by Hall, Diana
Gwendolyn leaned her head toward the window. “Already my minions invade. All within are doomed.”
Panic grasped everyone except Ferris. His maniacal laughter echoed in the hall. Gwendolyn had no more bluffs, and in a matter of moments Ferris would strip her of her last protection.
Falke lifted his broadsword and challenged, “Here stands your judge, Ferris. Come meet me.”
“With pleasure, Chretian. I have time enough to deal with my cousin.”
Ferris raised his sword just as the door of the great hall burst open. As though the gates of hell had released its demons, fighting men spilled into the room. Blood thickened the air. The acrid smell of sweat cut the foul odors of the rushes, and the sounds of bones breaking and men dying filled the room. It took precious seconds for the Cravenmoor knights to realize the demons attacking were Mistedge soldiers.
The great hall turned into a battlefield. Falke spotted Ozbern and Clement within the melee. So this had been Gwendolyn’s plan—to stall death until help arrived.
Men fought and fell beside him, but he had no thought of battle. First he needed to find Gwendolyn and get her to safety. Standing with his sword at the ready, Ferris blocked his way.
He tapped swords with Falke, a tease of the battle to come. A pleased smile creased his face as he glanced at the wound. “I’ll have her, Chretian,” he taunted as their swords clashed. “Again, and again, and again.”
“She is my wife.” Falke lunged, his broadsword missing Ferris’s chest by a breath.
“She’ll be your widow.”
The raw pain in his side did not compare to the fear Ferris’s words stirred in Falke’s heart. Gwendolyn’s life with Titus had been cruel; a life under Ferris’s rule, stripped of all her protection, would be torture.
“You’ll never have her,” Falke declared. Even if this day Gwendolyn became his widow, he would take her enemy with him. Conviction brought a wash of strength to his weary muscles. The broadsword became lighter, his head cleared and the room settled into an uneasy tilt.
Ferris sliced upward. Falke countered the attack. They danced a battle waltz among fighting Mistedge and Cravenmoor knights. Combat reigned around them, then space cleared. Falke lunged with his sword. Ferris hacked downward. Their blades met with a clear metallic clang, and locked.
Falke’s biceps bulged, burning from exertion. A mixture of sweat and blood trickled into his eyes.
“You’re weakening, Chretian.” Ferris pressed harder on his blade, driving the edge just a hair closer to Falke’s neck.
“Nay, Ferris. I fight for the love of my life. I…will…” he drove his blade toward his enemy’s chest “…not falter.” Again he summoned burst of strength and brought his sword closer to Ferris’s heart.
“Think again.” Using his fingers like daggers, Ferris stabbed Falke’s wound.
Lightning bolts of agony shot through Falke’s side, splintering his control. Pain sparked through his muscles and bones, destroying his strength, leaving him weak and vulnerable. He fell to one knee, his fist to his chest, the other with a slack hold on his sword hilt.
“As you die, Chretian, think of me, having Gwendolyn.” Ferris moved in for the kill, his sword point aimed at Falke’s heart.
The image generated an explosion of power in Falke. As Ferris rushed forward, Falke thrust his sword deep into his enemy’s gut. Surprise froze Ferris’s face. His wrist bent. His sword dropped to the floor as he fell across Falke’s chest, pinning him to the ground.
“Falke!” Ozbern and Clement appeared at his side, rolling his enemy’s dead body away. Drenched in blood, Falke had but one thought, of Gwendolyn.
“The pantry is empty. We can’t find Lady Wren.” Ozbern swept the great hall with a glance. “Have you seen her?” Fighting raged about them, though ’twas plain that the Mistedge forces were the strongest.
Falke’s stare pivoted to the stairs and his sense of victory evaporated. Using his comrades as crutches, he gained his feet. “The stairs. She’s on the stairs.”
Ozbern’s and Clement’s gazes passed over the beautiful woman standing on the balcony. “Where?”
Falke had no time to waste in explanation. One last enemy stalked his beloved. Titus.
Stuck between the wall, the railing and the effigy, Gwendolyn could see only the left side of the great hall. She leaned over the railing, then pulled back as the barrier gave a bit under her weight. Where was Falke? She had lost sight of him during his battle with Ferris when a wave of soldiers cascaded across the great hall. She couldn’t see his tall frame anywhere.
Backing out of the tight opening, she kept her gaze on the great hall, hoping to catch sight of her husband.
“Banshee!”
The shout made her freeze. Slowly she turned around and faced a madman.
Her uncle stood at the top of the stairs. Insanity seared his face, turning it red and purple. His sword hand gripped the hilt until his knuckles turned white. The veins of his neck pulsated as he spoke. “You’ll not feast on my soul, Isolde. I’ll see you in hell first.”
Gwendolyn stared at her mother’s statue and again duplicated its stance, hoping to frighten Titus away. “Aye, that you will, Titus, for you will be at my side.”
Her words only served to fuel his madness. Titus slashed his blade through the air, smiling as the metal sang. “I’ll scatter the pieces of your body in so many places, you’ll never find your way to me again.”
The wood floor creak as he took heavy steps toward her, blocking her escape down the stairs or toward the door on the far wall.
Trapped, she took small steps backward until she hit the railing. No room for retreat, no room to advance. Her uncle’s smile deepened as he approached. “You can greet Satan back in hell.”
“Greet him yourself, Titus.” She ducked between the effigy’s raised arms, but scrunched against the railing on one side, could retreat no farther. The effigy pedestal trapped her on the other, and Titus loomed in front of her.
At least she would die in her mother’s arms.
“Gwendolyn!”
She heard Falke’s voice, caught a glimpse of steel flash beside her, then the crack of wood as the railing shattered. Her feet dangled in the air, and looking down, she saw the stone floor of the great hall rush toward her. Then she comprehended the iron grip on her wrist.
“I’ve got you, Gwendolyn,” Falke grunted. Blood streaked his face. Sweat darkened his hair. Tears marred his tunic. He looked beautiful.
Clasping her free hand over his, she tried to suppress the nausea in the pit of her stomach, the dizziness in her head, and held on for dear life.
Using the pedestal for anchorage, Falke heaved her up and back onto the balcony. A weak smile crossed his lips as he gave her cheek a soft caress. “I’ve been looking for you, Wife.”
Gripping his sword, Falke looked beyond her and ordered, “Go, Gwendolyn—”
“Straight back to the devil.” Titus loomed at them from the other side of the effigy. Instead of rounding the statue, he clamped onto the statue’s upraised arm and pulled himself across. His foot stomped down next to Gwendolyn’s. His sword arm arced in the air, aiming for her neck.
Then she heard the earsplitting sound of wood scraping wood. She looked up, and her mother’s arms seemed to fall forward, ready to embrace her. She saw Titus’s face turn from one of rage to stark terror, then watched as the statue of her mother tumbled forward, carrying Titus with it. His shrill scream echoed off the stone walls of the castle.
Her uncle thudded on the hard floor of the great hall, chilling the battle that still raged. He opened his eyes and gave a soundless shriek as the heavy effigy plummeted on top of him. The statue of her mother lay faceup, unbroken and unharmed. Titus lay beneath, crushed.
“Gwendolyn,” Falke called to her, his voice breathless and ragged. “Help me up.”
She laid his arm across her shoulders and aided him to rise. “You need a decoction of yarrow to prevent infection in that wound. And I must h
ave needle and thread to tend that gash.”
Walking beside her, Falke gave a weary chuckle. “’Tis good to hear my Lady Wren again.”
Lady Wren! But ’twas not that garb she wore now. She halted midway down the steps. “You called me Gwendolyn,” she accused. “You know me.”
“Aye, would not a husband know his wife?” A rascal of a smile crossed his lips. “And we are indeed husband and wife, though I would prefer next time we consummate our vows in a soft bed instead of on forest moss.”
“How did you know?”
He pointed to where her toe tapped impatiently on the step. “Little things told me. But ’twas at our wedding, when I took your hand, that I suddenly realized why my angel reminded me so much of you.”
He rubbed his thumb over her callused palms and added, “I remembered seeing your hands that first night in Mistedge, tending your horse. Then afterwards tending the ill.” Kissing her fingertips, he added, “Did you think I would not recognize the hands that hold my heart?”
Pausing on the staircase, he kissed her with a tenderness that melted all her doubts, filling her with desire and love. Eagerly, she returned his ardor, pressing her body close, enjoying the long hard feel of him.
He whispered love words in her ear, his breath causing a rampage of tingles down her neck. He kissed her again, his tongue dueling with her own. Fueling her want. Making her ache for the feel of his naked body against her own. Desire rushing to—
“Falke!”
The voice ripped into her passion-induced trance.
Falke tore his mouth from hers. Dazed, she leaned against him and turned to see the outraged faces of Ozbern and Sir Clement.
“Cravenmoor has surrendered,” Ozbern informed them with a disgusted look. “But we cannot find your wife.”
“’I fear Lady Wren is not here.” Sir Clement crossed his arms, an angry snarl on his handsome face. “Already you have forgotten her tender ways and gentle guidance. An angel of mercy.”
“Nay, my friends, I have not forgotten Lady Wren, though I fear you have.” Falke gave Gwendolyn a roguish smile and said, “I don’t recall your showing Sir Clement much mercy.”
Gazing up at her husband, letting her love and adoration shine in her eyes, Gwendolyn answered, “I was much too lenient on him in the village. I should have had him doing the laundry instead of you.” She gave her husband a tight squeeze.
“Ah.” Falke bit his lower lip and place one hand at his side.
“Your wound!” Gwendolyn motioned for the stunned knights to aid her husband. Lifting her skirt to ankle height, she skipped down the stairs, issuing orders to the Mistedge soldiers.
“Fetch me hot water from the kitchen. Have a servant retrieve the cache of healing herbs from the pantry. There’s needle and thread in Darianne’s old room.”
Darianne! She raced back to her husband, supported by two very confused knights. “I forgot all about Darianne. Titus hit her so hard—”
“Cyrus is with her at Mistedge. She’s f-fine,” Ozbern stammered. “Lady Wren?”
Relief lasted only a moment before being replaced with urgency. “I am glad to hear my foster parents are well, and I’ll wish to hear of them later. But there is work to be done. Ozbern, place my husband on the table so I may see to his wounds. Sir Clement, bring all the injured, be they Mistedge or Cravenmoor, here to the great hall to be tended. I’ll need five or six women to clean cuts with a mixture of thyme and lady’s mantle. Another group of the same number to tear bandages.” She paused, then stretched her hand toward their heads. “What are you waiting for? Must I box some ears?”
Bewildered, Ozbern and Sir Clement dropped Falke on the table. “Nay, Lady Wren.”
“I’ll explain later.” ’Twas all the clarification he could offer his friends before his wife pointed them in the direction of their tasks.
Seated on the trestle table, he waited patiently as Gwendolyn had a bowl of clean, warm water and a cloth brought to her. As she separated his wool tunic from the wound, she issued commands to the confused soldiers and peasants. By the time she was ready to sew his cut closed, Cravenmoor had regained a sense of order. The injured were being tended. Serfs busied themselves raking out the foul, blood-soaked rushes. And amazingly, Falke could detect the aroma of broth simmering in the kitchen.
“This will hurt.” Gwendolyn showed him the threaded needle in her hand. Concern darkened her eyes as she leaned over him. “A kiss for luck?”
Holding her hand in his, he pulled her close. “Nay, Wife. A kiss for luck is a fickle thing—I never know whether ’tis good or bad fortune I will gain. ’Tis a kiss of love I seek. For love is ever true.”
And so she kissed him. A kiss full of love and devotion. A kiss that promised a fortune of passion-filled nights and a life of joy.
The kiss of an angel.
Epilogue
Falke paced along the mossy ground near the pond. Restless, he tossed a flat stone into the calm water and watched the ripples rack the red and orange leaves on its surface. Where was she? She had promised to be here.
“Falke?”
The rose bushes, now naked of blooms, shook as she walked down the narrow path to the clearing. She had her hair unbound, free to sway at her hips as she moved. Just as he liked, though when other men were about, he preferred it covered by a wimple.
Midday sunlight spattered her plain wool dress with light and he longed to caress each spot. To savor the taste of her. The smell of her. It had been too long since he had held her in his arms. “What took you so long?” he growled as he reached for her.
“I have work to do, my lord,” she informed him regally, then dropped the blanket and basket she carried to return his embrace. “You are most fortunate that your wife allows you these rendezvous.”
He gave her his most charming, devastatingly handsome smile. “My wife understands my needs.” He ran his fingers along her spine, traced her shoulder blades and then gently cupped her heavy breasts. Passion flared, and he allowed her feel how hard his need already was.
“Your wife is extremely understanding.” Pulling away from him, she spread out the blanket. As she leaned over, the loose drawstring at her shoulders allowed him a generous display of milky flesh. “I brought a basket to break our midday fast.”
Joining her on the blanket, Falke guided her down on the soft wool. He kissed the pulsating hollow of her neck. “Food will not satisfy the fast I seek to break.” He kissed the grotto between her breasts, his hunger growing at her sounds of pleasure. “I have not made love to you since this morning.”
Laughing, Gwendolyn reminded him, “We cannot do this every day. Already there is talk of the lord and lady’s disappearance each day.”
“Let them talk.” Falke smiled, his hands already beneath her gown, his fingers massaging her inner thighs, making her burn for him. “I have plans for you.”
“Plans?” She sighed, not really interested in the answer. Falke had her in a euphoria of sensual delights. His hands slipped her gown off, exposing her sensitive skin to his every touch. The warmth of his chest against the stiff peaks of her breasts. The feel of his lips trailing kisses down her hip. The hot tip of his manhood at the apex of her womb.
Slowly he entered, groaning with pleasure as she wrapped herself around him. Delicious heat coursed through her, and she begged for more. He rocked his hips, sending shivers of desire darting through her body. Rotating his hips, he pushed deeper, harder, faster.
Ecstasy controlled her. Desire swept away her inhibitions. She arched her back, wanting more of him. Needing more of him. Falke did not leave her hungry. Hot pulses of his seed filled her, consumed her and drove her to the precipice of fulfillment. Then drove her over the edge.
She exploded, her body shuddering from fulfillment. Her heart filled with the enormity of her love for him. Falke had been her salvation from Titus, and she his salvation from self-doubt. Together, they had repaired Cravenmoor, both physically and mentally. With the stores from Cravenmoor to
support them this lean season, Mistedge would also survive.
Languid with satisfaction and contentment Gwendolyn cuddled close to Falke. She wiggled her toes and said, “Mistedge and Cravenmoor are set to rights. You are well healed from your injuries. What more could you want?”
“I want a chorus,” Falke whispered, sprinkling a line of kisses down her neck.
“A chorus?” she gasped, her body already reacting to Falke’s caresses. “A chorus of what?”
Turning to her, his eyes dark with want, his body hard with desire, he laughed. “Of angels, of course-just like their mother.”
ISBN: 978-1-4603-5949-5
ANGEL OF THE KNIGHT
Copyright © 2000 by Diane H. Holloway
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