Angel of the Knight (16 page)

“Where?”

“In Mistedge.” Suddenly, an emotion so pure filled his heart that Falke found it hard to speak. Placing his hand over his chest, he added, “As my lady wife.” Quieting the cheering men, Falke added, “If she’ll have me.”

C
yrus cupped his hands together, gave Lady Wren a boost up into the saddle, then stepped clear of the precocious animal.

“’Tis not safe for her to be on the beast,” Falke muttered. Anxiety roughened his voice to a harsh whisper. He clenched his teeth when the horse laid back its ears in obvious distress.

Cyrus shook his head and led Falke toward the waiting knights. “Greatheart is as gentle as a lamb with the girl. Rest assured the stallion will return her safely to Mistedge. Then ’tis your place to do the same.”

“Come, we have no time to tarry.” Lady Wren gave her entourage a weary chiding. “Sir Alric said the missive called for our help. The fever has spread within the castle walls.” Alric grimaced at Falke, obviously not comfortable with his part of the plot.

Dark circles called attention to the paleness of Lady Wren’s face. Sitting astride her great beast, she
wavered back and forth, the stallion swaying gently beneath her. Falke felt little guilt at the ruse he played upon her. Besides, ’twas the old man’s idea—have her return to the castle under the pretext of helping more ill, though ’twas she who needed rest.

Before departing, Falke whispered a final reminder to the assembled knights. “Let no tongues wag. Should Titus or Ferris learn I plan to marry the lady, they will rush to complete their schemes. ’Tis imperative that Lady Wren has a chance to regain her strength.”
And that I have time to plead my case.

Falke pulled himself up into his saddle, his heart heavy with the truth. He had thought lying with Angel would be a trip to heaven. Instead he found himself in a hell of his own making—a world without Lady Wren’s friendship. Nor would charm and sweet words win back her affection. Nor could he openly woo her, for to do so would warn Titus, Laron and Ferris of his intentions.

Shaking his head at his mental debate, Falke waited as his friends Ozbern, Alric and Robert mounted their steeds. Behind him, five other knights joined their ranks.

Lady Wren clucked her tongue against her teeth. The stallion moved out at a fast walk. The men trailed behind, eating the warhorse’s dust.

Grit coated Falke’s mouth, dust covered his woolen tunic and leather boots, and fear clenched his heart. Ahead, Lady Wren swayed on her mount’s broad back, the reins slack in her hands. Should the
animal bolt, she would be thrown. Yet if he tried to approach the warhorse, the cantankerous beast might kick. Falke had no choice but to watch, his heart in his throat, as the destrier clip-clopped along. The castle gate looked miles away instead of yards.

“Saint Christopher!” Robert exclaimed.

Just a few yards from the gate, Lady Wren slumped forward. The stallion, Greatheart, stopped dead in the trail, completely free to throw off his unconscious rider and gallop away.

“Hold!” Falke gave the order and waited to see what the stallion would do next. Snorting, the creature turned his head slowly and leveled Falke with an impatient stare.

“Keep your horses back, we don’t want to spook the animal.” Falke gave the command, then slid from his mount. Throwing his reins to Robert, he ordered, “Take my stallion, I’m going to try and lead her horse in.”

He made a wide arc around Greatheart, making sure the animal could spot him. Taking a position a few steps in front of the horse, he stopped. “Come, Greatheart.” He spoke a command, not a croon. This animal bore scars and battle marks. As a lord’s mount, he was accustomed to barked commands, not gentle words.

The horse’s ears perked and swiveled toward him. Falke took a few steps, not looking around. A second hesitation, then the steady sound of hooves against the hard-packed earth resounded behind him. On
foot, he led his troupe through the outer bailey to the inner gates of Mistedge.

Falke could make out the shapes of spectators along the inner wall. When he came to the towering wooden-and-iron portal, he ordered, “Open the gate, Lord Falke has returned. The fever has passed.” No creak of an opening gate answered.

Laron’s voice called out from the marshal’s tower. “What word do we have that you speak the truth? The wench there looks sick enough.”

“The word of your lord.” Falke bit out his reply. Drawing his sword, he let the long blade glint in the morning sunlight.

In unison, the men behind him drew their own blades—eight broadswords against a castle full of men. But the display proved a point. Falke did not stand alone.

With a creak, the gate budged from its stationary position and grudgingly lifted to allow the group to enter.

Walking into the inner courtyard, Falke was astounded at the filth and litter strewn about. Scraps of food and animal waste created a stench more toxic than the smell of dying bodies. While those in the village had sweated to clean and detoxify their surroundings, the castle folk had fallen into slovenly ways.

“What has gone on here? Where is Sir Baldwin?” The skin at the back of Falke’s neck prickled with his sixth sense.

“Fell down the stairs last week. Broke his leg.” Laron hastened down the stairs, followed by Ferris and Ivette. A nasty smile carved Laron’s face into a caricature of remorse. “I’m in charge.”

“Were in charge,” Falke corrected, then turned his attention to Gwendolyn. Her body lay draped over the side of the mount. The curious crowd encroached on the space between himself and the stallion.

“Get away!” Falke pushed aside the nobles, taking no heed of their offended complaints. His knights dismounted and created a barrier between the castle folk and Lady Wren.

He tried to wake her from her comalike sleep. “Lady Gwendolyn? Gwen…Lady Wren?” The name caused her to rouse from the deep slumber.

“I am here. Tea…blankets…I am coming.” She reached for some imaginary vessel, then fell from the saddle into his waiting arms, her bulk seeming to be no more than a bundle of rags.

“Falke, are you mad? You’ve brought the fever to us.” Ivette stepped away as he neared, placing her dainty embroidered handkerchief over her mouth.

“Move aside, woman. I have no time for you.” Falke noted the narrowing of Ivette’s eyes and the hard pout on her lips. Cold beauty portrayed the heart within, stonelike and uncaring. He gripped his tattered bundle tightly, afraid he might lose the warmth found within, Lady Wren. Suddenly, she became the most precious bundle of rags he had ever possessed.

Robert ran up the steps and threw open the door. Falke swept inside, issuing orders with a look that would tolerate no laxity. “Bring water and peppermint tea to—” He took one look at the long flight of steps leading to her cell-like accommodation. “Bring them to my chambers, immediately.”

Falke climbed the steps to the first-floor gallery and kicked open his door. His lady slept on, totally unaware of her surroundings. Tenderly, he placed her head on his pillow and laid her on the majestic bed. Grabbing a corner of the velvet coverlet, she rolled on her side, rubbing the satin edging against her face. Falke looped the other end over her and tucked the corners down, afraid that in her sleep she might roll off.

“My child—where is she?” Darianne toddled into the room, pushing aside the young men clustered around the bed.

“She’s tired, exhausted, worked to the bone.” Guilt cut a swath of emotion through him.

Why hadn’t he seen the extent of her fatigue? She could well have died because of his neglect, and he had vowed to protect her from her uncle and cousin. A disgusted mental voice, sounding so like his father’s, nagged inside his head.
You can’t save her from herself, much less another warrior.

Nodding, Darianne caressed Gwendolyn’s cheek. “Aye, ’tis always this way with her. She gives all she has and holds nothing back for herself.”

“She should learn to be more selfish.” Falke
wanted his words to be gruff, but they came out wistful and soft.

A rosy-cheeked servant girl burst into the room with a tankard of tea and a bucket of steaming water. “’Ere ye are, milord.” The girl bobbed a curtsy and dropped the wooden pail.

“Go up to Lady Wren’s room and bring down all her things. To this room.” Falke shot the girl a cold glance, daring her to shun the duty. Wide-eyed, the girl dipped another curtsy and scurried out the door.

Nervousness twitched the older woman’s mouth. “That’s not necessary, Lord Falke. We are fine in the room we have.”

“Nay, Wife. ’Twill be all right.” Cyrus hushed her misgivings. “Lord Falke will see to Gwendolyn’s needs.”

“As will all of Mistedge.” Falke let his gaze fall on the knights hanging back near the door. They stood taller and prouder under his stare. “Lady Darianne, there will be a servant posted outside this door for your convenience. Anything that you or your lady should need, send the servant after it. You are to want for nothing. Understand?”

“Aye, Milord Falke.” Darianne whispered the words, her eyes wide with amazement.

“I will send in the servant girl to help you undress your lady.”

“Nay, milord.” Darianne clutched her husband’s sleeve. “I can see to her myself.”

“But surely you would want some aid in…undressing
her. It would be a chore with the woman unconscious.”

“My wife can see to her needs, Sir Falke.” Cyrus patted his wife’s hand.

“Very well. I’ll leave you to administer to your charge.” Falke marched from the room, Robert and Ozbern following him. Closing the door, he spoke to Sir Clement. “See that one of us is always nearby.”

“Aye, milord. I’ll trust none save those that rode with us from the village.”

“Good. We must be on our guard.” Falke shook the knight’s hand and felt his own responsibility grow. These men followed him now and he was accountable for what befell them because of that loyalty. Surprisingly, he did not chafe under the added weight. It settled well on his shoulders and with his pride. Christ’s blood, there he went again with the most uncharacteristic thoughts. Where had these almost honorable ideas come from?

A twitch of truth answered his question. Lady Wren. Stars, but she had gotten under his skin. And more, the truth-telling voice nudged him to admit. Somehow that misshapen little body with the sapphire eyes had slipped into his heart. Like a battered puppy, Falke reasoned with himself and stomped off, not wanting to hear his inner voice any longer.

“Look at what happened from carrying that creature.” Jabbing his shoulder with her long, pointed fingernail, Ivette sneered, “Look at this filth on your
shirt. ’Tis ruined. And if you don’t mind your ways, you will be, too.”

Looking down, Falke saw an unsightly brown stain on his shoulder. The aroma of cool forest greens perfumed the air. Lady Wren. He rubbed the spot with his fingers in slow circles. ’Twas not grime; he had seen her too often in the village scrubbing her hands and arms to think she would tolerate dirt on her person. Yet ’twas the second time he had held her, and the second time the stain had appeared. What in the devil caused it?

Falke flipped his dagger point into the wooden trestle table, pulled it free and then flipped it again. He stared at the staircase leading up to his chambers. For two days he had waited for word on Gwendolyn’s health. Every day came the same message: “She sleeps.”

Ozbern leaned back in his chair and rested his foot against the time-worn table. He swirled the last swallow of warm amber wine in the heavy bronze goblet.

“The gown you commissioned for Lady Wren is quite lovely. The color exactly matches her eyes.” Ozbern drained the goblet, set it on the trestle table and let his foot drop to the floor. “As you ordered, it will be completed by the morrow. ’Twill make a lovely wedding dress.”

Standing, Falke paced the length of the table, his eyes darting to the staircase at every turn. “I want
that gown perfect. If the women should need more time—”

“’Tis not the seamstress that dawdles, ’tis you.”

“Me!” Falke turned on his second and balked. “We must go careful here. Only the fear that the lady may have the fever has kept Titus from gathering his wastrel lot and departing, with Lady Wren.”

“You haven’t visited her once since we returned.”

“She needs her rest.”

“You’re afraid to ask her, aren’t you?” Ozbern leaned forward, a sly smile on his lips. “You’re afraid she’ll refuse to wed you.”

“Nay.” Falke flipped his hand elegantly. “Lady Wren? Refuse me?” Then with quiet emphasis, he added, “She has no choice but to wed me.”

“And is that how you want her to make her decision? You or Titus?”

“She cares about me.” Falke slumped into a high-backed chair and draped his legs over the sides. “At least she did.”

“Ah, now we have it.” Ozbern poured two goblets of wine from the jug and pushed one toward his friend. “Did you think I would not notice how she was never at your side those last days? What happened?”

“I was a fool.” Falke gulped the wine, letting the tart liquid burn his throat. “That woman I saw before in the woods—well, I found her again.”

“Your angel?”

“Aye, and if her kiss brought me misfortune, lying with her brought me heartache.”

“You made love to the woman?”

“Nay, not lovemaking.” Falke sat up straight in the chair. “Well, at the time mayhap…but on reflection…Nay, I’ll not deny it. I made love to the woman and asked her to return to the village, as my mistress, in full knowledge that Angel knew Lady Wren.”

“And you believe this Angel told Lady Wren of the tryst?”

“Aye. Though for some reason, ’twas not the tryst that riled Angel so, but my request that she return to the village as my mistress, right under Lady Wren’s nose.”

“Discretion, my friend, has always been your strong suit. How is it this woman made you forget lessons learned long ago?”

Falke relaxed his neck and tapped his head on the high back of the chair. “Is it possible to love two women at the same time?”

“Rumor has it that you already have.” Ozbern gave Falke a salute with his wine goblet.

Falke threw up his hands in exasperation. “My body lusts for Angel, for her beauty is without comparison. The passion we kindled in those few hours has not dampened.” He struck his chest with his fist.

“Yet my heart longs for Lady Wren. I would lay down my very life if she would grant me one of her smiles.”