Angel Of The Knight

“’Twas too long a journey for him.” Genuine concern cracked the even timbre of her voice.

A finger-wide split between two boards offered Falke a view into the next stall. A short candle sputtered light onto Lady Gwendolyn’s hands. Again Falke found himself mesmerized by that part of her body. The muscles in her fingers flexed and contracted while she massaged the inflamed tendons of her mount’s legs. With skilled efficiency, she rubbed a sharp-smelling ointment deep into the horse’s joints.

“Now I’ll wrap them.” She withdrew long strips of brown cloth from the bowl the boy held. The smell of juniper and camphor mixed with the aroma of the liniment. She swaddled each leg with even, parallel turns of the wraps, then wiped her hands on the front of her skirt.

“Will that fix ’em up?” The boy stayed close to Gwendolyn and away from the stallion’s sharp teeth.

“Aye.” She stood and shook the hay from her gown. The kirtle ended in a ragged rip across the front and exposed her ankles to the cool night air. A glance at the wrapping and the gown confirmed the origin of the strips of cloth. How many of the patches on her gown were due to wear and how many due to use as bandages?

“What should I do tomorrow? Remove them strips?” The boy offered his aid, but kept his gaze on the huge head of the animal.

“Nay. Greatheart…not like strangers. Save with me.”

The boy flattened himself against the wall of the stall. Gwendolyn stretched out her hand and rested it on Lucas’s head. She brushed back the curtain of hair from her face, and once again Falke found himself amazed at the color of her eyes—two jewels of brilliant sapphire light.

Her voice deepened and grew steady. “Cyrus or I will nurse him. And Lucas, if anyone asks, tell him Cyrus wrapped the legs. Can you do that?”

Her blue eyes suddenly grew worried. They no longer shone with youth. Instead, Falke saw them dim with ancient wariness. She bit her upper lip and cupped the boy’s chin with her hand. “Lucas, ’tis very important.”

Lucas nodded his head and gave her a big grin. “Lady Wren—I mean Gwendolyn—ye can trust me.”

“Good.” She tossed her head and the matted dark mane again covered most of her face. Her voice became hesitant again. “Check outside. No one can see.” The boy ran out the gate. Falke duckwalked to a corner and waited for the two to leave.

“Goodnight, Greatheart. We lived another day.” Sorrow and courage colored her statement reminding Falke of an old woman who has outlived all those she loved.

“Lady Wren, there’s no one about.” The boy gave her a quick wave from the stable door.

Light, sure steps danced across the floor, then the only sounds were the even breaths of the livestock. Falke peered over the gate. The boy’s and woman’s forms flittered past the stable window and disappeared around the corner.

He braced his arm on the top board and jumped the stall gate. At the door, he searched the dusk for signs she had succeeded in reaching the castle unseen.

From the garden path, Ozbern emerged breathless and panting. “There you are. I’ve been looking for you.”

“Why? Did you see anything?” Had Lady Gwendolyn been spotted?

“Nay, not see. But I heard from Robert.” Ozbern’s tone was rueful and admiring at the same time. “I don’t know what possessed you to have him play the drunk for Laron, but it worked. After the rest of the knights withdrew, Ferris and Laron had quite a conversation. They let their tongues wag until they passed out drunk. Guess what plan they devised?” Ozbern quirked his mouth in an all-knowing grin.

“Ferris offered to kill Lady Wren—Lady Gwendolyn—and frame me for the woman’s demise.” Falke squelched the smug smile on his friend’s face.

“Blast it, Falke, just once I’d like to supply a bit information that you don’t already know.” Ozbern shook his dark mane of hair in self-disgust.

“Titus offered me a similar deal. Though I think Ferris acts alone on this. Titus was adamant that no Cravenmoor people be involved. But father and son are much alike.”

“What kind of people are we dealing with?” Distaste hardened Ozbern’s tone.

Falke walked back to the castle with Ozbern matching his strides. ’Twas a good question his friend asked. A man who offered to kill his ward, a bastard who offered to kill his cousin, and a woman-child who played the buffoon but hid an ember of humanity…The image of her strong hands working with practiced ease created in Falke a desire to erase the sadness that dulled her azure eyes.

“We must keep her here.” The tingling sensation that had nagged at him disappeared with his words.

“And guard her well. Her death would be all Laron needs to set the rest of Merin’s vassals against you.” Ozbern combed back his hair with his fingers.

“See that one of my men is with her at all times,” Falke ordered in a harsh whisper as he pushed open the castle door and entered.

Red-hot embers in the fireplace pulsated with heat, driving away the chill of the outside air. Ivette embroidered near the wide hearth. Her gaze traveled up the stairs toward the solar and main bedchamber. Instead of returning her inquiring smile, Falke slumped into a chair near the fire. The sharp snap of a fan and the stiff crinkle of silk marked her displeasure at his refusal of her unspoken offer this night.

“Go to bed, Ozbern,” he ordered as he stared into the coals. Alone with his thoughts, he stirred the ashes with an iron poker and watched the embers fly up the chimney, wishing his worries would disappear as easily.

His errant vassal and the men of Cravenmoor offered him no real danger. But the girl’s danger materialized because of him. He couldn’t allow her to be hurt due to his plan. He crinkled his eyes in disgust. God’s wounds, if he wasn’t careful he’d start to sound honorable. And that was something he couldn’t allow. Even for the sake of Lady Wren.

Chapter Four

Robert careened around the corner, swept the great hall with a glance, then bounded up the stairs three at a time. Falke watched the anxious young knight race across the upstairs gallery.

“Lost her again?” Ozbern positioned his rook to capture Falke’s bishop.

“Aye, ’twould seem so.” Falke saved his bishop, the move putting Ozbern’s white rook in danger.

Falke’s squire, Harris, stumbled into the great hall, then strolled casually across the floor. When he reached the stairs, he, too, raced up them. Lady Wren’s two bodyguards exchanged shrugs on the balcony.

“Harris doesn’t know where she is, either?” Ozbern moved a pawn to block his rook’s capture.

“’Twould appear so.” Falke stretched his long legs and propped his fingers together as he pretended to study the chessboard. Seated in a small alcove at the far end of the room, he had a location that enabled him to survey the hall’s activities.

Servants bustled around the trestle tables, collecting the trenchers from the midday meal. Hounds milled through the floor rushes, eager to find scraps. Indulgent villeins threw bones and pieces of meat to the appreciative dogs. Though nearly waist high to the women clearing the table, the dogs remained docile, wagging their tails and licking the hands that fed them. Would that Falke’s vassals were as easily subdued.

Upstairs near the solar, Ivette and the ladies of Mistedge had retreated to their sewing and embroidery. His dismissal nearly a fortnight ago had Ivette playing the wounded lover, though they had shared but a kiss.

Seated near the hearth, Laron and Ferris shared a bottle of Norman wine, speaking in low tones and occasionally throwing a speculative glance toward Falke. Titus snored heavily near the high dais, his overindulgence of rich food and strong wine sapping his alertness. ’Twas one enemy Falke need not worry himself with.

He nodded slightly toward the expansive room. “All those who could do the lady harm are accounted for.” A wisp of a smile tugged at Falke’s lips as he slanted a glance toward the shadowy alcove just to his left.

Ozbern leaned across the board and whispered, “’Tis good to see you enjoy this duty.”

“’Tis naught but self-preservation,” Falke insisted.

“But ’tis an honorable decision nonetheless.” Ozbern smiled as he moved his queen.

“Do not read more than is there. I have no honor, wish no honor. I do and say as I please to get what I want.” Falke swore as he spied a bit of skin. A big toe, in fact. Light wavered through the high window behind him and lit on the corner of the alcove, illuminating a worn leather slipper with a toe protruding from the tip. Lady Wren.