Angel of the Knight

by Hall, Diana

  “’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.

  Her voice halted the bird’s serenade and it retreated to a maple tree. The song did not resume, but Falke’s instincts remained charged with energy.

  He watched the bird hop along a branch and perch its bit of weight on a thin twig. “Its lack of splendor is only more apparent because of the beauty before me.”

  The flattery melted Ivette’s pout. She gazed at him through the dark fringe of her eyelashes. “Sir Falke, you are too kind.”

  “Kindness has nothing to do with my words. ’Tis not gratitude I seek, lady.” He cradled her cheek in his hand.

  “Then perhaps you should be more aggressive in your search, Lord Falke.” She emphasized his title and thereby his rights as her liege.

  All gentleness left his caress and he pulled her to him. Eagerly, she sought his lips and molded her body to his. The nubs of her breasts rubbed against his chest, inflaming his lust. He held a practiced seductress in his arms. With full knowledge of her intentions, he cupped one full globe, his finger massaging the hard tip.

  “Sir Falke.” A breathless page ran down the cobblestone path. “They’re here.”

  Releasing Ivette, Falke vented his frustration at the lad. “God’s blood, make sense of yourself. Who is here?”

  Red faced, the page stumbled to a stop and gulped deep breaths into his wiry rib cage. “Cravenmoor. Sir Falke, your bride has arrived.”

  Ivette sucked in her breath and a quiet pall settled on the garden. Cravenmoor here already? Crafty old Merin must have sent for the girl as soon as Falke accepted his offer of inheritance.

  “Milord, they’re entering the castle gate now.” The lad shifted from one foot to the other, obviously impatient to see the queue of guests.

  “I suppose I should be there to greet them.” The page raced off before Falke could even finish. Taking Ivette’s hand, he strolled toward the castle, his mind churning with ideas on how to handle the Cravenmoor dilemma.

  For some reason the melody of the little bird wouldn’t dislodge from his mind. A speck of a shadow flew off into the sparse green of the woods beyond the garden just as Falke climbed the forebuilding stairs.

  The men and women of Mistedge already huddled in tight groups, awaiting the arrivals. Ozbern came to Falke’s side, shrugged his shoulders and nodded toward the mayhem entering the inner bailey.

  The procession dragged through the barbican gate in a cloud of noise and dust. Sir Titus, seated on a hide-scarred palfrey, shouted curses at the servants. His crop slashed across the back of a bearer. “Drop that trunk and I’ll open your back with fifty lashes.”

  Falke watched the display of cruelty and noted to his friend, “Titus hasn’t mellowed with age.”

  Ozbern nodded and wagged his finger toward where Ivette stood with a cluster of ladies. She ripped the lace from her handkerchief as the women gossiped. Tiny shreds of thread floated to the ground like snowflakes. “’Tis plain Ivette is worried. Am I correct in assuming you knew not of this arrival?” Ozbern queried.

  “Aye, Merin must have been certain I’d agree to the arrangement.” Falke scratched his chin. “Or he thought ’twould be harder for me to deny the girl if she stood before me.”

  “Perhaps this girl will not be as sordid as her guardian.”

  “Growing up in a household ruled by Titus?” Falke crossed his arms and widened his stance. Revulsion tensed his muscles. “That man is the vilest human being I know. My aun
t is certain he arranged his brother’s death and the widow’s. Just the fact that his niece is still alive tells me something.”

  “Titus is known as a lecher. Any man would be a fool to leave his daughter alone with him.” Grimness settled in lines around Ozbern’s mouth. “’Tis said Isolde, her mother, was the fairest woman of the realm.”

  “If Isolde’s daughter has any looks about her, you can be sure Titus has already tasted her wares. She’s probably as twisted as he is. Mark me, my friend, I’ll not wed away my freedom just to honor a dead uncle’s wish. Mistedge is mine, marriage or no. Henry has decreed me heir.”

  “Aye, so he has.” Ozbern cocked his head toward the assembled lords. “But should these vassals plan rebellion, with King Henry busy setting London to rights, your throat could be cut and a new lord in place before Henry has time to act in your behalf. A sliced gullet or marriage?” He rubbed his neck tentatively. “Of the two, I suggest the wedding. At least you would be able to enjoy a fine feast.”

  “As always, my friend, you add a bit of sunshine to my dreary day.” Falke slapped Ozbern on the back. As the party cleared the inner bailey gate, Falke sighed. ’Twas time to greet his guests.

  Horses and servants huddled around Titus, hesitant to move before he gave the signal to dismount. When the dust settled, Falke addressed his guests. “Lord Titus, welcome to my home.” He paused to allow the meaning of the words to sink in.

  Titus’s beady eyes searched the crowd for Lord Merin, then he smiled. The wide grin of chipped and crooked teeth reminded Falke of neglected tombstones. “So, Merin’s dead already. Didn’t waste much time, did you?”

  “My uncle died from a hunting accident.” Falke kept his eye on the cagey older man, but he searched the group for the girl. He saw no young maiden in the assembly, only a few knights and camp followers with the servants.

  “Hunting accident? I know a bit about those myself. ” Titus gave a hearty laugh. “’Twas the same that happened to my poor brother. Now I’m lord of Cravenmoor because of it. ’Tis strange how fate unwinds…ain’t it?”

  “Lord Titus, we are all in mourning for my husband.” Falke’s aunt spoke with displeasure as she joined him. “Now, where is Isolde’s daughter, Lady Gwendolyn?”

  Titus’s mouth curled into a sneer. “So, Lady Celestine, I didn’t think you dirtied yourself with the likes of me.”

  “That will be enough, Titus.” Falke stepped in front of his aunt, protecting her from the foul man. Ozbern rested his hand on his sword hilt, his thumb massaging the emerald in the pommel. Tension rippled through the inner bailey. The men of Mistedge stood ready to defend their lady’s honor.

  A dark-haired Cravenmoor knight sidled up to Titus. “Shut up, you old fool, before you get us all killed. We’re outnumbered ten to one. You’ll get your say.”

  “Wise advice, Ferris.” Falke looked back at the older man. “I suggest you take your son’s words to heart.”

  The snarl on Titus’s lips changed to a secretive smile. “My apologies.” His crop flew out and sliced across Ferris’s cheek. A thin line of blood seeped from the high cheekbone. “And you would do well to know your place, bastard.”

  Ferris’s face turned white with rage, making the wound even more pronounced. His jaw clenched and a blue-white vein pounded in his neck.

  Titus motioned a ragged boy forward. He carried a mahogany stool with an embroidered top. The boy positioned the ottoman on the ground, then guided the grossly overweight knight’s foot to the pad.

  Curiosity drove Falke closer. His aunt and the crowd of noblemen followed him. Titus swaggered forward, a gleam of pleasure in his small, swinelike eyes. The hair on the back of Falke’s neck prickled. The old codger had nothing but ill wishes for Mistedge, and anything that brought happiness to him could not be good for the keep or Falke.

  “I can see you’re eager to meet your bride.” Titus waved his hand impatiently. “Cyrus, fetch her.”

  A gray-haired man approached. Although past his prime and dressed in cast-off clothes, he walked with dignity and strength. Behind him, a charger followed. Aged with gray, the warhorse moved with the same regal assurance as the elderly servant. A small form perched on the back of the beast. Lady Celstine gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. A fist of shock slammed into Falke’s gut.

  Titus kept his gaze on Falke and ordered, “Come, Niece. Climb down and let your betrothed get a good look.”

  The girl wrapped her arms around the horse’s throat, leaned forward and slid to the ground. She kept one hand on the horse and with the other leaned on Cyrus’s arm. It took her several minutes to balance on her own feet.

  Falke had never seen anything so pathetic. Matted with tangles and knots, her mud-brown hair bushed out wildly and covered her face. An earth-colored kirtle, patched with bits of rags, strained to cover the girl’s ample girth. A dirty toe stuck out from a hole in her leather slipper.

  Titus’s chilling cackle brought Falke back to reality. His aunt’s fingernails sank into his arm and he felt her tremble. In a hoarse whisper, Lady Celestine said, “By the saints, she wasn’t like this as a child.” Then loudly, she demanded, “What did you do to her?”

  “Me?” Titus raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I did nothing. Many a towheaded child’s hair has darkened with the years. And sadly, after her mother’s death, in the throes of bereavement the child threw herself against a stone wall. Now she’s an imbecile, an idiot. Suffers fits and such. There’s a body, but no soul.” Every word was uttered with undisguised relish and stabbed at his aunt’s strained resolve.

  “Enough, Titus.” Falke refused to allow the base knight to hurt his aunt further. He motioned an attending lady forward. “Take Lady Celestine to her chamber.”

  “Falke, believe me, she was a beautiful child.” His aunt’s voice faltered, and tears came freely. “So like Isolde.” Her attendant led her away and into the protection of the castle.

  Titus clicked his tongue as he gave his niece a fatherly gaze. “Such a dreadful accident.”

  “Like her father’s death?” Falke let the tone of his voice resound with recrimination.

  “Like your uncle’s death?” Titus threw back the innuendo. The silence the statement drew from the crowd made him crow louder. He grabbed hold of his niece’s shoulder and pulled her forward. “Come, Gwendolyn, let the crowd see your pretty face.”

  The girl dug in her heels and fought Titus’s touch. The stallion stretched his bony head forward, bared yellow-stained teeth and clamped down on Titus’s hand.

  “Damn you, demon of hell.” Titus’s roar of curses and pain caused the ladies present to blush. Cravenmoor knights and villeins clustered around in a vain attempt to free their lord. Using his other hand, Titus clobbered the animal’s head. Still the horse held on. Not until the gray-haired servant gave a brisk command did the stallion free his prisoner.

  The crowd parted suddenly with another of Titus’s curses. “Let the devil take the animal. He’ll not taste my blood again.” Cradling his injured hand, Titus whipped a long thin dagger from the folds of his mantle. “’Twill give me pleasure to slit the devil’s throat. Grab the reins so the beast can’t move.”

  Ferris jerked the leather strips from Cyrus. The deadly sharp blade was raised high in the air. Falke raced forward, ready to protect any warrior, man or animal, that drew Titus’s blood.

  “Nay!” As the blade descended, the docile girl lunged at her uncle’s arm, deflecting the blade. It swooshed harmlessly in the air.

  Titus’s ham-sized fist swung at her, but she had expected the blow and rolled away. Knights that should have served and protected her actually kicked at her as she scrambled beneath the feet of her charger. Falke noticed that none of the men dared to venture within striking distance of the stallion’s wartrained hooves.

  Titus bellowed, “You’ll not escape this beating.”

  “Aye, she will.” Falke positioned himself between the horse and the furious knight. Serving as a shield and protecto
r, Falke ordered, “Ozbern, take our guests inside and have someone look at Lord Titus’s injury.”

  “Get out the way, Chretian. That whelp is getting a whipping, then she’ll watch me feed that horse of hers to the dogs.” Titus wrapped a dirty cloth around his mangled hand and took one step toward Falke.

  The sound of twenty blades leaving their scabbards stopped the old man’s advance. Falke’s trusted regiment of men widened their stance. A few knights and lords of Mistedge aligned themselves with Falke’s men. The majority waited with Laron, offering no aid.

  “Fine.” Titus backed off. “Have your show of chivalry.” He peered around Falke at the girl still under the stallion. “Don’t think he’ll protect you, girl, not when it counts. I’ll have my day with you yet.”

  Ozbern gave a cavalier wave of his hand toward the castle door and did a fair imitation of Falke’s sarcastic smile. Titus snorted, then marched toward the castle. His men followed, their gazes staying on the line of armed Mistedge soldiers.

  “Milord.” The elder man’s voice from behind him startled Falke, his perfect French betraying his birth and nobility. “I and my lady thank you for your intervention on her behalf.”

  “No thanks are necessary. You are a knight?”

  “Was.” The aged man nodded to the girl, and she crawled from the protection of the horse’s feet. “I served Lord William and Lady Isolde. Now I and my wife, Darianne, serve their child, Gwendolyn.”

  Falke started to address the girl but stammered to a stop midsentence. She stood staring at the back of her uncle. For the first time, Falke could see her face uncloaked by hair. And what he saw took his breath away. Her eyes, large and wide, shone with the fires of consuming hate. Titus was wrong about the girl—a soul did reside deep inside her. Only a soul could hate so completely.

  “My wife is riding in the cart and will be along soon. Pray, Lord Falke, is there a place where we and the child could chamber? Somewhere out of the way, where no one will bother us?”