Angel of the Knight (12 page)

“My thanks.” Falke hid the bolt of anguish that struck him. Ozbern’s life rested in the hands of this strange girl below and villagers who detested their lord. What hope did his friend have?

He pushed his way through the crowd on the walkway and stairs. Questions rang out. Cousins, wives, children, husbands, parents—all wanted reports on their loved ones. Arry’s booming roar answered back with short answers. A prayer of thanksgiving or mourning accompanied each response.

Falke slapped the hilt of his sword. “Would that I could save Ozbern’s life with this blade as he has saved mine.” Worry and frustration gnawed at his soul.

He had stayed behind the inner walls because he had promised Ozbern to try and win the vassals to him, but Falke could remain idle no longer. Let the lords and ladies think their lord abandoned them. Let
Laron plot at will. Falke would go to his friend and offer what aid he could.

Stripping off his embroidered tunic, he grabbed a plain wool tunic from the line and used a piece of twisted rope to cinch it at his waist. Dressed as a laborer, he headed for the castle gate.

“Falke, where are you going?” Ivette’s voice sounded brittle and strained as she strode to keep up with him.

“Out.” He lengthened his stride toward the portal.

“I just heard about poor Ozbern,” Alric interjected slipping between Falke and Ivette. Robert marched behind.

Falke kept his stare on Lady Wren standing just outside the inner gate. As she spoke with Darianne, her stammering, rasping voice fueled his purpose. Aye, the girl had more wits than she let on, but not enough to entrust Ozbern’s life to.

“What are you going to do?” Robert asked the question as though he already knew the answer.

“Ozbern needs my help. I’m going to help him.” Falke kept up his deliberate push toward the gate.

“You can’t go out there.” Alric placed his hand on his commander’s shoulder. “’Twill do Ozbern no good if you fall ill also. And think of Laron. He’ll be preaching treason in your own hall.”

“Mistedge and Laron can go to Hades. I’ll not leave Ozbern out there alone.” Falke’s tone sliced the air with deadly anger. The younger knight pulled back his hand, his face flushed.

“Are you going to throw away everything?”
Ivette’s normally sultry voice cracked with disbelief. “The answer to our problem is this fever. With any luck, that wretched girl will die from it.” Her blue-black eyes narrowed and she pointed one slender finger at his gut. “Stay in here where ’tis safe, and bide your time. If you don’t, Laron will turn those knights against you, and as soon as this fever passes, they will overthrow you. Think of your duty to Mistedge.” The ring of her words grated on Falke’s ears. ’Twas an order, not a request.

He mentally commanded his fists to uncurl. Making an abrupt turn, Falke kept silent while he headed for the gate. Standing in front of the iron bars that sealed him from the ravages of the fever, he kept his gaze on the weary group in the outer courtyard. Closer to them, he could see the heavy cloak of fatigue each wore. Lines near his eyes and mouth softened the blacksmith’s features. The boy had been whittled away to nothing more than bones and skin.

And the girl-woman, Lady Wren. Her hand trembled as she held the reins of the donkeys, and she leaned against one skinny beast for support.

“Open the gate,” Falke shouted to the guardsman at the gearwheel.

“Milord, you’re going out…there?” The guard pulled himself up taller, straightened his shoulders.

“Aye.”

Falke’s answer echoed in the whispered gossip of the nearby men and women. In the blink of an eye, Mistedge’s nobles joined them.

“What are you trying to pull now, Falke?” Laron
quizzed from the walkway. Like a swarm of bees, the knights left the wall and made their way toward him.

“I’m going to the village.” Falke silenced the protests with a curt wave of his hand. Although he spoke to all, he faced Laron and Ferris.

Ferris sneered, “I bet a gold coin he’s planning to disappear and leave the rest of us to fend for ourselves.”

Falke’s fist shot out like an arrow from a crossbow. The hard crack of his knuckles against Ferris’s jawbone was pleasurable pain. The arrogant knight flew backward and into the arms of several of Falke’s vassals. In unison, they spread their arms and let the knight fall.

Surprised, Falke lifted his eyebrows. “Sir Baldwin—” he shot Laron a calculated gaze “—I leave you in charge in my absence.”

The gray-bearded knight puffed out his chest and spoke in a gravelly voice. “You can count on me, Lord Falke. I admire a man of action.” He gave a quick nod of his head in Ferris’s direction. “He was out of line. No one insults a lord—or temporary lord—of Mistedge.” Then nodding toward the village, he added, “There needs to be some direction out there.”

Pointing to the gearwheel, Falke repeated, “Open the gate.” Without hesitation, the soldier put his back into turning the wheel. The gate lifted, protesting the movement with earsplitting screeches. The noise drew the attention of the group in the outer bailey.
As the iron gate creaked upward, Lady Wren moved farther and farther away.

Just before leaving the safety of the inner keep, Falke turned, grabbed Sir Baldwin by the arm and gave him a firm handshake. The elder man said in a loud voice, “Go with God, Lord Falke. I look forward to your return.”

Releasing the knight’s arm, Falke took a deep breath and stepped beyond the gatehouse walls. For a moment, the high stone archway shadowed him and chilled his skin. Blood raced through his veins and nervous energy made him question his decision.

Then footsteps other than his own echoed on the worn cobblestones. Before he could turn, Robert and Alric were at his side, along with the young guard from the gearwheel.

“My brother’s down there.” The guard spoke with affection. “He’s taken care of me most of my life. I reckon ’tis time for me to return the boon.”

Falke gave a sidelong glance at his friends. Alric slapped him on the back. “Ozbern’s our friend, too. And so are you. Count us in.”

A tremendous sense of responsibility settled on Falke’s shoulders. Was he leading them to folly, perhaps to their deaths? He should push them away, prevent them from making the same mistake as he. Yet even as he opened his mouth to dismiss them, they rushed forward to gather the supplies and greet Lady Wren.

“Do you know what you’ve done?” Lady Wren asked serenely as Falke joined the troupe.

“We’ve come to help.” Falke noticed she kept her head bent. He could see the crooked part of her oily hair and the line of white hairs at her crown.

“Then perhaps,” she sighed under her breath, “there’s hope for you yet.” Then she gave a tug on the reins and led the laden donkeys off.

A
fter a week in the village, Falke had grown accustomed to the sweat sting in his eyes, but not the indignity he suffered. He pushed the heavy wooden paddle about in the iron kettle, his mind festering with self-righteous anger. Hot sudsy water sloshed over the sides, soaking his leather breeches and his bare chest. Lumps of rags and blankets slowly agitated in the soapy water. Laundry! The lord of Mistedge was reduced to washerwoman.

“Milord, those be clean enough now.” Blodwyn shelved a willow basket on her hip. “Lift ’em ’ere and I’ll hang ’em on the line to dry.” The square-jawed woman gave him an appraising stare. “There’s more to be fetched by the tent.”

Taking orders from a serf
. If Laron and the knights within the keep saw him thus engaged, after their bout of laughter, they’d be more than happy to replace Falke as lord. Biting his tongue, he used the paddle to lift out the heavy, sopping blankets. He
plopped the load into Blodywn’s basket, then set off for the tent, still nursing his bruised pride.

His self-righteous anger slowly cooled as he marched toward the sick ward. All around him the ill lay on pallets, tended by what were left of the healthy villagers. A week seemed like a lifetime to Falke now. Death greeted the village daily. The old and the young were the favored guests. And now beneath the tent, Robert lay next to Ozbern, both stricken with the plague.

“Lady Wren, we’ve five more soldiers ill.” A village woman nearly cried as she gave the news.

“Crowd these beds together.” Rising to her feet next to a patient, Lady Wren pointed to an area already nearly carpeted with pallets. The news of more ill did not break her composure. Unruffled, she issued a series of orders. “We will need more tea brewed. And fresh water.”

Without question or complaint, her requests were carried out by a group of gray-faced serfs, themselves on the brink of fever or just recovered. Falke wished his own vassals would attend his orders as these serfs did Lady Wren’s.

“And tell the laundress we have need of more linen,” Lady Wren added.

“The laundress…is here,” Falke snorted.

“L-Lord Falke,” she stammered. Her eyes, barely visible through her hair, met his, then quickly dropped. “I—I did not notice you. You have no shirt on.”

“’Tis in the laundry,” he replied
. Did not notice
him, my eye
. If there was one thing Falke had learned this past week, aside from not washing the bright reds with the whites, ’twas that Lady Wren was totally aware of all that transpired in the village. She was no simpleton. In fact, she dispatched workers with the precision of a battle commander. Women to brew the medicinal tea. Men to fetch and carry supplies. Children to fold and change linens. Falke to do laundry.

Bent on removing himself from the degrading work, he gave her a charismatic bow. Falke half grimaced, half smiled in an attempt to woo the lady to his thinking. “Point me in the direction of your soiled whites, mildewed wools and grimy garbs. Unless there’s something else you’d have me do?”

Not even a grin
. His smile was perfect, his delivery flawless, and yet he was unable to beguile Lady Wren any better than the woman he had met at the pond. He gritted his teeth in defeat. “I’ll get the laundry.”

She arched one brow and studied him for a few moments. Searching his face, as though intent on discovering some hidden truth, she replied, “Lord Falke, if laundry is not to your liking, there’s other work to be done.”

The look on her face bore him no goodwill. Glancing to the side, he noticed several women emptying chamber pots. Nay, she’d not dare! Falke straightened, considered the solemn-faced woman and knew she would.

“I would not think to supersede your orders, Lady
Wren.” Although he spoke with sarcasm, a good bit of truth underlay his words. This lady had the wit and focus of a mercenary. She fought to win, though her enemy be death itself. None in the village or outer bailey spoke her title without respect and awe. Including him.

For the sake of these people, Lady Wren had shed all pretense, and in doing so, put her life in danger. Not only from the fever, but also from Titus. Should her uncle discover how he’d been made the fool, Lady Wren’s life would be forfeit. In truth, Falke could not help but admire the woman.

Sighing, she pursed her lips and pointed to the far end of the tent. “Very well, the soiled linens are there. They should be easy to spot now that they are all pink.” She dismissed him by turning away from him. “Arry, I need more borage, and where is the lavender?” Her list of requests flowed as she inspected the area made ready for the sick.

Falke trudged toward the mountain of dirty cloth. What did the woman want from him? He fulfilled every chore she instructed, no matter how menial. Yet still he sensed she wanted more. But what? And why did it matter to him if he did disappoint her? He had long ago grown callous to others’ disillusionment with him. Lady Wren touched cords in his soul that he thought long severed.

Falke paused near a bucket of cool well water and took a sip. The liquid parched his dry throat, as Lady Wren quenched his dry soul. He let his head hang as he dropped the gourd back into the wooden bucket.
Aye, she did just that, he admitted. With unexhausting energy, she bathed fevered bodies, cajoled children to drink her awful-tasting brew, and shoved the same foul tea down the throats of complaining soldiers.

As she revived the spirits and hopes of the serfs, she had somehow rekindled Falke’s cynical soul. She acted not from duty or fear of what others might think of her, but because she cared. And Falke found that to be one weapon against which he had no defense.

And then there was Ozbern. If he lived, Falke owed Lady Wren a boon he could never repay. And this week had taught Falke another fact. He could not marry Lady Wren. He respected her too much to have her suffer a loveless marriage as his mother had. Despite his restlessness and limited sleep, Falke’s dreams were still haunted by his “night angel.” If she called, he would gladly fall into her arms.

Just the memory of the woman sent hot lust to his groin. Without a cold bath to ease his thickening, Falke settled for a dipperful of water over his head. ’Twas a poor substitute, but the shock of the cool water on his bare chest helped him to push aside thoughts of the mysterious woman.

His hair still dripping, Falke decided to check on his friends before gathering the wash. He walked over to Ozbern’s bedside. The knight’s dark hair lay plastered to his scalp. Dark smudges beneath his eyes marked his pale face. In the pallet next to him lay Robert.

Falke should never have allowed young Robert out of the inner bailey. The boy was newly knighted, so full of life, and now, because he’d followed Falke, he might die.

In the back of his mind, he saw and heard his father, Bernard de Chretian—his tone full of disgust and disappointment, his aristocratic nose downturned, a deep frown carved on his lips. Aye, his father would condemn his son’s actions, from Falke’s refusal to marry Lady Wren to leaving the inner keep. As usual, Falke had lived down to his father’s opinion.

Taking a rag from a gourd of water, Falke rang out the excess and placed the cool cloth against Ozbern’s forehead. At least he could help his friend in this small way.

“You’re dripping all over me,” a voice croaked.

Falke almost tipped the entire bowl of water over on his friend’s chest. “Ozbern? You’re awake?”

“Aye.” Ozbern smacked his chapped lips together. “I’d prefer a bit of water in me rather than on me.”

The sound of his friend’s voice sent a lance of joy straight through Falke’s heart. This had to be a good sign. Ozbern must be recovering.

“Lucas,” Falke shouted with urgency. “Fetch fresh water and Lady Wren.” Cradling Ozbern’s head on his arm, Falke waved his free hand with impatience until the lad filled it with a leaking gourd. Gently, he tilted the vessel to Ozbern’s lips. The liquid disappeared in slow, loud gulps.

“’Tis good to have you back among the living, my friend,” Falke declared.

“’Tis good to be back,” Ozbern replied. “But why are you here? Laron? Mistedge?”

“Is not nearly as dear to me as you are.” Falke clasped his second’s forearm, emotion making any more speech impossible.

“Lucas said you wanted me.” Lady Wren spoke from near his side.

Falke looked up into a rare glimpse of Lady Wren’s face. Her sapphire eyes could not veil her fatigue. Thick lashes cast shadows on the high cheekbones and finely chiseled features. White streaked her dark hair, appearing, it seemed, almost overnight. For a moment, with her face framed with lighter strands, she reminded him of his night angel.

Aware of his scrutiny, she knelt at Ozbern’s side. Falke lost the foolish image. How could a few stray tresses make him forget her mass of tangled, mud-colored hair or her plump form? Lady Wren was an angel—but of mercy, not his unknown temptress.

“He’s awake. Ozbern woke up.” Falke choked out the words from around the lump in his throat. He didn’t know where the sudden emotion in his chest rose from—Ozbern’s recovery or the depths of Lady Wren’s lapis eyes.

“Welcome back, Sir Ozbern.” Her long fingers eased down his cheek and prodded the skin below the jawline.

Her hands were an odd mixture of age and youth—strong and nimble like a child’s, knicked and
callused like an old servant’s. As she moved them in her examination, Falke could detect only gentleness.

“A few days rest and he’ll be back to his old self,” she pronounced.

A slanted smile tugged at Falke’s mouth. “Are you sure, Lady Wren? I was hoping to get something better than the old Ozbern from all this tender care. Do you mean to tell me he’s going to go back to his usual overbearing self?”

“I’m afraid so.” It was slight, but the edge of her mouth turned up as she spoke.

Blessed Saints! She smiled
. An infusion of pride puffed Falke’s chest. He had made Lady Wren smile! That was an accomplishment. And he hadn’t even been trying. Falke rubbed his hand over his mouth to hide his grin. Between Lady Wren’s smile and Ozbern’s recovery, he felt downright giddy.

Lady Wren drew her mouth into a tight line, as though sensing his humor. She rose, lost her balance and reached into the air to steady herself. Jumping to his feet, Falke attempted to right her. Taking her large girth into consideration, he gave a hefty shove and she landed on her hip, dazed.

“I’m sorry. Truly, I meant you no harm.” Falke apologized as he jumped over Ozbern to help her to her feet.

She waved away his attempt to aid her. “I can manage. Go back to your work.” Huffing, she drew herself to her knees, then lumbered to her feet.

Amazed at her dismissal, Falke barked, “I’ll stay here with Ozbern and Robert.”

The peaceful blue of her irises darkened to the color of a stormy sky. Yet with all the emotions raging in her gaze, the placid features of her face remained unchanged. “I thought you were lord of Mistedge,” she challenged.

“I am.”

“Then each and every man, woman and child is your concern. As each is mine.”

“How can you care for so many?”

“How can you care for so few?” No sarcasm tainted her words.

Frustration seized Falke with a stranglehold. He wanted to ram the words down her throat, but the truth of her statement could not be ignored. As lord, he was responsible for all of Mistedge, and for the first time he felt the weight of every inhabitant on his shoulders. From simpleton to physician to seer, the woman before him unveiled a new layer at the most unexpected of times.

It hurt to abandon his friends to the hands of strangers, but there were better ways he could help them. “Very well, I’ll go back to the laundry.”

“If that’s what you think is best.” She spoke through clenched teeth. Her tone implied in some way he had shirked his duties.

Her head barely reached his shoulder, but she had managed to ruffle Falke’s temper. “Woman, you cannot mean to scold me. I’ve chopped wood, fetched water and lugged dirty linens. Christ’s wounds, I’ve done laundry!”

Ozbern scrunched his eyes closed and murmured, “And I missed such a sight.”

Falke shot to his feet as the lady backed away. “I am lord of Mistedge. Do not forget it.” Her head lifted and she scurried from the tent.

“By heaven, the woman has no right to talk to me that way.” He paced up and down beside his friend’s cot. “I’m the head here whether anyone likes it or not, and I’ll be damned if some brown bird of a girl is going to condescend to me. I’m Lord Falke of Mistedge.” He slammed his fist into the palm of his hand.

A painful chuckle escaped Ozbern’s lips. “Forsooth, Falke, I believe Lady Wren has done what I failed to do.”

“What?” Confusion tempered the anger in Falke’s chest. “Drive me completely daft?”

Ozbern gave a tired sigh and closed his eyes. “That, and have you accept your role as lord here. Somehow she’s made you
want
Mistedge.” A snore trailed his last comment.

The little trickster! Falke felt his mouth drop open as he slapped his forehead. How had Lady Wren managed to transform Mistedge to more than just a piece of land for him? But he knew the answer already. By chopping wood, fetching water, and aye, doing laundry. From the most menial of tasks he had learned the greatest lesson—that a keep was not composed of stone walls and castles, but of its people.

No longer were the serfs nameless workers. There was the laundress, Blodwyn, with her military stance.
And Lucas, nervous, young and eager to learn. Arry, the blacksmith, newly sober, devoted to Lady Wren and strong as an ox. The list went on, from the reeve to the newest babe, born just yesterday, a gift of life in a time of death.

Falke left the canopy and strode down the dirt path after his betrothed to thank her. He found her standing between two unplowed fields. Grass and wildflowers swayed in the gentle breeze. He caught the rich scent of fertile earth that seemed to come as much from her as from the ground.

Staring at the fields, she spoke to the wind instead of Falke. “’Tis March and the fields are not planted.”

“And what would you have these men do—rise from their sickbeds to plow the fields?” Falke wondered at Lady Wren’s sudden insensitivity. She had opened his heart to the villagers’ plight, yet now she seemed to have closed hers. These people could not be expected to till the land in their condition.