonfire to check her medicinal tea. The moss-colored liquid simmered in a great iron kettle. Pillows of steam rose, scenting the area with borage, bay, burnet and lovage.

  Gwendolyn stirred the concoction with a heavy ladle, noting the color and thickness. “Aye, ’tis strong enough, Anwen. Cut it with a bit of honey for the little ones. ’Twill make the taste easier, though not by much.”

  The young woman nodded. “The smell is bad enough, but the taste!” She shuddered and scrunched up her mouth. “’Twas lucky I came down with the fever only for a few days. I had to hold my nose to force it down.”

  “And we’ll do the same to those soldiers if they refuse again.” Gwendolyn crossed her arms and moved to the canopy where most of the infirm lay.

  Rows of sick people lay on makeshift cots and straw pallets. Tired relatives waved away the insects swarming over the ill. Up and down the rows, women gave the caretakers bowls of tea and clean water to force down the fevered patients’ throats.

  A painful sorrow struck Gwendolyn in the heart. So many had died already, and the death count still climbed. She lowered her head and covered her mouth with her hand. Tears stung her eyes along with dejection. How could she hope to save these people? Yet even as she asked herself the question, she began to walk up and down the rows, checking on each patient.

  Her inquiries were met with warmth and hope. To each she offered a bit of praise or instruction. Just a few moments of tenderness meant the world to these people so near death. For some, ’twas all the kindness they had ever experienced in their short lives.

  Like Falke had offered her. Nay! She could not afford the luxury of thinking of him and the bits of tenderness he had shown her. A gentle hand upon her shoulder in the great hall. Kindness in his tone when he spoke to her and Cyrus. And the taste of desire as his lips touched her mouth. Stop this! She chastised herself as the memory of his musky smell caused strange emotions to flutter in the pit of her stomach.

  “Lady Wren, come quick!”

  She turned to see Lucas pointing toward his father. Arry carried Ozbern toward the sick ward, the knight barely able to hold his head upright.

  “Lucas, be quick and clear a bed.” Gwendolyn rushed to meet the blacksmith. One touch of Ozbern’s forehead and she knew the pestilence had found another victim.

  “Ken ye save ’im?” Arry asked with real concern.

  The knight’s hard work and soft humor had endeared him to all the peasants. And to Gwendolyn, too. Never once had he questioned her actions or orders, and he had taken over the visits to the castle’s inner wall, thereby enabling Gwendolyn to keep out of Titus and Ferris’s sight. And Falke’s. The lord of Mistedge remained in safety, while his people, and now his friend, fought for their lives.

  “I will do my best,” she answered.

  She owed the knight much. It had been Ozbern who had shamed the soldiers and kept them from storming the inner keep in panic. And it had been he who had lifted their spirits with stories of his and Falke’s escapades. Though in every tale ’twas Falke who saved the day, the serfs’ allegiance rested with Ozbern. The villagers still did not trust Sir Falke, who remained within the inner keep, away from the danger of the illness.

  “Lay him here,” she ordered Arry as they reached the tent. With care, the blacksmith placed his charge on the makeshift bed.

  “Lady…Wren.” Ozbern clutched her sleeve. “You…go to the gate.” His arm dropped, his strength sapped by the effort.

  “Hush. You must rest,” she murmured consolingly.

  “Nay.” Ozbern shook his head and coughed. “Alone…Falke’s alone. Laron…Ferris want to take Mistedge.” Ozbern drew a deep, rattling breath. “Falke needs this place. Promise me you’ll go.” His eyes opened wide and he made to rise from his bed.

  “I’ll send Arry.” ’Twas one thing to show a bit of her true self in the village, quite another to flaunt it under Ferris’s nose. To call out at the castle wall and converse with the staff would reveal too much.

  “Must be you.” Ozbern pulled himself to a sitting position, blinking his eyes into focus. “More than you seem. Like Falke. He needs to know.” With effort Ozbern swung his legs to the ground.

  “I will go,” she promised. Anything to get him to rest. From behind her, she heard Cyrus snort his disapproval. Ignoring her foster father, Gwendolyn pushed the fainting knight back down. “I’ll go, Sir Ozbern. Rest easy.” At a wave of her hand, a chipped wooden bowl of thick green tea filled her palm, handed her by a villager. “Drink this.” As usual, the words were a command and not a request.

  “Lucas, fetch me two donkeys for carrying supplies from the castle. Blodyn,” Gwendolyn called to a woman stirring a cauldron of dirty linen, “have we need of more lye?”

  “Aye, Lady Wren, we will by the morrow if you insist on fresh linen for each.”

  “Then ’tis more lye I’ll get. Each time those sheets are drenched in sweat they’re to be changed and washed with hot water and strong soap.”

  “If Lady Wren says ’tis to be, then ’twill be.” Blodyn nodded toward the women stringing the cloth to dry. No complaints came forth; all were too tired to do more than just comply.

  Cyrus stepped in front of Gwendolyn, his brows wrinkled and his lips set with determination. “Any one of us can fetch supplies. It need not be you.”

  “I promised.”

  Gwendolyn hid the true reason for her desire to go to the castle wall. Ozbern’s words pricked at her conscience. Lord Falke’s easy laugh and quick wit did not portray a man alone in the world. Nor did he seem particularly interested in Mistedge. To her knowledge, he had never even visited the peasant village. He seemed to spend his time charming the women, infuriating the vassals and gaming with his men.

  Yet she had ofttimes observed that Falke’s cerulean eyes did not reflect the roguish smile on his full lips. Even when Lady Ivette flirted outrageously with him, his gaze would be on the knights behind her or nearby. In the depth of his stare, Gwendolyn detected a hidden center. And if she was not an expert on hiding one’s soul, who was?

  “This is trouble, lass,” Cyrus warned. “You’ve been fortunate thus far that Titus has not found you out. Best take Arry with you to do your talking.”

  “If ’twould make you feel better.”

  “The only way I’m going to feel at ease is if you don’t go.” Gwendolyn opened her mouth to protest, but Cyrus placed his fingertips over her mouth. “But I know ’tis a useless wish.”

  “Lady Wren, I’ve found the donkeys.” Lucas rushed toward her, the two flea-ravaged beasts in tow.

  “Good work. Now get your father and we’ll make our
way to the castle gate.”

  “Is he here yet?” Falke climbed the wall steps two at a time. The wooden stair creaked from the hard stamp of his feet. His eyes scanned the muddy expanse that lay between the gatehouse and the first cottage. The bright silk of the yellow tent near the woods caused his heart to quicken with dread. The old war shelter served the dying, now from illness instead of battle.

  “Nay, milord. Sir Ozbern’s not been to the gate today.” The young squire stood tall and snapped to attention, almost smacking himself in the face with his lance.

  Cursing under his breath, Falke tried not to vent his frustration on the lad. God’s Wounds, he wanted no part of Mistedge or Laron’s treachery. ’Twould be better to roam the country as a mercenary than to lose Ozbern. No land or keep was worth his friend’s life. Falke itched to leave the confines of castle. Over two-thirds of Mistedge’s army lay under the canopy in the village. Whatever mischief Laron might think up, he could not plan a siege with so many ill, nor would an army invade when plague ran rampant. For now, Falke’s only fear was for his friend.

  “Milord, someone approaches.” The sandy-haired squire dropped his lance in excitement. “Aye, ’tis a tall man, the smithy I think. And there’s a boy and an old woman.” The squire blushed and he gave Falke a half smile. “Sorry, milord, ’tis your betrothed with them.”

  “No one else?” Pushing aside the bony lad, Falke held his breath as his gaze sought the approaching group. Air escaped his lungs in a sharp blast. No Ozbern. Falke rubbed his forehead with his fingertips. The tightness in his throat matched the clenching of his jaw.

  “Is Lord Falke about?” The blacksmith’s voice resounded like a call of doom across the empty yard.

  “Aye, I am here.” Swallowing his grief, Falke lifted his head and waved.

  His betrothed shuffled from one foot to another. She kept her head down and her words barely reached him. “Sir Ozbern bade me come.”

  A clatter on the stairs halted her message. A contingent of knights climbed up the wooden ladder and joined Falke on the narrow walkway. The men fanned out on either side of him. Laron and Ferris stood at his elbow, grim smiles on their faces.