by Hall, Diana
The muscular knight scowled, a trace of a growl emitting from his twisted mouth. “You can count on it, John.”
Taking John’s coarse woolen sleeve, Falke dragged the man outside to their mounts. The poor man’s knees were shaking as a soldier threw him onto a swaybacked mare. Side by side, they rode out of the camp and across the field to the Cravenmoor drawbridge. As the door slowly lowered, Falke nudged John’s mount with his own to gain the man’s attention.
“When you see my wife, tell her I love her,” Falke requested as the drawbridge thudded to the ground. “Tell her I love Lady Wren.”
“Aye, my lord, I will.”
Falke urged his mount over the wide-planked ramp and wished with all his heart that he could tell her himself just once more.
Chapter Twenty
Dozens of footsteps clomped across the timbers above Gwendolyn’s head. Dust peppered her bowl of thin soup and brown bread. Rising from her pallet, she covered her meager meal with a sleeve to protect it. ’Twas little use. Another drumbeat of footsteps raced overhead. Debris sifted through the beams, seasoning the soup and dusting her hair. Another herd of footsteps sounded. Where was everyone going?
A bit of spying was needed. In the storage room that had become her cell, she had but one view of the outer room. She brushed away the soiled rushes near the door and lay flat. A small gap at the bottom of the wormy portal allowed her a glimpse of life beyond her cell. Neither candles nor torches lit the room, only rare patches of sunlight. ’Twas too early for the evening meal, yet she spied several pairs of bare and booted legs racing toward the stairs to the great hall. Whatever was taking place, not a person in Cravenmoor wanted to miss it.
Could Falke have come at last? Gwendolyn kneeled and pressed her ear to the thick door, willing herself to hear his voice. The only sounds she heard were muffled cries and hurried murmurs. If Falke had overtaken Cravenmoor, surely there’d be a clash of swords. So he had not come. Not yet. But he would. And again the doubt in her heart taunted her. Wouldn’t Falke be glad to be free of her?
He loves me. He’ll come. It makes no difference that he does not know I am his Angel. The sound of the lock turning broke her chant. Her belief in Falke soared as the door slowly creaked open. She could not speak nor move as a harsh whisper came from around the door. “Lady Gwendolyn, where be ye?”
Not Falke, but surely one of his men. “Here.” She swung the door wide, convinced a man of Mistedge would greet her. Her joy withered as she recognized John, a Cravenmoor serf. Titus must have ordered her to be fetched upstairs. Whatever was taking place, she wanted no part of it.
“Come with me.” John beckoned as he gave the pantry a swift survey. “We ain’t much time.”
“Where?” She had no love of her confining cell, but neither did she relish another episode with Titus. Her mouth still ached from her last encounter. Though the skin had healed, her mouth still felt bruised.
“I’ll help ye through the inner wall, then you’re on your own to the outer. There’re Mistedge knights waitin’ on the other side of the secret gate.” John shifted his weight from foot to foot as his gaze kept drifting to the nearby stairs that led to the great hall.
Falke was here! Her heart rejoiced while at the same time scolding her for her doubt. Her uncertainty resurfaced, this time directed at John. The man had never crossed Titus in all the years she had known him.
“Why should I trust you?” she asked.
“’Cause me neck’s at stake. If’n you ain’t at the gate, that husband of yours has got a mean-faced knight sworn to kill me. The man’s got a look that would frighten the devil himself. He struck me as the type to keep his word.”
A mean-faced knight? It could be no other than Sir Clement. At least John must have spoken to Falke. She cast an appraising glance over her home for the last seven days. Windowless, dank and occupied by an assortment of insects and rodents, the chamber offered no incentive to stay.
What more torture could Titus inflict on her? If she did not take this chance, there might be no other. “All right then, let’s go.” But she’d not leave without her wedding dress. “First I need to get—”
A shout echoed down the stairs, followed by jeers and whistles. John grabbed her hand. “No time. I don’t know how long he’s gonna last.” With that, he dragged her toward the back of the pantry and out the service door.
So that was what had the castle in a tither. Titus must be torturing some poor soul. As Gwendolyn raced after John, she prayed for the unfortunate man whose death offered her a chance of escape.
Late afternoon shadows hung over the castle. The summer heat on the stone wall sent vapors rising, blurring the image. John and Gwendolyn took advantage of the shadows at first, then discovered the inner bailey was all but deserted as peasants and fighting men alike herded themselves toward the castle. Adopting a swift walk, Gwendolyn held her breath as she crossed the open grass. No one looked at her twice. Everyone seemed to be fixated on reaching the castle.
John led her to the empty mews, where a few falcon feathers were all that remained of her father’s hunting birds. Tugging at the underbrush, the serf revealed a gap in the wall. “Here ye be, lass. ’Twill be harder getting across the outer bailey. Soldiers are thick on the wall ’cause of Mistedge on the other side. Take these.” He pulled a bundle of scarves from beneath his loose tunic. “Ye can wrap yourself in these and mayhap none will recognize ye.”
With glee, she draped a scarf over her head and another across her shoulders. ’Twas a disguise she had used many times within these very walls.
John blinked his eyes twice. “Ye just might get away.” He rubbed the chain of wrinkles around his weathered neck and smiled. “I just might keep me neck.”
Gwendolyn poked her head through the gap. John was right—soldiers lined the wall, but their attention was riveted beyond the bailey. She had a chance. In only a few moments she would be returned to Falke. Turning back to John, she squeezed his hand and whispered, “My thanks.”
The serf held her hand tightly, not releasing her. “One more thing—he said to tell ye he loved ye. That he loved Lady Wren.” ’Twas the look in the old man’s eye, the catch in his throat and the way he said “loved” instead of “loves’ that made fear creep up her bones.
“John, who’s in the hall with Titus?” Dread at his answer already filled her. Whose appearance would draw so many, nobles and commoners alike? The man who had outfoxed Titus and wed his ugly ward, Falke de Chretian.
“Just go.” John pulled his hand from hers and attempted to push her through the gap.
“Nay!” Her voice rose and John pulled his hands back, quickly surveying the yard for any unwanted attention.
“I’ll not leave him.” Gwendolyn withdrew from the opening. Fear, stark and vivid, made her voice fierce and commanding. “I will not leave my husband.”
“There’s no hope for him. He wanted you safe. If not for your sake then for mine, go from here.”
“I’ll bring his men here. They can rescue Falke.”
“He’ll be dead by then.”
“Then we must stall Titus until help arrives.”
“We?” John gave her a resigned look. “There’s nothing we can do. ’Twill be dark in a few hours.”
“I’m not giving up.” Gwendolyn’s mind raced. How could she draw Titus’s attention away from Falke long enough for his men to come to his aid? What could she do to put the fear of God into Titus, a man who knew only the devil? Ah, the devil. She could not bring the Almighty to Cravenmoor, but she could bring an image from hell here. One that would scatter peasants and nobles alike, and terrorize Titus.
“John, go to Falke’s men. Tell them that I am holding Titus at bay, and Falke will be alive.”
“There’s not that many of them.”
“As you said, ’twill be dark soon. A few men could open the main gate, after which, Falke’s troops can invade.”
“That mean-faced knight will cut me throat.”
“Tell Sir Clement that if he does I’ll box his ears. He’ll know those words are mine. Now go.” Gwendolyn switched places with the serf.
Yielding to her persistence, John shook his head and ducked through the wall, muttering about women not knowing what was good for them. She stuck her head through and watched the serf lope across the bailey until she was certain John would do his part. Now she must do hers.
Drawing the scarf over her head, Gwendolyn assumed her old woman stance. It took iron self-control to hobble back to the castle instead of running, but she could not afford to be discovered. ’Twas not only her life she would forfeit, but Falke’s as well.
She opened the door to the pantry and listened. Only the echoed noise from the great hall sounded. The lower level was still deserted, which meant Falke must still be alive.
With cautious speed, she collected the items she needed—wine vinegar, water, soap and a length of twine. She retreated to her cell to complete her plan, and for the final item, her wedding dress. ’Twas time for Isolde to return from the dead.
Unwashed bodies, soured wine and blood polluted the air in the great hall. The center of attention, Falke wiped the blood from his mouth with his thumb. Knights and ladies crowded the trestle tables, the men cheering on Titus, the women staring at Falke with hungry lust in their eyes. Serfs lined the staircase and the lower floor. Everyone wanted a close look at Titus’s latest victim. Falke meant for them to have a long look. Long enough for Gwendolyn to reach his men.
Gracing the crowd with his most charming smile, he spoke to Titus. “I see your hospitality hasn’t changed much.”
Titus lifted a tankard of ale to his mouth and drank deeply. Rivulets of brown liquid ran down his greasy beard. He patted his round stomach and asked, “How else should I treat the man that robbed me?”
“How can you of accuse me of stealing what was not yours?” Falke deliberately baited Titus. “My wife’s dowry lands were given to her at birth. Poor planning on your part, Titus. Murdered your brother for a ruined castle and a few overworked fiefs. I guess your soul isn’t worth much.”
A roar accompanied Titus’s fist. The older man’s blow penetrated deep into Falke’s gut. He would have fallen except for two knights, who pushed him back up to receive another hit.
The air punched from his lungs, Falke fought to gain his breath. ’Twas typical Titus, a bully when he was surrounded by his henchmen. But alone, ’twas another story. Balling his hands into fists, Falke wished for one second of freedom. He’d deliver just one bone-crushing blow and knock Titus’s decayed teeth right down his miserable throat.
Stripped of his weapons, with crossbows aimed at his heart, Falke could only endure Titus’s blows. In the back of his mind, he pictured Lady Wren, sitting near the hearth at Mistedge. The pain dulled. He could withstand more.
“Chretian.” Ferris approached, staring down his hawkish nose. “’Tis strange a man like you would marry Gwendolyn, no matter how rich the prize.” A calculating gleam shone in his eyes and caused a trickle of worry down Falke’s spine.
Ferris’s voice became smooth and silky, yet his eyes drilled into Falke, studying the effect of his words. “’Twould seem you discovered and revealed Gwendolyn’s many lies. I wonder how many more she still has? I’m going to enjoy stripping every last one from her.”
Like a badger, Ferris’s words nipped at Falke. He knows about Gwendolyn. He knows her secret. God’s wounds, let John get her to freedom and spare her. Titus was cruel, but Ferris could be the devil himself.
“In fact—” Ferris’s eyes narrowed as his smile grew tighter and thinner, “—I believe our Gwendolyn is like a walnut. Dull, brown, round.” He plucked one from the table and held it aloft for all to see. Then he dropped it and slammed his boot heel onto the shell. Picking up the inner pieces, Ferris continued, “But like a nut, there is sweet meat inside. I look forward to breaking her shell and sampling the sweetness.”
“Nay!” Falke reacted in fury. His fist slammed into Ferris’s chin, sending him flying over the table. Goblets, trenchers and salt spilled over the floor, the nobles and the serfs.
Ferris meant to expose Gwendolyn and humiliate her. ’Twas a threat Falke could not and would not ignore. He leaped over the table, determined to silence the knight forever. His fist slammed into Ferris’s face again and again. Blood spurted, covering Falke’s wool tunic and Ferris’s embroidered finery.
“I’ll kill you,” Falke promised as his hands clenched Ferris’s throat.
The crash of a wine bottle ended his threat, and the image of Titus holding the broken bottle danced before Falke’s dazed eyes. His hold on Ferris’s throat loosened and the man escaped. A Cravenmoor knight drew his sword and rested it against Falke’s neck.
“I grow tired of this play.” Ferris cleared his throat and demanded, “Kill him.”
“Aye,” Titus agreed. “’Tis time for retribution.”
“Aye, Titus.” A woman’s voice called eerily from the upper gallery. “’Tis time for retribution. Mine.”
Titus slowly turned. His cry, full of anguish and terror, sent the room into flight. “Isolde! She’s come to take me to hell.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Screams, curses and prayers commingled in the great hall. Titus stood on the dais, his chest heaving and his flaccid cheeks white as old ash. Arrogance drained from his face, replaced by a fixed stare.
Peasants rapidly made the sign of the cross, then repeated the action over and over again. Nobles who had never entered the chapel fell to their knees in prayer, weapons dropped and forgotten. Jeers and insults froze on their lips. Their hypocrisy pleased Gwendolyn. It showed they believed Isolde had returned from the dead.
That belief was all that stood between Falke and death. Lying at Ferris’s feet, her husband wearily lifted his head and stared at her. Sweat streaked his golden hair. Bruises marked his handsome face, a mixture of emotions flickering over his features. Surprise. Confusion. Anger. And, most startling of all, pride.
He pushed himself to one knee, and Gwendolyn sucked in a breath. Blood stained the gaping side of his wool tunic. Casting an anxious glance at her cousin, Falke gave a forced shout to Ferris. “Find Gwendolyn. Get her to safety.”
Falke believed as well? Did Falke not recognize her as his angel, the woman he’d made love to in the forest? Her frantic thoughts halted as bedlam erupted in the hall.
“’Tis Gwendolyn who has drawn the ghost.”
“Isolde will take revenge on us all.”
A frightened knight stood and pointed at Titus. “’Twas he that drew her blood, none of us. We should not pay for his sin.”
“Aye, he is right. Isolde, take Titus but spare the rest of us,” beseeched a lady. The threat of eternal damnation drove a wedge between Titus and his followers. ’Twas a wedge Gwendolyn intended to deepen.
A powerful brew of glee, fright and panic bubbled in the pit of her stomach. It made her knees weak, her hands shake and her mind sharp. She had to act fast before anyone noticed the “ghost” wore a wrinkled gown three sizes too large and a twine girdle to hold in the excess material.
“Flee, Cravenmoor,” she warned, “or share Titus’s punishment.” An exodus began before she finished speaking. Chairs toppled. Trenchers of food fell to the floor. The hounds ran in frantic circles, gobbling up the spilled food and chasing the frightened people.
“Flee and I’ll send you to hell myself,” Ferris countered, and the crowd paused, torn between the fear of hell and Ferris’s sword.
He strutted forward, pausing just beneath where Gwendolyn stood. A predatory smile twisted her cousin’s aristocratic features. His cocky attitude tore at her confidence.
Where were Falke’s men? Faint shouts and screams floated through the window above the balcony. But did they generate from an invading force or fear of the supernatural? She gripped the decayed railing and hoped for a miracle.
Her cousin used his sword to point at her. “So, Isolde, you have come to claim Titus’s so
ul?”
“Aye.” Gwendolyn continued to play the specter in an attempted to regain control. “And those that follow him.”
“Then come, claim me.” Ferris mocked her with his eyes. “For I intend to claim Gwendolyn, and do not think my hand will be stayed by the words of a woman long dead.”
The look in her cousin’s eyes and the arrogance in his threat made Gwendolyn fear he knew more of her secrets than she’d realized. Her ruse was crumbling, as were her and Falke’s chances of survival.
Damn John. Why hadn’t the serf led Gwendolyn to safety? But Falke already knew the answer. Lady Wren was a force few could withstand. But he feared Ferris might be one of those few.
Pain lanced Falke’s left side as he struggled to his feet. With one hand he stanched the blood flow; with the other he grabbed an abandoned sword.
“So, Isolde, no ghostly tricks?” Ferris sneered as he sauntered toward the stairs. “Let us see your justice from beyond the grave.” The dare hung in the air, and Falke could see the inkling of doubt in the nobles’ faces.
And then he heard them take a collective breath. He turned toward the balcony, pride surging in his veins. Gwendolyn had risen to Ferris’s taunt.
“Then so be it.” Standing between the wall and the statue, she mimicked the effigy’s stance. Arms outstretched, palms upward, she cast a shadow that engulfed the great hall. “My justice falls on all of Cravenmoor.”
’Twas as though the statue had come to life. The same silver hair. The same azure dress. The same fine, delicate face. But Gwendolyn gave life to the cold features, making her more beautiful and more spectral. Yet Falke knew the woman was no ghost. She was flesh and blood. She was his wife.
A slight breeze lifted her platinum hair, creating a halo around her head. Even with his eyes blurred with blood, Falke recognized the gown he had given her for their wedding. And he detected the crude twine crisscrossing her chest to hold it on. With more light and a less guilty audience, her ruse would be seen through easily.