Angel of the Knight

by Hall, Diana

  “Underrated!” Laron sputtered. “He’s shaming us all.”

  “I hate to admit it, but you’re right, Laron.” Sir Baldwin’s smile faded and his eyes darkened to black glass. “Lord Falke is out there alone, seeing to it that the villagers are cared for and our bellies will be full come the cold dark days of winter. Tell me, Laron, did you expect to dine on your fine words and fancy dress come December? Nay? Then ’tis best a farther-seeing man is our lord or there would be many a rumbling belly come the winter.”

  Facing the knights and ladies of the keep, Sir Baldwin continued his lecture. “I’d be joining him now, but his orders to me were to stay and guard the inner keep. And I obey my liege.”

  A quiet whisper spread among the nobles. Finally, a clean-faced youth stepped forward. “I’m ready to join Lord Falke.” With hesitant steps, four more knights joined him.

  Sir Baldwin’s gaze fastened on the two men guiding the reluctant oxen. “Gentlemen,” he called out to his friends gathered near, “I have hope that Mistedge has truly found her lord.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Falke stomped across the broken fields, scattering the hens pecking for bugs in the furrows. Morning dew released the rich aroma of the tilled soil. Three days and only one field plowed. Those ignorant, stubborn, arrogant oafs were more of a hindrance than a help. And this time he wasn’t talking about the oxen. Nay, the knights of Mistedge were more disagreeable than the smelly beasts.

  Five able-bodied knights, plus Falke and Alric, should be able to turn more than one measly field. That is, if the Mistedge knights would take Falke’s direction. The knights ignored his, the old farmer’s and each other’s advice. Each man went his own way, and nothing was accomplished.

  “Salutations, my friend,” Ozbern called as Falke approached the canopy. “Pray, do not take this as a criticism, but I have never seen seven men work so hard and achieve so little.”

  Falke gave his friend a tired smile. “Would that I could bind those knights to me as Lady Wren has the villagers. With a snap of her fingers, she has a battalion of men, women and children to do her bidding, without complaint, without question.”

  “Aye, ’tis true enough.” Ozbern pointed to the mountain of folded laundry near his pallet. “Even I, newly risen from my sickbed, have been put to work folding laundry.” He gestured toward the village park, where Lady Wren, surrounded by her eager helpers, ministered to the ill. “Go and ask her advice.”

  Falke shrugged at the irony of the situation. “And to think we judged her a simpleton.”

  “Instead we find her a loyal soul, brave, strong, intelligent.” Ozbern pondered his words, then added, “She would be an excellent chatelaine for Mistedge.”

  “Do not suggest it.” Falke rose and placed his hand on Ozbern’s shoulder. “I will not wed her. But I have promised to protect her from Titus, and I will.”

  “’Twould be easier if you married her. Titus will not give her up, nor can you count on Mistedge’s support should Titus lay siege. And in King Henry’s court, you’d be in the wrong.”

  “Ozbern, you recover too quickly. As usual, you point out all the flaws in my plans.”

  “And as usual, you will no doubt find a way around them.” He clasped Falke’s arm and struggled to his feet. “Go, seek out Lady Wren, while I seek out the garderobe.”

  Falke left his friend and wove his way among the pallets toward his betrothed. A cloudless blue sky heralded a hot spring day ahead, one that should be spent sowing and not plowing. Each sunrise brought Mistedge closer to winter starvation with the delay in planting. But Falke’s serfs had no thoughts of that now.

  A few peasants slept on straw pallets, their night duty of tending the sick ended with the recent dawn. Others broke their fast with a simple fare of bread and cheese.

  The thought occurred to Falke that he had yet to see Lady Wren sleep more than a few moments or stop to eat. Just as now, she seemed always on the move, overseeing all aspects of her patients’ care. Yet in the weeks of the pestilence, she had not lost any of her bulk. Falke studied her as she paused to inspect a woman’s basket of herbs.

  Lady Wren captured her mass of white-streaked hair in one hand, drawing it away from her face while she examined the medicinal herbs. Smudges covered her face, but could not hide the sculpted quality of her cheekbones, the tilt of her nose or the delicate arch of her light brows. She released her hair, and the snarled strands fell back over her face.

  She could be…passable if she washed up, did something about her hair, lost weight. A new wardrobe wouldn’t hurt. Aye, Falke thought, with some help from Aunt Celestine, Lady Wren could find someone to marry her. Just not him.

  “Come quick, milady. He’s in bad shape.” A woman grabbed Lady Wren’s hand and hauled her toward the outer bailey and the soldiers’ sick quarters. Lady Wren scrambled to keep up, moving with surprising speed for a woman of her size and girth.

  Falke followed, not sure why his neck was tingling and his instincts seemed to be laughing at him.

  “Nesta, where be ye, lass?” The tormented cry ripped through Gwendolyn’s heart as she entered the dark hall lined with fevered men.

  “My brother’s dyin’, ain’t ’e?” A young man standing near the pallet questioned her. Grief carved his features into stiff lines of sorrow.

  “I’m sorry, Silas,” Gwendolyn murmured. She could do nothing to save Elined.

  “Nesta, that be ye?” Elined’s hand shot out and latched onto Gwendolyn’s wrist. In delirium, he placed her hand over his heart. Death tainted his hot dry breath.

  “Is everything all right?” From behind her, a low baritone voice interrupted. Falke appeared at her side. His hand covered hers buried beneath the sweaty palm of her patient.

  “Aye.” She gulped and felt her blood racing at the image before her. The deep slit of his leather jerkin displayed the sculpted lines of his powerful chest. Real concern wrinkled his brows and created tiny crow’s-feet at the corner of his eyes. A shiver ran down her spine and a peculiar current of emotion swirled in the pit of her stomach.

  “Nesta, stay with me, love,” the soldier croaked when Falke tried to free Gwendolyn’s hand.

  “Pray, Lady Wren, do this for him.” Silas glanced down at his brother, his voice cracked from overpowering sorrow. “He can’t rest till he speaks with Nesta, but she’s gone. ’Tis the only thing causing him to linger, and we both know there’s no hope for him.”

  “I know not what to say.” Panic choked her like thick ivy, twining around her self-composure and crumbling her resolve. What did she know of words spoken between lovers?

  “I’ll be here with you.” Falke’s soothing voice calmed her frazzled nerves. “He needs you.”

  “Nesta?” The sick man struggled to roll upright.

  Looking into the quiet blue of Falke’s eyes, Gwendolyn took a deep breath, drew strength from his closeness, then crooned, “Aye, I’m here.”

  The dying man kissed the back of her hand. His lips felt like sand against her skin. He confessed, “I told me friends ye was just another bit a’ skirt, but ’twas a lie. I want us to be wed proper like. Nesta, will ye have me?”

  Bewildered, Gwendolyn cast about for an escape. A marriage proposal, the one thing that would save her from Titus, and for it to be from a dying man while Falke, the one man who could save her, looked on. She wanted to curl up and cry from the ache breaking her heart in two.

  The acrid smell of the dying man’s sweat-drenched body burned her nostrils, and the lump in her throat threatened to choke her. Her gaze finally settled on the glassy eyes of her patient. Gwendolyn could see the pain in his heart. The fog of indecision lifted and her action became clear. She could not abandon this man. Whatever he needed to ease his death she would give him.

  With all the tenderness she wished for in her own bleak life, Gwendolyn kissed her patient. “I’d be proud to call you husband.”

  A peaceful smile graced the ill man’s lips. Serenity smoothed the torment from his f
ace. “Nesta, ye’ve made me a happy man.” A deep sigh rattled in his chest, then the sound stopped.

  Gwendolyn raised her head and listened for a heartbeat. Nothing. She felt remorse along with heavy guilt. Death had won another victory over her. Her fingers trembled as she closed his eyelids. Another she had failed.

  “My thanks to you, Lady Wren.” Silas rose from his knees and bowed toward her. “You allowed him to die with peace. I’ll never forget your gift, milady.” With stiff legs, he left them and walked toward the women sewing shrouds from cast-off cloth.

  The fresh rushes snapped as Gwendolyn sank to the floor. She leaned her forehead against the bed frame and spoke her condemnation in a low whisper. “But I couldn’t save him.”

  Falke watched her actions with bewilderment. No tears, no wails. Not even anger. Moments ago she had portrayed a dying man’s lover, accepted his marriage proposal, and Falke knew how much that must have hurt her. ’Twas like a slap in her face. Even he, with his schooled detachment, had felt the sting. A dying man had done what Falke refused to—ask Lady Wren to wed him. Yet she withstood all with a stone face.

  A violent tremor shuddered through her body. Despite her size, she appeared frail and vulnerable. Tucking in her chin, her hair covering most of her face, she rocked trancelike. Another tremor shook her.

  “Lady Wren?” Falke feared she was having some type of fit.

  She lifted her face and Falke sucked hard for air. Her almond-shaped eyes displayed her emotions like an expensive glass mirror—every torment clearly distinct and apparent for all to see, yet imprisoned inside.

  Kneeling to be eye level with her, Falke brushed back the snarls and whispered, “Little Wren, go ahead and cry.”

  Instead of relief, fear blended with her despondency. “Nay, I’ll not cry.”

  Falke pulled her into the nest of his arms. “’Twill make the grief easier if you don’t hold it in so.”

  She struggled to free herself, almost frantic. He could feel the erratic flutter of her heart next to his chest. “Pray, let me go.” A half sob caught in her voice.

  “Cry!” Falke ordered. She would become sick if she kept all this sorrow inside.

  “Nay, I cannot.” She bit her lower lip. Her chin wobbled slightly, her voice filled with wistful remorse. “I’ve forgotten how.”

  Forgotten! Falke’s suspicious mind flared at the ridiculous notion. A woman who didn’t cry? Preposterous. Every woman knew how to use a few tears and smiles to get her way. But then, how often did Lady Wren smile, or laugh? Either was a rare occurrence.

  “Come now, do not jest with me, girl.” He made his voice abrupt and harsh. “Everyone cries.”

  “’Tis too dangerous. Then Titus would know the things that hurt, the things that matter.”

  Titus! Falke should have suspected that devil lay at the core of his little wren’s hurt. She expected a beating if she provoked anger, torture if she cried. What about laughter? Had Titus driven that simple joy from her life as well? Falke cradled her against his shoulder, rocking her like a frightened child. “With me, you can cry.”

  Lifting her head, she graced him with a rare eye-to-eye stare. Lost in the turquoise sea of her gaze, he prayed she would relent and allow him this simple measure of payment for all her aid.

  Her lip trembled, and he nestled her against his chest with her head just under his chin. The smell of her, herbal and earthy, enveloped him. He wove his fingers with hers. “My poor little wren.”

  In silence, she leaned against him. He wished she could draw in his strength, his vitality. The tautness of her body abated. His heart rejoiced when a few tears moistened his chest. He sat there, holding this strange woman, his betrothed, while she wept soundlessly.

  Falke whispered, “I’ve caused you anger and I’ve freed your tears, my little bird. But next ’tis your laughter I’ll hear. On this I state my word.”

  Unmindful of the knights waiting in the fields, or the rustling of men placing the body in a shroud, Falke held her. Brotherly affection seared him with the desire to protect her. He would find her a husband who would cherish her as she deserved. Someone worthy of her.

  “Lady Wren, where be ye? Arry’s a lookin’ for ye.” A pale-faced woman stumbled to a stop in front of them. “Milord? Milady?”

  “I was…we were…” Crimson colored her cheeks and neck as she scrambled from his arms and to her feet. “Show me where Arry is.” She glanced back at Falke, wiped the tears from her face and added, “My thanks, milord.”

  A woman who thanked him for bringing her to tears. Lady Wren never ceased to amaze him. He watched her run away from him, his arms feeling the emptiness, his heart feeling the same.

  “Falke.” Ozbern braced his back against a tree and gave a weak wave.

  Falke rushed to his friend’s side and wrapped an arm around his waist in support. “You push yourself too fast.”

  “Aye, mayhap the garderobe was a bit far to venture.” Ozbern half closed his eyes. “But Lady Wren has given me orders to drink bucketfuls of that foul-tasting tea and there is no naysaying the woman.” He drew back and quirked a brow. “I say, you’ve stained your tunic. And that smell. ’Tis familiar…reminds me of a cool forest.”

  Falke pulled at his leather jerkin. A dark muddy blotch spread down his shirt from his shoulder to his chest. Sniffing at it, he understood Ozbern’s comment. Deep, rich aromas of spices and herbs assaulted him. An earthy perfume of the forest after a rain. An aroma that seemed a part of him. Its familiarity teased him, and then he knew it. ’Twas the scent of Lady Wren.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Beans and dark bread! We toil all day in their fields and they fed us this slop.” Sir Clement, the most belligerent of the Mistedge knights, threw down his wooden bowl in disgust. “I am a noble and as such expect to be fed properly.”

  Gwendolyn looked at the mutinous knights, their backs and faces burned red from the sun. The men looked ready to walk out and leave the villagers to fend for themselves. The warrior within each knight balked at the menial work. Somehow she must make them see that a war raged within this demesne and that when they lifted a plow or hoe, they did battle just the same as if they lifted a broadsword.

  “Sir Falke.” She pleaded with him for aid.

  “’Tis your expertise, Lady Wren. I know no other that does it so well.” Falke’s golden eyebrows arched, a half smile crooking his lips. He was daring her to confront the group of knights. The very thought terrified her, but his supportive nod and nearness gave her courage. Very well, she’d not falter. The knights must stay. And deep inside, she knew Falke would protect her as he had this morning. When he had sheltered her in his arms, she had felt invincible and cherished—two emotions that had been rare in her life.

  Fortified by Falke’s nearness, she tapped her finger on her lower lip. “I see your point, Sir Clement. Pray, come and speak with today’s cook so that the same mistake will not be made.” Respect and reverence for the knights oozed from her voice.

  “I’ll see to it we are fed as our work deems fit.” Sir Clement rose, readjusted his thick leather belt and rolled his shoulder muscles. The cheers of the other knights encouraged his bravado.

  “Clement will tell them what for.” Three of the knights, eager to see their leader put the commoners in their place, hustled to their feet and followed. As she escorted the gentlemen away, Falke gave her a sly smile and a wink. Her face burning and her pulse racing, she led the four knights to a modest hut.

  Unlike Arry’s home, the wattle-and-daub structure was tight and strong. A window and the open door allowed a breeze to enter. The strong smell of mint pervaded the air and mingled with the sounds of soft hymns.

  The group of knights brushed past her and Sir Clement’s voice boomed out, “Where is the cook?”

  Gwendolyn pushed her way past the wall of tall men just as they realized where they were. The bluster faded from Sir Clement’s face and he paled to a sickly white. All the pomposity of the group escaped in an audib
le gasp.

  A thin woman sat on the floor holding the unnaturally still form of a toddler. “Here, sire.” With a damp cloth, she rhythmically cooled the youngster’s face and hands. All along the perimeter of the tiny room, other mothers did the same to their children. Of all the places in the village, Gwendolyn’s heart ached the most in this small hut that served as the children’s ward. Fear, anguish and grief hovered over the women, threatening to overcome them at any moment.

  “I…I beg pardon.” For once, Sir Clement and his crew were at a loss for words.

  The child in the cook’s arms thrashed weakly. “Hush, dearling.” The cook brushed a tear from her face. Cradling her son, she rocked him softly while dribbling a few drops of water down his throat.

  Looking up, the haggard woman asked, “Are you in need of me again, Lady Wren? It seems I’ve just had a blink of time with my boy.” She kissed the child’s head and placed him back on a straw pallet. “Ma will be back soon.”

  ’Twas plain the sight moved the knights. Gwendolyn had no intention of letting them off so easily. This scene needed to flash in their mind every time the heat became too unbearable or the pull of the plow too painful. “As a matter of fact, ’twas Sir Clement who wished to speak with you. Seems the food was—”

  “Excellent.” Sir Clement found his voice and gave Gwendolyn an apologetic glance. “I and these men—” he waved to the other knights “—wished to thank you for your wonderful repast. We know how precious your time with your babe is. That you gave up some of those moments to prepare our meal humbles us.” He turned to leave, pushing his group of meeker knights out the door.

  “Sir Clement?” The cook rose and clasped the knight’s hand. “I wish a word with you.” Gwendolyn held her breath, waiting for the noble’s reaction.

  A newfound mercy gentled the usual arrogance in the knight’s eyes. “Pray, how can I be of service?”