by Hall, Diana
“He’s awake. Ozbern woke up.” Falke choked out the words from around the lump in his throat. He didn’t know where the sudden emotion in his chest rose from—Ozbern’s recovery or the depths of Lady Wren’s lapis eyes.
“Welcome back, Sir Ozbern.” Her long fingers eased down his cheek and prodded the skin below the jawline.
Her hands were an odd mixture of age and youth—strong and nimble like a child’s, knicked and callused like an old servant’s. As she moved them in her examination, Falke could detect only gentleness.
“A few days rest and he’ll be back to his old self,” she pronounced.
A slanted smile tugged at Falke’s mouth. “Are you sure, Lady Wren? I was hoping to get something better than the old Ozbern from all this tender care. Do you mean to tell me he’s going to go back to his usual overbearing self?”
“I’m afraid so.” It was slight, but the edge of her mouth turned up as she spoke.
Blessed Saints! She smiled. An infusion of pride puffed Falke’s chest. He had made Lady Wren smile! That was an accomplishment. And he hadn’t even been trying. Falke rubbed his hand over his mouth to hide his grin. Between Lady Wren’s smile and Ozbern’s recovery, he felt downright giddy.
Lady Wren drew her mouth into a tight line, as though sensing his humor. She rose, lost her balance and reached into the air to steady herself. Jumping to his feet, Falke attempted to right her. Taking her large girth into consideration, he gave a hefty shove and she landed on her hip, dazed.
“I’m sorry. Truly, I meant you no harm.” Falke apologized as he jumped over Ozbern to help her to her feet.
She waved away his attempt to aid her. “I can manage. Go back to your work.” Huffing, she drew herself to her knees, then lumbered to her feet.
Amazed at her dismissal, Falke barked, “I’ll stay here with Ozbern and Robert.”
The peaceful blue of her irises darkened to the color of a stormy sky. Yet with all the emotions raging in her gaze, the placid features of her face remained unchanged. “I thought you were lord of Mistedge,” she challenged.
“I am.”
“Then each and every man, woman and child is your concern. As each is mine.”
“How can you care for so many?”
“How can you care for so few?” No sarcasm tainted her words.
Frustration seized Falke with a stranglehold. He wanted to ram the words down her throat, but the truth of her statement could not be ignored. As lord, he was responsible for all of Mistedge, and for the first time he felt the weight of every inhabitant on his shoulders. From simpleton to physician to seer, the woman before him unveiled a new layer at the most unexpected of times.
It hurt to abandon his friends to the hands of strangers, but there were better ways he could help them. “Very well, I’ll go back to the laundry.”
“If that’s what you think is best.” She spoke through clenched teeth. Her tone implied in some way he had shirked his duties.
Her head barely reached his shoulder, but she had managed to ruffle Falke’s temper. “Woman, you cannot mean to scold me. I’ve chopped wood, fetched water and lugged dirty linens. Christ’s wounds, I’ve done laundry!”
Ozbern scrunched his eyes closed and murmured, “And I missed such a sight.”
Falke shot to his feet as the lady backed away. “I am lord of Mistedge. Do not forget it.” Her head lifted and she scurried from the tent.
“By heaven, the woman has no right to talk to me that way.” He paced up and down beside his friend’s cot. “I’m the head here whether anyone likes it or not, and I’ll be damned if some brown bird of a girl is going to condescend to me. I’m Lord Falke of Mistedge.” He slammed his fist into the palm of his hand.
A painful chuckle escaped Ozbern’s lips. “Forsooth, Falke, I believe Lady Wren has done what I failed to do.”
“What?” Confusion tempered the anger in Falke’s chest. “Drive me completely daft?”
Ozbern gave a tired sigh and closed his eyes. “That, and have you accept your role as lord here. Somehow she’s made you want Mistedge.” A snore trailed his last comment.
The little trickster! Falke felt his mouth drop open as he slapped his forehead. How had Lady Wren managed to transform Mistedge to more than just a piece of land for him? But he knew the answer already. By chopping wood, fetching water, and aye, doing laundry. From the most menial of tasks he had learned the greatest lesson—that a keep was not composed of stone walls and castles, but of its people.
No longer were the serfs nameless workers. There was the laundress, Blodwyn, with her military stance. And Lucas, nervous, young and eager to learn. Arry, the blacksmith, newly sober, devoted to Lady Wren and strong as an ox. The list went on, from the reeve to the newest babe, born just yesterday, a gift of life in a time of death.
Falke left the canopy and strode down the dirt path after his betrothed to thank her. He found her standing between two unplowed fields. Grass and wildflowers swayed in the gentle breeze. He caught the rich scent of fertile earth that seemed to come as much from her as from the ground.
Staring at the fields, she spoke to the wind instead of Falke. “’Tis March and the fields are not planted.”
“And what would you have these men do—rise from their sickbeds to plow the fields?” Falke wondered at Lady Wren’s sudden insensitivity. She had opened his heart to the villagers’ plight, yet now she seemed to have closed hers. These people could not be expected to till the land in their condition.
Her toe ground a dirt clod into the dry earth. Her hands shoved deep into the slits of her dun-colored tunic. “Nay, Lord Falke, I do not expect the weak to do the work.”
“Then who? Only a handful of villagers are well and you need them to help you.”
“Aye, ’tis true.” Exasperation steamed from her short body.
Falke could feel the waves of frustration she emitted. “Christ’s blood, woman, just get it off your chest and be done with it.”
“Fine.” The last thread of restraint broke. “Are you a blind man? These fields must be planted and soon. I’ll not save these people now only to hear they starved come the winter.”
“First the fever, then the fields,” Falke advised.
Her hand flew from the recesses of her tunic and pointed one long finger at him. Despite her stature, she commanded all of his attention. Her head flew up and she seared him with a look of pure anger. “If the villagers can’t plow the fields, then that castle of knights and lords surely can.”
Her eyes opened wide in shock at her own candor. She gulped, then panic erased all emotion from her face. In fear, she tried to run from him.
“Hold on.” Falke reached out to stop her, but he found empty air. Lady Wren had gauged him, just as she did Titus. Did she do the same to every man? Judge how far away to stand to avoid a strike or a kick? Pity tempered Falke’s anger as his long legs rapidly caught up with her.
“Stop, Lady,” he commanded.
Immediately, she crumbled to the ground and curled into a tight knot, her hand covering her face, her muscles tensed for an expectant blow.
“Stand, Lady Wren.”
Gwendolyn took a deep breath and complied. ’Twas her own fault for acting the way she had, reprimanding Falke for neglecting the fields. What was she thinking? Cyrus had taught her to hide her emotions better than this. She was lucky it was Falke and not Titus or Ferris. Had she lost her temper with them, ’twould be more than a beating she’d be receiving.
“I’m ready, Lord Falke.”
Afternoon sunlight glistened on Falke’s darkly tanned chest. Sweat gleamed on the ripples of his abdomen. A trickle of moisture meandered down his bare chest and disappeared beneath the wide leather belt at his hips. Fury darkened his blue eyes. He stood before her, an Apollo with golden hair and skin, and she knew how she must appear to him. Drab. Dull. Ugly.
He stood so close to her she could smell the heady, musky scent of his body mingled with a trace of lye. The coarse wool fabric of her
kirtle hid her trembling fingers. She closed her eyes and waited.
His hand cradled her chin. She stiffened for the blow. Then softly, gently, he forced her chin up, and with the other hand brushed the hair from face.
“Mark me, Lady Wren, from this day, speak as you will with me and have no fear.” She opened her eyes and stared into the brilliant crystal blue of his gaze. His tone hypnotized her with its soothing sound. “I will never lay a hand upon you in anger. On this you have my word.”
“The word of a knight with no honor?” She bit her lower lip and cursed her impudence.
He leaned closer, his full mouth just a thread’s width from her own. “My word as a friend, and in this I am always faithful. Just ask Ozbern.” He sealed the contract with a kiss.
Heat radiated from the point of their joining, and Gwendolyn felt the rigidness ease from her stance. A wild churning spun in her gut and she clung to him, afraid to release him for fear she would faint. Afraid to touch him, for fear she would make a fool of herself and reveal the intensity of desire that washed over her. Too quickly, he severed their connection. She took a deep breath and savored the taste of him that lingered on her lips.
“Friends, milady?”
How could she speak when her heart was beating as fast as a kestrel’s wings? She nodded and kept her silence.
Falke took her hand and led her to a mossy rock. Seating her on the stone as if it was a throne, he pointed toward the castle. “I know you’re bright enough to realize Laron wants Mistedge. If my vassals see me plowing fields like a common laborer…well, ’twill be all the easier for Laron to overthrow me.”
“But Lord Falke, the people will support you. This week they’ve seen you’re willing to put your life on the line for them.”
“Aye, which is the irony of the situation.” Falke leaned back against the rock. His muscled thighs grazed Gwendolyn’s leg. Strange, wonderful sensations danced along the point of contact.
“Lady Wren,” he continued, “when first I entered this village, I cared not whether I kept this place or not. I would have plowed those fields just to thumb my nose at the crew within. But now I do want it.”
“Then fight for it.”
“I am trying.” Anger seeped back into his tone.
Frightened, Gwendolyn shrank back, but Falke’s ire faded before her eyes. He patted her hand and smiled. “Remember, do not fear me.”
“I don’t,” she whispered. Then again, she repeated, “I don’t.” And she didn’t. Aside from Cyrus, Falke was the only other man who had ever gained her confidence.
“Good, because I value your friendship, milady. I will have sore need of it when the fever breaks. Laron will be at my throat. And I cannot lose this place.” Loneliness softened his voice.
“You won’t.” Gwendolyn rested one hand on Falke’s shoulder. She could feel the heat of his bare skin, and a warmth began to build in her heart.
“Why do you have such faith in me, when my own father never did?”
“I see things.” Gwendolyn tried to explain her unquestioning belief in him. “My days have not been filled with sewing, dancing or music. I have spent my time hiding from Titus and his lot. It’s given me an eye to observation.”
Falke stared at her, and Gwendolyn held her breath, thinking he could really see her, minus the hair dye and padding around her hips.
“Go on,” he urged, and Gwendolyn thought he might add, “my night angel,” but he did not.
“I have listened in the castle, to both your friends and foes. But I did not know your ilk until you left the inner bailey. Lord Falke, I think you know not the definition of honor. For you are an honorable man.”
“There you are wrong, sweet lady.” Falke shook his great mane of golden hair. “For my father taught each of his seven sons the code of chivalry, and what sacrifices must be made in the name of it.”
Bitterness hardened his face, making him seem remote and cold. “My father gave up the woman he loved, who he adored, because she had been raped, just before their wedding. Honor would not allow him to have a woman tainted, though the sin was none of her own fault. His refusal meant the poor girl was wed to her rapist—her family feared she might bear a child from the act, and God forbid they share that shame. My father was given a choice of another family’s daughter, which he took, though he barely knew her name.”
Intensity shook his voice. “I spit on any doctrine that sentenced my mother to a loveless marriage. She deserved better. As do you.”
Slowly, Gwendolyn climbed down from her perch. Falke had more honor than even she had guessed. He acted from the heart. And his heart would never allow him to marry her. Not unless he loved her. “What if I were beautiful—”
“’Twould make no difference.” He held her hand and gave her a sad smile. “I will not marry you just to keep Mistedge. I would not see you waste away as my mother did. Nor will I let Titus take you back to that hell. Rest assured of that.”
“My thanks, Lord Falke.” She took a long, shuddering breath and swallowed her fear. Titus would never abandon her to Falke unless a hefty sum of money greased his palm, and the coffers of Mistedge would be lean this year. Falke could not afford to pay off Titus, nor could Mistedge stand ready to fight. She would have to leave here, to save the villagers and Falke. Unless he married her.
Nor could she reveal her true form, for although he might lust after her as she appeared at the pond, he did not love her. And he would never love Lady Wren. To keep Titus in the dark, she must keep Falke that way as well.
“And Lady Wren…” Falke’s gentle voice jerked Gwendolyn from her sad conclusions. He leaned forward so that she was forced to meet his gaze. “I want you to know that to me you are beautiful. You have a spirit and soul so lovely that no mirror can do them justice.”
His words were sweet torture, and Gwendolyn could endure no more. “Excuse me, I must return to tending the ill.”
“Lady Wren, wait, I will escort you—”
“Nay, I have work that needs be done.” Pointing to the fields, she spoke from her heart, unafraid. “And you have work to do. Do not fear the opinion of those knights within. Nobility rests in a man’s actions, not in his birth. You need only look to my uncle to see the truth I speak. Plow the fields, save the people, and Mistedge will be yours.”
And never mine to share with you. She left him leaning against the rock, staring at the fields.
Tired, worried and frazzled, Gwendolyn eased the crick in her back as she stood. Hours under the hot afternoon sun had melted her composure. She wanted to sit down and cry, but she hadn’t the time. New patients continued to be carried in from the outer bailey and village. If there were just some sign that the end of the plague was near! Anything to bolster her flagging hopes.
“Well, what is that rogue up to now?” Blodwyn’s voice interrupted Gwendolyn’s dismal thoughts. She glanced about and saw a crowd of serfs standing at the edge of the tent.
“’E’s a tryin’ to put the yoke on me oxen.” A hunched-over man pursed his lips. “’E’s goin’ to plow by ’eself.”
Rushing forward, Gwendolyn pushed her way to the front of the gawking crowd. In the field, Falke fought a losing battle with a team of quarrelsome livestock. Over and over he tried to force the contrary animals into the harness. Finally, he succeeded in capturing the animals and moved them toward the field.
“My God.” Alric snaked his way to Gwendolyn’s side. “Has Falke gone mad?”
“Nay.” With pride, she corrected him. Raising her voice so that it would carry, she added, “Lord Falke is seeing to the needs of his people.”
“Laron and Ferris must be having a good laugh.” Alric spat out the words. “Falke has no idea how to plow a field. He looks like a fool out there alone.”
Lifting her head, she gave the arrogant young knight an angry glare. “He is your lord, is he not?”
“Of course.”
“Then why aren’t you helping him?”
“You want me…to go d
own there…and plow a field?” Alric voice sang with disbelief and indignation.
“Nay,” Gwendolyn replied in a solemn, quiet tone, “I want you to go down there and plow and plant all the fields.”
The knight turned and came face-to-face with the spent villagers. Their drooping shoulders and gray-white faces proved the people’s exhaustion. They had no more to give. What remained of their small supply of energy was needed to fight off the fever and tend to the ill.
“Falke and I will never live this down. Knights working like field hands…!” Alric muttered as he looked at the few crooked rows that his lord had managed to dredge from the dirt. Waving his hand in the air, he trotted down the path and called, “Falke, wait up. I’ll help you.”
“Now, that Sir Falke be a nobleman with vision,” Blodwyn commented to another woman.
“Aye, and a man not afraid of hard work.” The elderly man nodded his white head in reverence. “I was a thinkin’ the man was too caught up in ’e’s own affairs to be thinkin’ about us. ’Pears I might be mistaken.”
A general mood of acceptance engulfed the crowd. Gwendolyn could not help but rejoice. Falke had gained the people’s trust and loyalty, but would the knights in the castle understand the sacrifices Falke was willing to make for Mistedge? From her eavesdropping, she had surmised that Falke’s more senior vassals sought a leader with more than just a title. They sought a man who put Mistedge first, a man they could depend on.
“Lady Wren,” the old villager called out to her, “if ye ken spare me, I have a mind to go down there and show those boys a thing or two about farming.”
Gwendolyn glanced down at the now unmoving oxen and the two knights tugging on the yoke. “Pray do so, Durin.” In her heart she prayed that Sir Falke would show his vassals a thing or two about being a lord.
“What a disgrace.” Laron paced back and forth along the narrow walkway of the inner wall. “Imagine, the lord of Mistedge plowing a field.”
The assembled lords and ladies shook their heads and tsked in censure. Sir Baldwin peered over the wall at the men trying to budge the stubborn oxen. A wry smile crossed his grizzled face. “And he’s doing a pretty poor job of it.” Waving to a few elderly lords, he gave them a wink. “I think we underrated the lad, my friends.”
