Angel Of The Knight

“Gwendolyn?” Darianne hobbled from the tiny cell she called her chamber.

“Here.” Gwendolyn hurried to assist the elderly woman to a stool. “Are your joints aching again today? Did you drink the tea I made for you?”

“Hush, child. Someone may hear you,” Darianne cautioned, looking about the room.

“Do not worry. The serfs are off sleeping or drinking. Why work when the filth is tolerated? Why serve palatable meals when the food is strewn across the floor? We’ll be alone until ’tis time to break our evening fast on the scraps from my uncle’s table.”

Cyrus brought over a cup of hot water and Gwendolyn dug about in her pockets until she found the right leaves. She steeped several dark, aromatic stems in the cup and pressed it to the pained woman’s lips.

“It seems I’m to be married,” Gwendolyn stated in a dry voice. “Lord Merin has a new heir and wishes to honor the contract he made with my father.” Again a surge of hope washed over her. For so long, not even a beam of light had made its way into the darkness of her life at Cravenmoor. Disappointment threatened to snap the thin shaft of longing in her heart. She was afraid to believe, afraid to dream.

“Thanks be to God.” Darianne took a long sip of the hot liquid and rocked back and forth. “At last you’re to be saved.”

“Titus is sure the man will pay handsomely to be released from the contract. ’Tis the only reason he’s letting me go.”

“But if we tell this knight the truth…” Darianne’s gnarled and twisted fingers brushed the tangled curtain of hair from Gwendolyn’s face. “If we show the man the truth, he’d not refuse a union.”

“And what if he’s akin to Titus? If I tell this man that I do have my wits about me, that my dowry is rich, that I am not what I seem—and he tells my uncle—I am doomed.”

“She’s got a point, Wife.” Cyrus rested on a keg of ale. The strong yeast smell permeated the wood and the pantry area. “We must gauge what kind of man Chretian is. ’Tis plain Ferris and Titus have dealt with him before, and by their reaction, I would reckon the outcome was not in their favor. No offense, Gwen, but the thought that Chretian had to marry you brought them pleasure.”

“Aye. But what does that tells us? Any man who would deal with my uncle cannot be reputable.”

“But any man that bests them can’t be all bad.” Cyrus crossed his arms and asked, “So what’s it to be?”

“We go. We listen.” Gwendolyn pulled a handful of dried marigold flowers from a pocket to prepare a decoction for Cyrus’s joints. Placing the withered petals into a pot of boiling water, Gwendolyn formulated a plan as she worked.

“If Falke de Chretian is honorable, I’ll tell him everything. If not, I’ll keep up the disguise and wait for another chance.” She tried to keep the fear from her voice. How many more chances would there be? This was the first real opportunity she’d had in ten years to escape the horrors Titus heaped on her.

“What of Titus’s steward?” Darianne asked. “How long can you be away before our other little game is found out?”

“Come harvest I must be home to fix the numbers, or I must wed. That gives me nigh on seven months. I foresee no problem, for either Lord Merin’s heir will send me straight home or he’ll honor the contract. I should be safe either way.”

“I pray you’re right, child.” Darianne’s voice wavered with emotion.

Gwendolyn prayed also, under her breath. She looked around the dank, unkempt kitchen, and faint memories haunted her. Long ago this room had held happy, busy servants, the walls had sparkled with cleanliness. Her mother had…The rest eluded her. Each time Gwendolyn tried to picture her life before Titus, the image blurred more and more. Was she forgetting, or was desperation clouding even the pictures in her mind?

“Our luck is changing, love,” Darianne sang as she began to gather their meager belongings.

“But for the worse or the better?” Gwendolyn couldn’t help asking under her breath. Would her betrothal be her salvation or destruction?

Chapter Two

“I tell you he murdered him.” Outrage rang in the knight’s voice as he crashed his fist onto the trestle table.

Falke watched the reaction of each of the seated lords. Suspicion darkened their eyes. These men were to be his vassals, but now sat in judgment of him. Falke directed his comments to the panel. “I have witnesses, Laron. Uncle Merin’s horse stumbled on the path. He hit his head on a rock.”

Laron spat on the floor. “Witnesses! Two of your own men.” Facing the assembled noblemen, he summed up his case. “All of you heard their argument. Just before the hunt, Lord Merin threatened to disinherit Chretian unless he wed the daughter of William Duberque.”

“’Twas not an argument, Brother, just a conversation.” Tall and willowy, Lady Ivette rose from her stool. Her fine linen kirtle hugged her hips, and as she walked toward Falke, the tiny links of her girdle tinkled like bells. She touched his arm with her fingers and turned her dark eyes back to her sibling. “The accident occurred as Sir Falke stated. I was there and saw it all.”

As she turned to the tribunal, her voice wavered. “’Tis a crime the manner in which my brother throws accusations at Sir Falke. I know Laron believed our uncle would name him as heir. But King Henry approved of Sir Falke.”

“Only because Falke was lucky enough to take a blow meant for Henry and thereby gain the royal favor,” Laron sneered.

“Aye,” Falke agreed, “luck placed me on the battlefield with our king. Pray, what kept you safe within the walls of Mistedge while men died to protect their king?”

“You accuse me of cowardice?” Laron’s hand rested on the pommel of his sword.

Falke snickered at the knight’s implied threat. Standing, he crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow, daring Laron to attack.

“Fellow knights.” A scarred warrior stood and glared at Laron and Falke. “We are here to solve the death of our lord, not cause yet more.”

Laron chewed the side of his mouth and sat down, pouting.

The older knight then addressed the panel. “Lord Merin’s widow insists Chretian is innocent, and Lady Ivette supports the alibi. We’ve naught more to do but bury our lord and see that his last wishes are carried out.”

Disgruntled ayes closed the proceedings, but Falke could feel the nobles’ animosity. He brushed an imaginary speck from his amber velvet tunic and returned to his seat. Winking at his second-in-command, positioned next to him, Falke gave a cheery smile. “I told you, Ozbern, there was naught to worry over. Justice prevails.”

“You and your eternal luck. Just how eager do you think Lady Ivette would have been to support your story if she didn’t have hopes of being the new lady of Mistedge?”

“Which is why I cultivated her friendship when first I arrived. She bats an eye and the most seasoned warrior melts at her beauty.” Falke tilted his head in the direction of the lady in question.

“But you’re in an awkward position.” His friend raised his dark brows. “How do you appease your uncle’s vassals and keep Lady Ivette dangling? The lords insist you fulfill Merin’s contract of marriage.”

Falke chuckled. “In due time. At present, I must properly thank my staunch supporter.” He rose to his feet in one fluid motion. Looking down on most of the men in the room, he gave a regal nod to those that most opposed him. He sauntered across the room to where Lady Ivette waited with her maid. Her delicate face, framed by a cream-colored wimple, bore not a pox scar or irregularity. If Helen of Troy launched a thousand ships, a thousand more would set sail for Ivette.

“I wish to thank you for your words.” Falke gave her a gallant bow and his most charming smile.

Welcome flashed in her blue-black eyes. “Nay, do not thank me. ’Twas only the truth.” Ivette waved away her maid. “I hope you do not hold my brother’s behavior against me.”

“I am thankful you do not share Laron’s opinion of me.”

She smiled and slowly ran her tongue along her teeth to her lip. “There are many things I would share with you.”

He slanted one brow. “Really? Pray, can you elaborate? I would be most interested.”

A titter of laughter answered his question. “Aye, I would show you…someday. For now, let us walk in the garden and leave the staring eyes of these men.”

“Gladly.” Falke took her arm, then led her past the glaring eyes of his vassals. The heat of their anger beat against his back as he walked out into the fresh air.

Leaving the winter scents of old rushes and smoke-lit rooms, Falke inhaled the perfume of the newly arrived spring. New shoots eagerly reached for the morning sunshine. Stark trees and shrubs showed an array of tiny leaves. A lone bird chirped from the whitewashed trellis, its song a hymn to the season.

“What an ugly little bird,” Ivette clucked. “All brown and drab. What a dreary existence it must have.”

“’Tis a wren. A delightful song, is it not?” The bird’s melancholy notes caused his heart to flutter. His second sense, which some called luck, clicked inside his head. The little bird cocked its head and stared at Falke intently, then began its song over again.

“Delightful? Nay, ’tis a rather sorrowful melody. Mayhaps it knows its lack of beauty and laments its fate.” Ivette snapped shut her fan and laughed.