by Hall, Diana
“Aye, I suppose we should.” His voice just a trifle louder than necessary, Falke advised, “Send Robert upstairs to her chamber. Harris to the chapel. You take the halls.” With his men so dispatched, Lady Wren would be able to make her daily pilgrimage to the stables without bumping into any of them.
“And you?”
Settling back and gaining an unobstructed view of the alcove, Falke smiled. “I will savor my victory.” The shadows shifted. The toe vanished. Lady Wren disappeared in the darkness.
Ozbern muttered complaints as he strode off to do his leader’s bidding. Falke waited a few minutes, just long enough of a head start so the girl would not know he followed her. She was too fleet of foot for him to give her much of a head start. He strolled toward the garderobe, then ducked down the adjacent hall to shadow the girl.
He had wrestled with informing his men of her lack of handicap, but had decided to keep mum. The more people that knew of her secret, the more likely ’twould to be revealed. The girl needed as many tricks as possible to elude Titus. Cyrus and his wife, Darianne, had instructed her well. None save Falke knew of her deception.
If not for the night in the stable, Falke would never have guessed the girl possessed such stealth. Nor would he have been watchful for her quiet moves. For nearly a fortnight, he had been mindful of her silent presence among the shadows. When the hall rang with music, the nobles sipped fine wine and the servants busied with finishing up the day’s tasks, Lady Wren cloaked herself in mourning colors and spied.
As long as her would-be assassins remained in Falke’s sight, he allowed her to roam. He would give her what freedom he could as long as she remained at Mistedge. But with reason. He had followed or beat her to the stables each day.
Dampness seeped through the walls of the curved passageway, chilling his skin. Fur-soft moss clung to the stone. Thankfully, the floor rushes were winter old and had long ago had the snap crushed from them. Soundlessly, he made his way through the hall and down a set of stairs to the first floor.
Clatter from the kitchen broke the silence. Falke stilled, then inched closer. The fire snapped and popped as grease and water spattered onto the embers. Servants laughed and spoke in harsh English accents as they consumed the last vestiges of the nobles’ meal.
Poised at the kitchen door, Lady Wren waited, her entire body swathed in a dark mantle. With the kitchen crew engrossed in merriment, she scampered past and slipped out the door to the yard.
The butler rose from the table and approached the kitchen archway. He turned his neckless body toward the door, listening. Falke crouched against the wall, the cold stone pressing into his back. Releasing a sigh, the butler withdrew and returned to the ribaldry in the kitchen.
On tiptoe, Falke crossed the hall, paused to listen for any approaching steps, then carefully opened the door and followed Lady Wren.
A small, square shape shuffled along the inner bailey wall. Carefully, she made her way to the gate and the outer bailey. Above, the guards lounged, unaware of the figure’s presence.
Lady Wren would make the stables without detection. Falke would give her time to inspect the steed’s legs and apply the aromatic herbs, though the animal seemed to have recuperated. This morning, when he had ventured to check on the animal, the old warhorse had tried to kick his teeth in just for peering over the stall gate. A few days rest and the destrier would be well enough to travel, though a journey back to Cravenmoor might cause a recurrence.
More than a gentle nag of guilt pricked Falke’s heart. He never tolerated abuse of an animal, and Lady Wren and her mount jousted with his determined aloofness. How could he stay distant from the girl’s plight? But he would. He’d not make the same mistake as his father, forfeiting all he truly desired because of honor.
Nay, he had seen his father wither into a bitter man. ’Twas said misery loved company, and Falke’s father had strived to have his wife and sons join him in his disappointment with life. Especially Falke, who had ignored the dogma of honor and sought to savor all of life’s pleasures.
The pungent scent of fresh hay and horses cleared Falke’s thoughts of all except his quarry. Lady Wren. He listened outside the stable door, expecting to hear her soft husky tones calming her horse. Only the shuffling of hooves across sawdust and the quiet snores of horses broke the quiet. Slipping inside, he scanned the rows of stalls. Lady Wren’s horse rested his head over the gate, his eyes closed.
God’s wound’s, where could she be? Discarding all discretion, Falke ran from stall to stall, searching for the plump shape. Dozing horses, a few mules and goats complained of his intrusion. He climbed the stairs to the loft and found two stable boys napping in the soft hay, but no Lady Wren.
Dashing out of the stables, he walked toward the fishpond, retracing his steps mentally from the castle, across the inner bailey, to the outer yard to the…Would she leave the castle proper? The tiny hairs along his neck tingled as he strode toward the outer wall.
“Falke.” Ozbern trotted toward him. “Harris found her.”
“What?” Falke shortened his stride, but continued toward the barbican. “Where?”
“In the chapel.” Ozbern puffed his reply. “Lady Wren and the old knight were lighting prayer candles.”
“But it cannot be.” When Falke pulled up short, Ozbern nearly plowed into his back. “She came outside.”
“I know not whom you saw, but Lady Wren is inside the keep. I saw her myself. No other would willingly don her rags and arthritic step.”
Raking his fingers through his hair, Falke shook his head. “I could have sworn…”
“Falke, no one can be in two places at the same time.” Ozbern waved his hand toward the gray stone castle. “Your betrothed is in her room, guarded once again by Harris and Robert. And by two other experienced men. Though why two healthy young men cannot keep up with one crippled imbecile, I know not.”
“Ozbern.” Falke kept his voice patient. “Do not call her cripple, and do not call her imbecile. Lady Wren is many things, but neither of those.”
Lifting his brows, Ozbern dropped his chin, looking stunned. “And pray, has Falke de Chretian finally discovered honor to fight so for a lady?”
“Nay, you should know me better,” Falke countered.
“Then why so fierce when I but speak the truth?”
“Because I speak the truth.” Falke waited as his friend and second pondered the information. “The girl has no impediment to her legs. ’Tis but a ruse.”
“And you just now tell me.” Ozbern voice rose in pitch. He patted his palm over his heart.
“’Tis my thought she plays this game to put Titus off guard. I fear the more that know the more likely Titus will find her out.”
Appeased, his second asked, “’Tis true, and Titus is not a man to forgive. But what of her wits? Is she as dull as she seems?”
“Nay. I have heard her speak, both French and English. But not well in either language. She is not as weak-minded as she appears, yet I know not how strong a mind she possesses.”
“Why is it, my friend, that nothing associated with you is as it seems? Not even this poor woman?”
“That is why I keep your company, Ozbern.” Falke slapped his friend on the bank. “You are ever constant.”
“Are you saying I’m a boor?”
“Nay. Only…predictable. ’Tis why I always win at chess. You think overmuch.”
“’Tis my lot, since you act first and think later. But that will change.”
“How so?”
“Now you have something to lose.” Ozbern gave Falke a paternal smile. “Come. After the evening meal the musicians will strike up their instruments, and a poet has stopped by to recite an epic. ’Twill be almost as much entertainment as watching Ivette pretend to hate you.”
“Pretend?”
Ozbern chuckled. “No woman that harbors ill feeling toward a man would walk past him so oft and with that gait.” He let his hips swing gently back and forth.
“S
he is a woman. She will use what she has to get her way.” Tugging at his chin, Falke gave the barbican one last glance. If ’twas not the Lady Wren he had followed, who was it? ’Twould be several hours before they ate the light evening meal. “I would explore my demesne, Ozbern. Stay here, with an eye to Lady Wren. See that she is escorted wherever she may wander. I will return by nightfall.”
“What is about?”
Years of friendship and countless battles had melded a bond between the two men. Falke could hide little from his second. ’Twas a feeling of both comfort and concern. What could he say to his friend? That the hair along his neck tingled? That he felt restless?
“Nothing, save a wish to stretch these long legs and free me from Ivette, Ferris, Laron and Titus.”
“Very well, I will be on my guard. And mind you, you do the same. I’ve no wish at this late date to find myself without a liege and friend.” Ozbern walked back toward the castle.
Falke strode toward the barbican, his strides lengthening with each step. After his conversation with Ozbern, he realized the mysterious woman could be anywhere. He scanned the landscape.
The one road to the drawbridge dipped into a shallow valley. Standing on the rise, he could see the hovels that made up the village. His uncle had wasted no income on his serfs, and as such, they had no loyalty to Falke.
The grassy fields surrounding the village claimed the hearts of his villeins and freemen. Fertile soil waited to be plowed, sowed and harvested, the bounty of which would feed his people over the long harsh winter. With Lord Merin’s death and the arrival of the Cravenmoor nobles, the planting had been delayed but a few days. Tomorrow he would order the reeve to begin the plowing. For now, he planted his fists at his hips and scanned the grass for the woman he had been following.
There! Just at the forest’s edge, a short form, dark and shapeless, slid into the woods. He marked the spot in his mind and loped across the fields toward it.
Cautiously, he made his way between the trunks of oak and maple trees. Insects hummed near his ear, and he batted away the flying pests. The ground sagged as he walked, the spring thaw soaking the accumulated dead leaves and soil.
Afternoon sun sneaked through the canopy above his head and spattered light like an artist flicking his brush. From somewhere deep in the shadows, a mournful bird called. A wren. Falke followed the sound, mindful of the tingling at the base of his neck and the racing of his heart.
Chapter Five
A warm breeze ruffled Falke’s hair as he paused in his search. His uncle’s woods—nay, his woods—bowed with stately greenery. With surprise, he noted the brushstrokes of turquoise and rose in the sky above. Hours had passed since he had first entered the forest and heard the wren.
He must have been wrong. ’Twas some villein or poacher he had spotted at the forest edge, not Lady Wren.
With the sun sinking, ’twould be best to make his way back to the castle. Looking about, he realized he had ventured far into the woods. Far enough that he was unsure of his landmarks. He headed off to the east, believing he would either run into fields or find the castle.
Speaking out loud to the muse of nature, Falke questioned the wind. “Where is my infamous luck now? How could this sixth sense of mine lead me so far astray?”
Luck served as his aegis, a way to hide his intelligence and prowess…and irritate his father. Bernard de Chretian hated the fact that his son accomplished military coups so easily and brushed them away as just a manifestation of good fortune. Falke always kept his planning hidden under the guise of carousing and wenching. Now, when he could really use some good fortune, not even a glimmer of hope burned.
Ozbern was right—Falke did not want to lose this keep. Mayhap, at last, he had a home. And luck aside, he was determined to secure Mistedge as his own. Despite Laron and the dismal village, Falke knew he could build Mistedge to a prosperous keep, if given the chance.
He let his feet pound against the leaf-littered forest floor. Down a steep vale, a jump across a narrow creek, then a scamper up the other side. He crested a ridge and scanned for some telltale mark that he was on the correct path.
Daylight battled with the coming night, but twilight would last only so long. Already he spotted the cold face of the full moon as the sun dipped below the treetops. Disheartened, he trudged on as the darkness deepened, until he heard again the wren’s serene song, a splash, then a gasping chortle.
He pivoted, his instincts telling him the sound was feminine in origin. Aye, he could hear it plainly now, an odd, scratchy-throated laughter, but womanly. He followed the sound as he made his way through the forest.
Pushing aside berry brambles and wild rose bushes, he entered a clearing. A small pond nestled in a gentle groove of land. Wildflowers, their colorful heads nodding like sleepy children, sprinkled the mossy green banks. Moonlight glided across the water, the silvery beams twinkling like underwater stars.
Kneeling on one knee, Falke cursed his foolishness. There was no woman here. Whomever he had spotted earlier must be long gone by now. In an attempt to relieve his frustration, he skipped a flat stone across the water.
He followed its path as a shadow against the moonlight, and then stumbled to his feet and gasped. Just where his stone disappeared into the depths of the dark water, the moonlight came to life.
Rays of silver-white light turned to strands of floating hair. From the blue-black depths, two arms surfaced. Then a chest, with full, uplifted breasts, followed by a narrow waist and slim hips.
His own chest constricted and his heart demanded he take a breath of air, yet Falke could not. The image before him made movement a forgotten act. At the far shore, the petite figure emerged from the pond. Artemis, goddess of the moon, stood on the bank opposite him, clad only in the glorious light of her hair. She disappeared behind a clump of vines and at last Falke found his breath.
A dream…a fit brought on by his troubled mind. Falke tried to rationalize away the mirage as he wove in and out of the shadows toward the mysterious woman. Like a thief, he stalked a hidden treasure, afraid it was all a dream. Afraid the vision might be real.
His answer came on the breeze. Gentle humming called to him as the Sirens called to Ulysses. As helpless as the Greek mariner, Falke could not help but seek out the songstress.
Seated on a pallet of lichens and moss, his goddess brushed the tangles from her moonbeam hair. She was dressed in a modest linen chemise, and his eyes lingered on the way it clung to her damp body. The material molded to her tiny waist and the full curve of her breasts. Alabaster skin peeked from the open throat. Dainty ankles invited his mind to explore the rest of the hidden contours. Her face, tilted up toward the sky, remained obscure.
He leaned forward, straining to see her features. A dry branch snapped, the sound deafening in his own ears. Falke watched with dismay and anticipation as she turned toward his hiding place. Beauty, so pure as to blind him, stared at him with eyes the color of a star-filled night.
She rose and sped off like a deer, silent and swift.
“Nay, do not go.” Falke crashed through the undergrowth after her. “I’ll not harm you.”
She bolted, a flash of white streaking against the growing night. Falke rushed after her, loath to end the encounter. His legs stretched to shorten the distance between them.
Ahead, like an animal caught in a poacher’s snare, his nymph tugged at the hem of her chemise trapped in some thorns.
Slowly, he approached. Her actions became more frantic. The thin chemise clung to her trim waist and the smooth curves of her backside. Falke felt the embers of lust ignite to the heat of passion. Never had a woman’s features so moved him. Beautiful women had begged him to make love to them, but never, until this night, had he ever thought to beg a woman to lay with him. He wanted this woman, and he wanted her to desire him just as much.
“Rest easy. I’ll not touch you.” His words stuck in his throat.
Her beauty transcended any mortal vision. The high cheekbones a
nd delicate chin reminded him of a marble sculpture. Each fine line drew attention to her magnificent eyes. Eyes now filled with terror. Tiny whimpers came from her graceful throat as she tried to rip her covering from the tangle of thorns.
Falke bit his lower lip and raised his hands to show he had no weapon. With care to keep his movements small and precise, he pulled free the threads of her chemise, then dropped his hold.
Immediately, she turned to flee.
“Nay. Stay.” He wanted to run after her but fought the need. If he chased her in the fading light, she might stumble and hurt herself. Tamping down the fear that he might lose her, Falke remained near the brambles.
A few strides down the trail, close to the water, she stopped and turned. She combed back the wet hair from her face. The action tickled Falke’s in stincts. Somehow the movement seemed familiar. From a secure distance, she scrutinized him.
Pulses of excitement raced through his body. Falke schooled his features to show none of the rampant desire in his loins. “Are you real or a dream created in my fitful wandering?” In the depths of his soul, he believed she might evaporate into the fingers of mist rising from the water, but prayed she would answer. What would her voice be like? Music? Bells?
A voice of strength answered him—feminine, yet deep, with layers of wisdom and understanding. “I am no dream.” She tilted her head and her eyes narrowed. “Do you oft walk alone, Sir Falke? I thought you kept your nights occupied with other pursuits.”
A sardonic laugh rolled from his lips. “If only the gossip about me were true, I’d be a happy man.”
“And you’re not happy? Pray tell me what more you could desire. You have a fine home and riches enough to please any man.” Her voice held a hint of reproof at his ingratitude.
“And responsibilities.” Falke settled himself on a fallen tree and waved his hand to her. He patted the space next to him. “Pray, have a seat so that we may converse in comfort.”
Her full lips puckered into a pout while she shook her head. “Nay, I think ’tis close enough.”