by Hall, Diana
“Gwendolyn!”
The sharp call brought her back to attention. Cyrus had his arm around her waist, while Blodywn tugged the hem of Gwendolyn’s gown back from the flames.
“Milady, ye near fell right into the fire.” The laundress unclasped Gwendolyn’s hands from the wooden paddle. “Ye need to sleep.”
“I am fine, only careless,” Gwendolyn argued. Sleep would bring dreams of Falke. The drudgery of work occupied her agitated mind and kept her from confessing all just to have one more kiss.
Cyrus, his arm still around her waist, guided her toward the canopy. “There are plenty of vacant beds. Take a few moments and nap.”
“Nay!” Her curt tone hurt even Gwendolyn’s ears. Contrite, she explained, “There’s much to do.”
“And many to help.” Cyrus studied her, an anxious frown on his craggy face. “You’ve been working yourself ragged since you disappeared last week.” Rubbing her hair, he showed her the stain on his thumb and fingers. “And still you’ve not got the dye right.”
Of their own accord, her eyes were drawn to the group of warriors. Cyrus turned, following her gaze, his mouth drawn into a thin line. “Lord Falke was missing for a time that day, also. The two of you haven’t spoken ten words to each other since. Did you have an argument? Did he see you coloring your hair?”
Sighing, Gwendolyn admitted only a small fraction of what had transpired between her and the lord of Mistedge. “He does not know who or what I really am, Cyrus.” Summoning up all her foster parents’ training, she withheld her sorrow and tears as she revealed her true pain. “I think he never will.”
Falke and the small group of knights collapsed at the far end of the village, where the cool shade of the woods offered a respite from the noon sun.
Ozbern pulled his sticky linen shirt from his chest, smelled his armpits, then screwed up his nose in distaste. “Stars! I need a bath.”
“We all need a bath,” Falke commented. “A blind man could not tell us from those field beasts.”
“Aye, that he could. We are more agreeable.” Sir Clement rolled his eyes in despair. “How those field hands can get those oxen to move is beyond me.”
“Robert had one step on his foot. He broke three toes,” a young knight said.
“Oh, Robert deserves it. He’s almost as bad-tempered as the cattle are.”
“I take exception to that.” Falke’s young friend, still weak from his recent illness, called from beneath the shade of an elm tree. “And when I’m up to it, I’ll see you for that comment. Right now, ’tis too damn hot and I’m too damn tired.”
Falke enjoyed the sounds of camaraderie from his vassals and knights. The quiet animosity of Mistedge’s knights had warmed to tentative friendship and regard.
These men, more accustomed to the feel of a weapon in hand, were breaking their backs to make the fields ready to sow. Villagers and soldiers who were healthy enough, were already planting seeds for the harvesttime crops. If the weather held, and summer offered no drought and winter came late, then Mistedge had a fighting chance.
For Falke, this past week had enabled him to sow the seeds of respect in his vassals. Laron would not be able to turn these men against him easily. Yet one woman held the power to do so—Lady Wren. She had only to hint that Falke had insulted her, and the newly forged loyalty between him and the vassals would sever. Falke had their service; she had their love and respect.
’Twas plain she knew of his affair with Angel. Why else was she avoiding him? Every day more serfs joined him in the field, and under the canopy, more and more empty beds appeared, which meant there were more and more helpful hands. Yet, Lady Wren could not spare even a few moments to speak with him.
At first he had tried to waylay her and explain away his sin. But he had forgotten how quickly she could disappear in a crowd. Each of his attempts failed. Finally he relented. If she didn’t want to see him, he’d not force his attentions on her, no matter how much her absence pained him.
And that was the true surprise. He rubbed his chest, a vain attempt to massage away the hurt stabbing his heart. All of Angel’s beauty and passion could not mend him. Their hours of lovemaking seemed nothing more than a regretful memory, one he would rectify if he could. Mayhap a good marriage to one of Falke’s lords? Anything that would convince her to intercede and help him heal the rift with Lady Wren.
What he longed for was the opportunity to bring one half smile to Lady Wren’s somber mouth. He missed her scolding, aye, and even her lectures. But most of all, he longed for her belief in him.
He had not known how precious a jewel she offered him until it was gone. Faith, shining in her eyes, had pushed him to fight for Mistedge. Hope, radiant in her smile, had given him strength. Even now, as his men waited for the women to bring the food, Falke found himself searching the group for a glimpse of the one person who’d taught him to believe in himself. The void in his heart grew larger as he saw she was not with them.
“Water, Milord?” Blodwyn handed a gourd to Falke. Her forearm bulged from the weight of the water bucket in her other hand. Other villagers were offering water to the rest of the weary men.
Taking the vessel, Falke let the cold spring water trickle down his throat, then poured the rest over his head.
“That looks delightful.” Ozbern took the gourd from Falke’s hand and dipped it into the wooden bucket. He scooped out a cup of water and splashed it over his own sweat-stained tunic. Soon the other knights and workers were doing the same.
“My thanks for the refreshment.” Falke snickered as a few knights grabbed water buckets and dumped them over Sir Clement’s head.
“Milord, I need to speak to ye about Lady Wren.”
The serf woman had his full attention now. “What’s wrong? Is she ill?” Crushing bands of icy fear wove around his heart.
“Nay, milord. She’s not got the fever—yet. But I’m afeared for her.” The woman glanced about at the now quiet group of men.
“Pray, tell us your fear, dear gentlewoman.” Sir Clement stopped his antics. “The lady Wren’s welfare is of concern to us all.”
“Aye, she’s a queer one,” Robert commented. Falke shot him a black look. The young man faltered on with an explanation. “I mean no disrespect. If not for her, I’d not be here now, dripping wet, bone tired and glad of it. ’Tis just, well, she’s hard to figure out.” A mottled red blush spread along Robert’s neck and face.
“I know the truth of your words, Robert.” Falke motioned toward the villein woman. “Come, tell us your fears.”
Taking a deep breath, the woman clasped her thick, stubby fingers together in prayer. “’Tis been over a week since that soldier died, the last death in the village. And nearly a month since any new have fallen to the fever.”
Falke rose in one swift movement. “My God, that means—”
“The fever has run its course,” Ozbern finished. Looks of startled wonderment, then joyful reprieve gave new vigor to the men.
“Aye, Milord Falke,” Blodwyn agreed. “But that don’t mean nothin’ to Lady Wren. She ain’t slept nor ate proper during this entire scourge. She shan’t last much longer.”
The loud celebration faded to silent concern.
Again in command of the knights’ attention, the servant warned, “Me and her man, Cyrus, just caught her as she fell asleep at the wash fire. That rag of a gown was this close—” the woman held her fingers a splinter width apart “—to the fire. ’Tis only a matter of time afore she hurts herself.”
“Order her back to the castle,” Robert suggested. “There she can rest in luxury and peace.”
“Peace?” Falke snorted. “You think she would get any rest from the likes of those behind the stone walls?” He stabbed his finger toward the dark gray outline Mistedge. “We know her, we owe her, we…care for her. Not them.”
“’Tis true, they’d be back to poking fun at her the moment she returned. Some of us must accompany her.” Ozbern lifted one brow and gave Falke a hard
look.
“Order her back?” The aged knight, Cyrus, dumped a load of dirty linen on the ground. Shaking his head, he muttered, “She can’t leave. The ghosts of the past won’t let her.”
Exasperation made Falke clip each word. He’d not fail her in this small regard. “By God, if I order her to leave, she will leave.”
“You don’t understand, Sir Falke. Chains bind the girl to the sick, each and every link forged by the evil hand of Titus. A chain all my wife’s and my love cannot undo.” Cyrus’s face became more wrinkled, older and haunted.
“Murdering her father ’twas bad enough. But her mother….” As he combed his arthritic hand through his still-thick gray hair, the older man’s voice became harsh. “Titus made her mother suffer for three days in pain, unaided by any physician or medicine. Three days of Gwendolyn hearing her mother’s cries echo in the halls of Cravenmoor, with no place to blot out those heart-wrenching calls for mercy.”
His eyes glistened with unshed tears, so like his foster daughter. “Gwendolyn sees in the sick and hurt her mother. And unlike Titus, she cannot stand by and see them suffer. And I must protect her from danger, both from Titus and her memories.”
“Sir Cyrus,” Falke said, calling the old man by his long-ago title, “rest assured, Lady Wren will be protected. From herself, as well as from those who would do her harm. You no longer stand alone in this mission. I stand by your side.”
“As do I.” Ozbern stood next to Falke. One by one the rest of the knights formed a circle around Cyrus.
The old man’s voice wavered as he spoke. “My thanks. But the castle offers dangers as well as a reprieve for my lady. Titus will know by now that Gwendolyn tricked him about her wits. And about a few other things he’s bound to discover soon.”
“Such as?” Falke queried.
“She’s been fixing the books. Making her promised dowry appear not so profitable. She figured Titus—”
“Would never let her leave if it meant losing a sizable sum,” Falke finished. He chuckled as he shook his head. “I’ll wager she gave the lands enough of a profit that Titus kept her alive, yet not so much that he’d risk war over losing them.”
“Aye, you know my lady well.”
“’Twould be what I would do.”
Appreciation shone in Cyrus’s eyes, bringing a flash of hope to his dour face. “I have a feeling you’ve got a handle on some other plot, or you’d not have posted the sentries when we were in the castle.”
The old man still had the senses of a fighter. There was no use hiding the danger. “Titus offered to have Gwendolyn murdered, and spare me a marriage,” Falke explained. “Ferris gave Laron the same offer, framing me for the murder.”
“She can’t go back in there.” Sir Clement struck his fist on his palm. “The Cravenmoor knights don’t stand a chance against us, but Laron is another story. The man is sly. We won’t know what lords he might have already swayed.”
’Twould be just a matter of time before Titus or Ferris reached her. And if Titus learned the truth of Gwendolyn’s holdings, then he’d whisk her away, keep her imprisoned in Cravenmoor, and she would never escape his cruel domain.
There seemed to be but one way to protect the woman. And as the idea tumbled around in Falke’s head, it didn’t seem so disagreeable. In fact, the emptiness in his heart lightened. Every instinct hummed with accord. There was respect, at least on his part, and with time, he would earn Lady Wren’s good graces again. After all, was he not known for his charm? And genuine fondness—that she could not have forgotten so quickly. And he needed her, for she made him a better man than he’d ever thought he could be.
’Twas true, she deserved better, but no other could cloak her from Titus’s evil. Nor would Falke tolerate another man trying to do so.
“We need to protect her just long enough for her strength to return. A few days.” He clasped Ozbern on the shoulder. “Then neither Titus nor Laron will be able to harm her.”
“Do you have a safe haven for her?” Ozbern asked.
“Aye, that I do.”
“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.”
Chapter Fifteen
Cyrus 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.