Angel Of The Knight

From the shadows, the girl materialized. With her face hidden by her hair, she walked with slow, agonized steps toward her uncle, then stopped well out of arm’s reach. How many slaps had it taken for her to gauge so effortlessly the length of her uncle’s grasp?

The urge to slash the lecher’s arms from his torso ripped into Falke. His hand clenched the dagger at his belt, turning his knuckles white with checked anger. No living thing deserved the abasement Titus shed on this poor lass.

Falke rose and motioned to the table where her knights sat. “Lady Gwendolyn, you must be hungry. Won’t you be seated and partake of some nourishment?”

Mean-spirited laughter from Titus and his crew greeted Falke’s remark. A flush-faced woman spoke, her gown displaying her soiled chemise beneath and dark love marks on her throat. “Now don’t that sound so fine, Lady Gwendolyn?” Slapping her thigh, the woman threw a gnawed bone at the girl. “She eats with the dogs, like the rest of the animals.”

From the Cravenmoor table, bones, pieces of bread and apple cores rained down on the hapless girl.

“Halt!” Falke’s unbridled contempt and his halfdrawn sword stopped the rain of trash. “God’s wounds, Titus, how can you treat your own blood this way?”

“Don’t be high and mighty with me.” The lecherous old man leaned his elbows heavily on the table. “Your own serfs and nobles call her names. ’Tis Lady Wren they call her.”

Falke’s gaze sought out Lady Ivette’s. The corners of her full lips tilted in a slight smile. Pride in her little rhyme rimmed her mouth.

He looked at the girl scrambling to pick up the leftovers. If she lived on scraps, how had she accumulated so much weight? He doubted he could span her waist with both arms. A streak of empathy coursed through him. Her life with Titus must be miserable.

“Lady Gwendolyn.” Falke rose and knelt beside her. “Pray, come and share my trencher.” He touched her shoulder to draw her attention away from the scraps among the rushes.

Like a frightened rabbit, she froze. Her hands stilled. For such a short woman, she possessed large hands. Long slender fingers ended in torn but clean nails. In fact, although the rest of her was filthy, her hands were scrubbed raw with cleanliness. The smell of strong lye soap overpowered the damp, woodsy odor of her hair.

“Milord, thank you for your kindness.” Her elderly guardian rushed forward. “But ’twould be best if we leave now.” Cyrus helped the girl to her feet. She leaned on his elbow, her left foot dragging as she walked.

“See to it you have hot food from the kitchen.” Falke issued the order, but doubted the man would see the command carried out. The two looked like beaten dogs retreating from a fight.

“You’ll not get away with this scheme.” Laron’s pale face was mottled with fury.

“Aye, that he won’t,” Titus agreed, and gave Falke an evil grin. “I’ve brought her here for a wedding and I’m not taking her back. At least not without compensation for a year’s keep.”

“Of course.” Falke had been prepared for Titus’s ultimatum. Untying the heavy leather pocket at his belt, he dropped the bag in front of Titus. With a greedy gleam in his eye, the old swine grabbed the gold, gauging the weight of it in the palm of his hand.

A sliver of conscience sliced through Falke. Could he really send the girl back with this depraved man? In his mind, the ominous voice of his father rebuked him for the dishonorable act. Falke forced himself to muffle the voice and harden his emotions.

“I appreciate doing business with you,” Titus cackled. “Mayhap we can do a bit more business before I leave.”

An underlying evil lay in his words and slithered along Falke’s spine. Repulsed, he answered, “I think our business has concluded.”

Titus rose and smirked. “’Twould be to your benefit to hear me out.” He gave an evil laugh, then stalked from the room. The rest of the table dispersed quickly, except for Ferris. The willow-thin knight refilled his goblet with wine and cursed his father between sips.

“Robert,” Falke called to one of his younger knights, seated at his right. “’Tis enough wine for tonight. What will Sir Laron think if my men make drunkards of themselves?”

“But, Falke,” his man protested, “’tis only my third…nay, my fourth cup.” He lifted his glass high in the air and spoke in a slurred voice. “Sir Laron…is a knight…who appreciates a good press.” Robert, his fine auburn hair covering his bleary eyes, brought the cup to his lips, overestimated the distance and sloshed wine down the front of his gold tunic. A dark stain spread across the wool.

“I’d expect as much from one of your men.” Laron sniffed with disdain.

Ozbern gave Falke a quizzical look. “He’s too far into his cups to stop him now.”

Falke laughed, then smiled at Robert, who staggered across the room, balancing two wine jugs and several cups. When the young knight reached a bench near the fireplace, he sat and poured another goblet of wine. Robert raised the cup, took one sip, then grew limp. The knight passed out, the crack of bone against wood making Falke flinch in empathic pain.

Robert rolled off the bench and landed facedown in the rushes. Falke rose, surveyed the passed-out figure and commented, “A night in the cold and a heavy head will teach him a lesson.”

The comment dispersed the nobles into small gossiping cliques. Ozbern rose, cocked a brow toward Laron, then sauntered off toward the gallery.

Tension gripped Falke’s neck like a hawk’s talons. He wanted a breath of fresh air and a moment or two of privacy. He strode through the hall to the courtyard.

The fragrance of new grass hung in the cool evening air. Mistedge blossomed with spring’s promise of new beginnings. And the keep offered Falke a promise also, of remaking himself from a cavalier to a lord. With time and patience, all the pieces would fall into place. The vassals. The villeins. Lady Wren? The girl would take much thought, but somehow he would arrange to end the betrothal.

Worry nagged at the back of his mind. His feet followed the garden path as it curved away from the castle. A whiff of old urine and spoiled wine warned him of who waited ahead.

Emerging from the pruned shrubs, Titus broke into a ragged-toothed grin. “A year will come and go afore you know it. What will you do when the time’s up?”

“As I said, I’ll rethink the situation.” Falke tried to sidestep around the corpulent knight.

“’Tis a dangerous trip home.” The malice in Titus’s voice brought Falke to a quick stop. Titus rubbed his beefy hands together. “For fifty gold pieces and a deed to her lands, I’ll see she finds the sharp edge of a sword should we be attacked by, say…bandits. None of those high-and-mighty lords will be able to connect you with her death.”

An unexplainable fear replaced the villainy in his stare. Falke detected a slight wavering in Titus’s voice as he finished, “But the deed must not be done on Cravenmoor soil, nor can a Cravenmoor knight spill her blood.”

Revulsion gagged Falke and he restrained the urge to beat the old man senseless. He could feel the steady throb of blood pounding in his head and heart. And questions. Why was Titus so adamant about the where and who? And why the fear?

“Do we have a deal?” Titus held out his hand as a gesture of goodwill.

Falke ignored the outstretched hand. “I’ll think over your proposal.”

The criminal huffed with indignation and hooked his thumbs on his leather belt. “You were quick to seek me out when foul work was needed before. When you needed information on Stephen’s troops, you came knocking on my door.”

“That was before I realized how you tortured those men for answers. Before I saw their broken bodies in your battle camp.” The tentative grip on his ire slipped. Falke emitted a low growl under his breath.

Titus’s face blanched. He scurried down the path toward the castle. Tension racked Falke’s shoulders and he mentally forced his muscles to relax. God’s blood! Titus had a soul blacker than the pits of hell. Falke would like to wipe the old robber baron’s grin right off his face. More specifically, Falke would like to force every crooked tooth down the bounder’s throat.

Desperate to work off his anger, Falke decided to leave the castle for a brisk run. The evening sun melted to a golden arc just above the horizon and the temperature dropped with springtime quickness. He ambled through the inner bailey gate and noted the marshal dozing at his post. Lack of a sure leader was fast turning the troops soft. If Falke didn’t gain his vassals’ allegiance soon, Mistedge would be ill prepared to ward off an attack.

As he entered the outer bailey, he noted the guards’ chambers. Infantry troops bedded down in the chamber halls and supplies of weapons were housed in the lower levels. Bombastic laughter and ear-burning curses echoed from the row of windows. Several colorful phrases involved Falke and various types of torture devices. Reason wasted little time convincing Falke ’twould be best to steer clear of the soldiers for now.

Set off by itself, the stable offered respite from the chill and a place to collect his thoughts. Postponing the idea of leaving the castle, he slipped inside, and plopped down on a pile of sweet-smelling hay to watch the glorious sunset through the open doorway.

“Thank you.” A husky voice floated to him from within the barn in accented English. “Tell me about horse.” Falke scooted to the shadows to investigate. A shuffle came from the back of the stable, and he spotted a boy’s brown cowlick bobbing inside a stall.

“I couldn’t find Cyrus or Darianne to tell them about the animal’s legs. Ye could have knocked me over with a quill when ye spoke to me. In me own tongue, no less. There’s nobles around here who can’t speak it as well as you. And to think ye be a know’n the heal’n ways, too.”

“Don’t speak much, Lucas.” Only a head taller than the child, Lady Gwendolyn moved from one side of the stall and disappeared again behind the wooden gate. “No tell anyone. My uncle. Go hard on me.”

The boy nodded his head with vigor. “I’ve heard about ’em. I’m thinkin’ ’e’s like me da, Lady Wren—” He stumbled on an apology. “I-I’m sorry, Lady Gwendolyn. ’Tis just that everyone’s been callin’ ye that.”

“’Tis no harm. Hold this bowl. I soak the rags.”

The desire to peek over the gate and survey the operations nagged at Falke. He ducked into the empty stall next to the pair and sought a crack to spy through. The girl’s disclosure intrigued him. She spoke English as well as French? Titus called her an imbecile, but the boy was right—there were many nobles who could not communicate with their serfs as well as she.

She moved with ease around the tiny boxed pen. He couldn’t hear any dragging feet against the wood floor. The limp was another facade. What else did she hide from Titus? Falke remembered a young girl’s wooden doll he had seen in the Holy Lands. In reality, it had been a series of dolls, each smaller than the next, all nested together. How many inner layers resided within the outer shell of Lady Gwendolyn?