Angel Of The Knight

“Aye, a bit of playacting and faith ’tis all that stands betwixt Titus and I.” She slumped her shoulders and hunched her back. To cover her eyes, she combed more hair over her face with her fingers. The transformation complete, she motioned for her knight to usher her downstairs. As she walked, one foot dragged over the rough planks of the floor. Occasionally, her foot snagged on the rushes and she had to lean on Cyrus for support.

Breathing hard, Gwendolyn made her way to stand in front of Titus in the great hall. Her uncle continued to gulp his ale. Drink dribbled down his greased beard. He wiped his chin with his hand and then flung the moisture away. Drops splattered her face. She shoved her hands deep into the slits of her kirtle and swallowed all her emotions.

Titus patted his stomach and belched loudly. “God in heaven, Ferris, it took you long enough to find her.”

His son remained quiet, but the tight line of his jaw showed his anger.

“Mayhap he was out searching for his angel again,” a nearby knight called as he drained his wine goblet.

The room grew silent. At a lift of Titus’s finger, Ferris’s blade rested at the blundering knight’s throat. Pressing the knife as well as his point, Ferris growled, “I think you talk too much, Hercule. Isolde lays moldering in her grave, not walking the lands of Cravenmoor.”

“Aye, Ferris. I talk too much,” the knight agreed with an eager but stilted nod. Ferris removed his blade; the knight rubbed his neck and swallowed several times as if to verify that his throat still worked.

Titus’s gaze flickered upward to where the sunlight haloed Isolde’s effigy. A tick attacked his left eye and a flicker of fear crossed over his face. The one chink in Titus’s evil came from Isolde’s threat. Gwendolyn whispered a prayer of gratitude for her mother’s gift.

The village talk of a wandering night angel, a silvery figure that appeared by night, ofttimes had instilled in Titus the only terror Gwendolyn had ever really seen in the man. Titus might not fear retribution in this world, but retribution from the hereafter scared him to the marrow of his bones.

“Why search for angels when we have such a lovely one here?” Titus’s gaze lowered, centering on Gwendolyn. A chill racked the wicked man’s body, as if an icicle ran through his soul.

The room took a collective breath. The knights and their women gave her rancorous looks and jeering smiles. Like Romans at the lion dens, they waited to see the cruel sport made of her.

Her uncle tossed a ham bone at her feet. From under the trestle tables, hunting hounds jumped at the morsel. Snarls and snapping teeth lashed out as the animals vied for the bone. Standing taller that she, the wolfhounds buffeted her from side to side. Their square-jawed heads collided with her knee. Daggerlike teeth sank into her calf.

Laughter and taunts clanged in Gwendolyn’s ears. Cyrus kicked at the pack, putting himself between her and the fighting beasts. The leader gripped the bone in his long yellow teeth, then slunk off, followed by his pack. Gwendolyn lifted her hem and gave thanks that the wounds did not run deep.

“God, but she’s stupid,” a woman declared, then drained her cup of wine.

“Aye, and ugly enough to make a cow look beautiful.” A knight nuzzled the woman’s ear. “Hair as soft as nettles. A shape to mirror a pregnant sow. ’Tis no wonder the girl’s the only virgin left in Cravenmoor. None of us are that desperate to bed a wench.”

“But all of that is soon to change, my dear niece.” Titus rounded the table and towered over her. Evil glittered in his eyes and warned Gwendolyn that misfortune would soon befall her.

“My friends, let us raise our goblets to the fair Gwendolyn on her coming marriage.” His hand whipped out and grabbed her by the hair. With a sharp tug, he forced her face upward. Another tug, and her lips parted from the pain.

“Drink, fair maiden.” He swept a cup from the table and poured the strong wine into her mouth. Hot fire swept down her throat as she tried to both swallow and spit out the brew. She started to choke from the forced drink and her uncle’s words.

Marriage! Was deliverance soon at hand, or an even crueler master? A crystal of pure hope burned in her soul and she suffered the abuse by focusing on that light.

“To Gwendolyn.” The nobles lifted their goblets high in the air and toasted her in mock salute.

Laughter at her expense echoed off the dreary stone walls. Titus released her, pushing her head toward the flea-infested rushes.

Gwendolyn scooted across the floor. Outrage and anger boiled in her heart and threatened to erupt, but her foster parents’ schooling helped her hide the turmoil. Keep all within. Do not show the pain. To distract herself, she stared at the rip in the seam of her shoe. Her fingernails dug into the palms of her hands. She could not afford to let Titus know of the person that existed beneath the dull outer shell she presented.

Her uncle, weak from laughter, waved his hand impatiently for another tankard of ale. A bone-thin page ran to fulfill the command.

“So, Niece, how do you feel to know of your coming nuptials to Lord Merin’s heir?” Titus chuckled under his breath.

“Milord?” Cyrus approached with hesitant steps. “Lord Merin’s son died some years ago.”

“Aye, and ’tis his good fortune he did, or else he’d suffer the fate of marriage to the cow.” Titus grabbed the fresh tankard and downed a hefty swallow. “Lord Merin has adopted a new heir and decided to bind the man to the agreement made between himself and his lifelong friend, Sir William. For the new heir to inherit, he must marry my lovely niece.”

A groan sounded in the hall. Gwendolyn heard the condolences to her unknown betrothed. “The poor man. What bad luck.”

Titus withdrew a wrinkled parchment from the bag on his belt. “Lord Merin demands I deliver the lady Gwendolyn to his northern keep of Mistedge before Easter or his troops will come to take her by force.”

“He threatens war for her!” Ferris pointed his reedy finger at her. Surprise animated his face, erasing the usual sneer.

“The man hasn’t set sight on her since she was two. Lord Merin’ll turn her away at the door.”

“Then why not let him come to us?” Ferris suggested.

“Because if I carry out Lord Merin’s request in good faith, only to be refuted, I’d have to be compensated for my travel. Then again, the contract has been signed and delivered to the king. Lord Merin would have to compensate my poor niece for her broken heart and embarrassment at being so publicly humiliated.”

Her uncle’s laughter tore at the last threads of self-control Gwendolyn possessed. Her desire for revenge caused her muscles to ache for action. Her fingers curled, begging for the chance to scratch out Titus’s eyes. Hidden beneath her kirtle, a dagger tempted her to finally end the years of torment, and impulse caused her to slide her hand toward it.

Cyrus saw her movement. His gray-white brows crinkled as he shook his head to warn her off. She returned her hand to her pocket.

Ferris gave his father a thin smile. “Pray, who is the unfortunate man destined for Gwendolyn’s hand?”

Titus slapped his thigh. “I know you’ll find much pleasure in the knowledge that my niece’s betrothed is Falke de Chretian.”

Ferris’s smile tightened to a snarl and his voice dripped with hatred. “So the rogue’s luck has finally run out.” He shoved aside his gaudily dressed mistress and marched to Gwendolyn’s side. His eyes scrutinized her. “Still, Chretian is known for his uncanny luck.”

“Not this time, which is why this tastes so sweet. Chretian will pay well not to wed Gwendolyn.” Titus’s gaze again lifted to the image of Isolde. A brilliant shaft of light shone on the white-blond hair, and the statue’s eyes seem to sparkle with life.

Titus’s voice lowered and Gwendolyn strained to hear him. “She has no power beyond Cravenmoor land.” A cloud passed, casting a shadow over the statue. The spell broken, Titus waved to Cyrus. “Take her away and pack up what belongings she has. We leave tomorrow.”

The old knight bowed low, so only Gwendolyn saw the white line of anger across his lips. “Aye, milord. I’ll prepare her stallion tonight and—”

“She’s not riding that stallion. He stays here.” The glimmer of another torture glinted in Titus’s green eyes.

The steady thump of Gwendolyn’s heart stopped. Not take Greatheart? Without her to care for her father’s charger, he’d die of neglect. Somehow she had to convince Titus to allow her to take him. Show no concern, her inner voice cautioned Titus is only trying to torment you more. Think! Outsmart him!

“I…ride…white…mule, like real lady?” She labored over each word and spoke in a childlike voice. Through the strands of hair, Gwendolyn watched her uncle’s reaction.

“By Hades, I wouldn’t waste a horse on the likes of you,” Titus shouted back.

“But she’s got to have an animal, milord. The trip would take too long if she’s to walk the whole way. And ’tis a long and taxing journey—hard on man and beast.” Cyrus gave her a quick wink. He had caught the direction of her plan and fallen in step.

“Aye, that it is.” Titus yawned, the drink and heavy meal beginning to slow him down. “Take the old stallion. No one but she can ride him anyway. If the animal dies en route, ’twill be no loss to me.”

Gwendolyn’s heart resumed a steady beat. She wanted to rejoice, hug Cyrus and rush out to Great-heart.

“Now get her the hell out of here. I’m tired.” Titus dismissed them and grabbed the wrist of the woman nearest to him. Her eyes glazed with drink, she followed him up the stairs to the main bedchamber.

“Let’s go,” Cyrus whispered in Gwendolyn’s ear.

Ideas and speculation raced in her head as she followed Cyrus down the stairs to the first-floor pantry. How was Falke de Chretian connected with Titus and Ferris?