Angel Of The Knight

A knife of pain sliced thorough Isolde. Her eyes opened wide in shock at the intense agony. Then she felt a disattachment from her body. A brilliant white light blinded her, and within it stood a tall, familiar figure, beckoning. William!

Light and young again, she rushed to her husband’s arms, but stopped just before being engulfed in their welcome embrace.

“William, what of our child?” How could she leave her daughter alone in the world?

“Come, my love, your time of suffering is over. Darianne and Cyrus will look after her.” William’s rich voice soothed her fears. “And we shall watch over her from above.”

Isolde closed the distance and embraced her husband.

Darianne gently closed her lady’s eyes and drew the moth-eaten blanket over her face. In death, the serene beauty of Isolde’s face reappeared from the ravages of pain.

Cyrus wiped his tears on the back of his sleeve. “I should kill that bastard now and be done with it.”

Darianne batted him with her arm and motioned for him to help her rise. Still holding Gwendolyn, she tottered to her feet. “Nay, his death is not so important as this child’s life. The next years will be hard. We must have our wits about us or we’ll all end up supping at death’s table.”

Cyrus looked at the sleeping child’s face. Marred with dark bruises, it still foretold a beauty to come that might even surpass her mother’s. “Our lady spoke true. Titus will want Gwendolyn as he desired Isolde. He’ll not care that the child is his niece. What can we do?”

Darianne clutched the girl closer to her bosom. What could she and her husband do against Titus’s evil? They were both past their prime, with only their wits as weapons. Titus kept her alive only because of her knowledge of healing herbs. Herbs! Aye, there was a chance, though a small one, that they could save the child from Titus’s evil touch.

She gave Gwendolyn to Cyrus and began to gather up some small twigs and leaves into bags. “Take the child to our rooms and then inform a servant to bring a pot of boiling water.”

“What are you about, woman?” Cyrus readjusted the child’s limp form in his arms.

“I mean to erase the gifts heaven sent this child.” Darianne pushed her husband out the door. Before she left, she turned back to the body of her lady, wrapped in a makeshift death shroud. “From this day on, Gwendolyn will cease to resemble you, my lady. I pray you will forgive me for what I’m about to do to your child.” She closed the door and whispered a prayer for the dead woman, the child, and for herself. The last few years had been torture; the years ahead would be worse.

Chapter One

England, 1154

“Hurry up, lass. He’s sure to wake soon.” Cyrus cast a baleful gaze toward the snoring drunk sprawled across the straw pallet on the floor. “Besotted before the midday meal.” He shook his head in despair. “’Twould not be so in your father’s time.”

“Almost done.” Gwendolyn dipped her quill into the inkwell and scrutinized the list in front of her. “I can change this one to a four. This three to an eight.” Tallying up the numbers in her head, she smiled. “The total’s the same. I’ve just rearranged the assets.”

The man on the floor muttered in his sleep and scratched his groin. He chomped his teeth and yawned. The smell of sour wine drifted toward her.

“Let us be gone from here.” Cyrus tugged at her sleeve. “’Twould not go well should the steward find us.”

“He’s not found us these many years, and at the rate he drinks, ’tis not likely he ever will.” Disgust and resignation echoed in her voice. The conditions at Cravenmoor never changed, never would until she could find a way to remove her uncle as lord.

She hopped down from the tall stool and wiped the ink from the tip of her quill. “I gave Sir Demark enough potion to ensure sleep long into the night. None will know of our involvement.”

Opening the door just enough to poke her head through, she scanned the corridor. No sign of guard or servant. Not that she expected one. Cravenmoor had settled into disrepair and ruin since her uncle had taken control. ’Twas all she could do not to fall into the same state. She had to hold on to a shred of hope, if not for herself, then for her people.

As much as she suffered from her uncle’s hand, they fared even worse. Worked from dawn to dusk, and barely allowed enough food to fill their children’s stomachs, her villeins lived a dismal existence. With Cyrus’s help, she managed to sneak food from Titus’s storehouse to feed the village, but credit for the gifts were given to Isolde’s ghost. Gwendolyn did not mind. To starving people, loyalty was a luxury. One word to her uncle about her pilfering, and a serf would have a full belly and she a far more brutal life than she now endured.

“’Tis clear.” She motioned for Cyrus to follow her. Merging with the gloom of the castle’s dark areas, Gwendolyn slipped out the door and raced to the stairs. The elderly knight joined her, the creak of his knees cutting the quiet of the upper tower.

“I’ll boil you some lineament for your legs,” she whispered. A small reward for Cyrus’s years of devotion and love. Gwendolyn prayed she could someday repay the knight and his wife for their selfless loyalty to her and her secret.

The old man shrugged his shoulders and nodded. “’Tis too old I am for this duplicity.”

“Nonsense, you get around well for a man of more than half a century,” she chided, but a meddlesome doubt tickled her conscience. Ten years was a long time to keep up a charade. The mental anxiety wore her thin at times; Darianne and Cyrus must be exhausted. She and her adopted family walked a tightrope. One false step, and all three would be brought down.

Noise from the noon meal drifted from the great hall to the landing. Everyone should be downstairs by now. The busy servants would present the joints of meat and fowl, while the nobility of Cravenmoor consumed the food in front of the near-starving staff.

With light steps, Gwendolyn scampered down the stairs and jumped the last three steps to the gallery. The rotting wood complained. Again she waited and listened. The curses and unsavory jests from the tables below became clearer. Her uncle’s jeering laughter made the hair along her neck tingle.

Cyrus reached her side, his breath coming in loud puffs. “Sooner or later, Titus is bound to discover you’ve been altering the books. And when he does…” His aged palms came together as in prayer.

Gwendolyn knew her plight, but was at a loss to end it. She sought the one sight in Cravenmoor that gave her solace: the effigy of her mother.

Wormholes ate at the mahogany banister. A bench, broken in a drunken brawl, littered the gallery hall. The floor rushes reeked of animal and human excrement. Intricate wall designs had decorated the great hall years ago, but now were faint tracings. Only one item remained of Cravenmoor’s splendor, and Gwendolyn crossed to it.

A life-size effigy of her mother stood sentry on the gallery, gazing down at the great hall and all the assembled men and women. Gwendolyn did not know whether Titus feared or revered the image, but he insisted the effigy be flawless. Regularly, a new wash of platinum paint highlighted the hair, and artists renewed the sapphire shade on the eyes.

Carved for her father, the statue flaunted tradition by showing a true likeness of Isolde. No wimple framed her mother’s face; instead her long hair tumbled to her waist. A sapphire kirtle with knotted sleeves draped the image, displaying the curve of her breasts, the narrow width of her waist and the gentle swell of her hips. The hardwood statue enabled Gwendolyn to remember her mother’s beauty, and offered an opportunity to spy on her uncle’s entourage. Hiding behind the base, she listened to the mayhem below.

Peering down, she spotted Titus at the high dais. He stuffed his mouth with roasted meat with one hand, while slipping the other down the blouse of the serving wench. The young girl trembled as she tried to refill an empty goblet. Drops of dark wine spilled across the stained linen tablecloth and spattered her uncle’s tunic.

“Idiot.” He released the wench and batted her away like a bothersome insect.

Gwendolyn leaned against the smooth wooden effigy, drawing courage from her mother’s image. As she closed her eyes, she felt her aged protector’s strong hand on her shoulder. “Dear Cyrus,” she murmured, releasing a long slow sigh. “If not for you and Darianne, that would have been my fate long ago. Titus keeps me alive now as an amusement and because of my mother’s death vow. Greed is Titus’s king and treachery his most beloved mistress. Should he discover the true profit my lands bring, I would have no hope of ever escaping. He would keep me prisoner till my death.”

“Aye, the man’s got no soul. And thus he fears your mother’s death vow.”

“But those words will not protect me forever.”

“Nay, but there have been many sightings of Isolde’s ghost.” Cyrus gave her a wink. “Trust that when King Henry hears of your plight, all will be put to rights.”

“King Henry?” She snorted. “He’s still trying to restore order in the civilized parts of England. ’Twill be some time before his judges and his influence reach us here in Cravenmoor.” The stairs creaked, and Gwendolyn hushed. She peeked from behind her sanctuary.

Ferris, the worst of her uncle’s bastard sons, stood at the far end of the galley. His dark eyes searched the hall below, then settled on her. The handsome lines of his face twisted into a familiar sneer.

Gwendolyn let the tangled mass of her dark hair cover most of her face. The hatred, the fear, the disgust churned away inside her soul, but she kept a vacant stare in her eyes as she lolled her head to the side.

Ferris approached and tapped her with the point of his sword. “What do you spy on, fat cow?” He stared down his long thin nose at Cyrus. “Why is she not waiting on her betters?”

“’Twas another fit, milord. I brought her upstairs so she’d not disturb your meal.” Cyrus pulled on her arm and led her from the hiding place. Gwendolyn kept her eyes downcast and her hands pushed deep in the folds of her gown. The coarse material snagged on her hangnails.

“Get the sow downstairs. Titus wants her.” Ferris slapped her leg with the flat side of his sword and waited, his black eyes exploring her face for a reaction.

The sting from the sword burned. A show of pain would only lead to more slaps and taunts. She buried her cry by squeezing her hands into tight fists. Cyrus patted her upper arm and guided her toward the stairs.

“Phew! Don’t you ever wash her?” Ferris sniffed the air with disgust. “Even if she is as fat as a sow, she needn’t smell like one.” He pushed them aside and headed down the steps.

Gwendolyn peered from between the strands of knotted hair. “What can Titus wish with me?”

Cyrus shook his head and scratched his beard. “Probably just planning sport at your expense. Mind, do as I’ve taught you. Keep your head down. ’Tis hard to mask the spark of life in those brilliant eyes. Keep your tongue quiet and carry yourself as Darianne instructed. Have faith, my child.”