Angel Of The Knight

Titus’s gaze flickered upward to where the sunlight haloed Isolde’s effigy. A tick attacked his left eye and a flicker of fear crossed over his face. The one chink in Titus’s evil came from Isolde’s threat. Gwendolyn whispered a prayer of gratitude for her mother’s gift.

The village talk of a wandering night angel, a silvery figure that appeared by night, ofttimes had instilled in Titus the only terror Gwendolyn had ever really seen in the man. Titus might not fear retribution in this world, but retribution from the hereafter scared him to the marrow of his bones.

“Why search for angels when we have such a lovely one here?” Titus’s gaze lowered, centering on Gwendolyn. A chill racked the wicked man’s body, as if an icicle ran through his soul.

The room took a collective breath. The knights and their women gave her rancorous looks and jeering smiles. Like Romans at the lion dens, they waited to see the cruel sport made of her.

Her uncle tossed a ham bone at her feet. From under the trestle tables, hunting hounds jumped at the morsel. Snarls and snapping teeth lashed out as the animals vied for the bone. Standing taller that she, the wolfhounds buffeted her from side to side. Their square-jawed heads collided with her knee. Daggerlike teeth sank into her calf.

Laughter and taunts clanged in Gwendolyn’s ears. Cyrus kicked at the pack, putting himself between her and the fighting beasts. The leader gripped the bone in his long yellow teeth, then slunk off, followed by his pack. Gwendolyn lifted her hem and gave thanks that the wounds did not run deep.

“God, but she’s stupid,” a woman declared, then drained her cup of wine.

“Aye, and ugly enough to make a cow look beautiful.” A knight nuzzled the woman’s ear. “Hair as soft as nettles. A shape to mirror a pregnant sow. ’Tis no wonder the girl’s the only virgin left in Cravenmoor. None of us are that desperate to bed a wench.”

“But all of that is soon to change, my dear niece.” Titus rounded the table and towered over her. Evil glittered in his eyes and warned Gwendolyn that misfortune would soon befall her.

“My friends, let us raise our goblets to the fair Gwendolyn on her coming marriage.” His hand whipped out and grabbed her by the hair. With a sharp tug, he forced her face upward. Another tug, and her lips parted from the pain.

“Drink, fair maiden.” He swept a cup from the table and poured the strong wine into her mouth. Hot fire swept down her throat as she tried to both swallow and spit out the brew. She started to choke from the forced drink and her uncle’s words.

Marriage! Was deliverance soon at hand, or an even crueler master? A crystal of pure hope burned in her soul and she suffered the abuse by focusing on that light.

“To Gwendolyn.” The nobles lifted their goblets high in the air and toasted her in mock salute.

Laughter at her expense echoed off the dreary stone walls. Titus released her, pushing her head toward the flea-infested rushes.

Gwendolyn scooted across the floor. Outrage and anger boiled in her heart and threatened to erupt, but her foster parents’ schooling helped her hide the turmoil. Keep all within. Do not show the pain. To distract herself, she stared at the rip in the seam of her shoe. Her fingernails dug into the palms of her hands. She could not afford to let Titus know of the person that existed beneath the dull outer shell she presented.

Her uncle, weak from laughter, waved his hand impatiently for another tankard of ale. A bone-thin page ran to fulfill the command.

“So, Niece, how do you feel to know of your coming nuptials to Lord Merin’s heir?” Titus chuckled under his breath.

“Milord?” Cyrus approached with hesitant steps. “Lord Merin’s son died some years ago.”

“Aye, and ’tis his good fortune he did, or else he’d suffer the fate of marriage to the cow.” Titus grabbed the fresh tankard and downed a hefty swallow. “Lord Merin has adopted a new heir and decided to bind the man to the agreement made between himself and his lifelong friend, Sir William. For the new heir to inherit, he must marry my lovely niece.”

A groan sounded in the hall. Gwendolyn heard the condolences to her unknown betrothed. “The poor man. What bad luck.”

Titus withdrew a wrinkled parchment from the bag on his belt. “Lord Merin demands I deliver the lady Gwendolyn to his northern keep of Mistedge before Easter or his troops will come to take her by force.”

“He threatens war for her!” Ferris pointed his reedy finger at her. Surprise animated his face, erasing the usual sneer.

“The man hasn’t set sight on her since she was two. Lord Merin’ll turn her away at the door.”

“Then why not let him come to us?” Ferris suggested.

“Because if I carry out Lord Merin’s request in good faith, only to be refuted, I’d have to be compensated for my travel. Then again, the contract has been signed and delivered to the king. Lord Merin would have to compensate my poor niece for her broken heart and embarrassment at being so publicly humiliated.”

Her uncle’s laughter tore at the last threads of self-control Gwendolyn possessed. Her desire for revenge caused her muscles to ache for action. Her fingers curled, begging for the chance to scratch out Titus’s eyes. Hidden beneath her kirtle, a dagger tempted her to finally end the years of torment, and impulse caused her to slide her hand toward it.

Cyrus saw her movement. His gray-white brows crinkled as he shook his head to warn her off. She returned her hand to her pocket.

Ferris gave his father a thin smile. “Pray, who is the unfortunate man destined for Gwendolyn’s hand?”

Titus slapped his thigh. “I know you’ll find much pleasure in the knowledge that my niece’s betrothed is Falke de Chretian.”

Ferris’s smile tightened to a snarl and his voice dripped with hatred. “So the rogue’s luck has finally run out.” He shoved aside his gaudily dressed mistress and marched to Gwendolyn’s side. His eyes scrutinized her. “Still, Chretian is known for his uncanny luck.”

“Not this time, which is why this tastes so sweet. Chretian will pay well not to wed Gwendolyn.” Titus’s gaze again lifted to the image of Isolde. A brilliant shaft of light shone on the white-blond hair, and the statue’s eyes seem to sparkle with life.

Titus’s voice lowered and Gwendolyn strained to hear him. “She has no power beyond Cravenmoor land.” A cloud passed, casting a shadow over the statue. The spell broken, Titus waved to Cyrus. “Take her away and pack up what belongings she has. We leave tomorrow.”

The old knight bowed low, so only Gwendolyn saw the white line of anger across his lips. “Aye, milord. I’ll prepare her stallion tonight and—”

“She’s not riding that stallion. He stays here.” The glimmer of another torture glinted in Titus’s green eyes.

The steady thump of Gwendolyn’s heart stopped. Not take Greatheart? Without her to care for her father’s charger, he’d die of neglect. Somehow she had to convince Titus to allow her to take him. Show no concern, her inner voice cautioned Titus is only trying to torment you more. Think! Outsmart him!

“I…ride…white…mule, like real lady?” She labored over each word and spoke in a childlike voice. Through the strands of hair, Gwendolyn watched her uncle’s reaction.

“By Hades, I wouldn’t waste a horse on the likes of you,” Titus shouted back.

“But she’s got to have an animal, milord. The trip would take too long if she’s to walk the whole way. And ’tis a long and taxing journey—hard on man and beast.” Cyrus gave her a quick wink. He had caught the direction of her plan and fallen in step.

“Aye, that it is.” Titus yawned, the drink and heavy meal beginning to slow him down. “Take the old stallion. No one but she can ride him anyway. If the animal dies en route, ’twill be no loss to me.”

Gwendolyn’s heart resumed a steady beat. She wanted to rejoice, hug Cyrus and rush out to Great-heart.

“Now get her the hell out of here. I’m tired.” Titus dismissed them and grabbed the wrist of the woman nearest to him. Her eyes glazed with drink, she followed him up the stairs to the main bedchamber.

“Let’s go,” Cyrus whispered in Gwendolyn’s ear.

Ideas and speculation raced in her head as she followed Cyrus down the stairs to the first-floor pantry. How was Falke de Chretian connected with Titus and Ferris?

“Gwendolyn?” Darianne hobbled from the tiny cell she called her chamber.

“Here.” Gwendolyn hurried to assist the elderly woman to a stool. “Are your joints aching again today? Did you drink the tea I made for you?”

“Hush, child. Someone may hear you,” Darianne cautioned, looking about the room.

“Do not worry. The serfs are off sleeping or drinking. Why work when the filth is tolerated? Why serve palatable meals when the food is strewn across the floor? We’ll be alone until ’tis time to break our evening fast on the scraps from my uncle’s table.”

Cyrus brought over a cup of hot water and Gwendolyn dug about in her pockets until she found the right leaves. She steeped several dark, aromatic stems in the cup and pressed it to the pained woman’s lips.

“It seems I’m to be married,” Gwendolyn stated in a dry voice. “Lord Merin has a new heir and wishes to honor the contract he made with my father.” Again a surge of hope washed over her. For so long, not even a beam of light had made its way into the darkness of her life at Cravenmoor. Disappointment threatened to snap the thin shaft of longing in her heart. She was afraid to believe, afraid to dream.

“Thanks be to God.” Darianne took a long sip of the hot liquid and rocked back and forth. “At last you’re to be saved.”

“Titus is sure the man will pay handsomely to be released from the contract. ’Tis the only reason he’s letting me go.”

“But if we tell this knight the truth…” Darianne’s gnarled and twisted fingers brushed the tangled curtain of hair from Gwendolyn’s face. “If we show the man the truth, he’d not refuse a union.”

“And what if he’s akin to Titus? If I tell this man that I do have my wits about me, that my dowry is rich, that I am not what I seem—and he tells my uncle—I am doomed.”

“She’s got a point, Wife.” Cyrus rested on a keg of ale. The strong yeast smell permeated the wood and the pantry area. “We must gauge what kind of man Chretian is. ’Tis plain Ferris and Titus have dealt with him before, and by their reaction, I would reckon the outcome was not in their favor. No offense, Gwen, but the thought that Chretian had to marry you brought them pleasure.”

“Aye. But what does that tells us? Any man who would deal with my uncle cannot be reputable.”

“But any man that bests them can’t be all bad.” Cyrus crossed his arms and asked, “So what’s it to be?”

“We go. We listen.” Gwendolyn pulled a handful of dried marigold flowers from a pocket to prepare a decoction for Cyrus’s joints. Placing the withered petals into a pot of boiling water, Gwendolyn formulated a plan as she worked.

“If Falke de Chretian is honorable, I’ll tell him everything. If not, I’ll keep up the disguise and wait for another chance.” She tried to keep the fear from her voice. How many more chances would there be? This was the first real opportunity she’d had in ten years to escape the horrors Titus heaped on her.

“What of Titus’s steward?” Darianne asked. “How long can you be away before our other little game is found out?”

“Come harvest I must be home to fix the numbers, or I must wed. That gives me nigh on seven months. I foresee no problem, for either Lord Merin’s heir will send me straight home or he’ll honor the contract. I should be safe either way.”

“I pray you’re right, child.” Darianne’s voice wavered with emotion.

Gwendolyn prayed also, under her breath. She looked around the dank, unkempt kitchen, and faint memories haunted her. Long ago this room had held happy, busy servants, the walls had sparkled with cleanliness. Her mother had…The rest eluded her. Each time Gwendolyn tried to picture her life before Titus, the image blurred more and more. Was she forgetting, or was desperation clouding even the pictures in her mind?

“Our luck is changing, love,” Darianne sang as she began to gather their meager belongings.

“But for the worse or the better?” Gwendolyn couldn’t help asking under her breath. Would her betrothal be her salvation or destruction?

Chapter Two

“I tell you he murdered him.” Outrage rang in the knight’s voice as he crashed his fist onto the trestle table.

Falke watched the reaction of each of the seated lords. Suspicion darkened their eyes. These men were to be his vassals, but now sat in judgment of him. Falke directed his comments to the panel. “I have witnesses, Laron. Uncle Merin’s horse stumbled on the path. He hit his head on a rock.”

Laron spat on the floor. “Witnesses! Two of your own men.” Facing the assembled noblemen, he summed up his case. “All of you heard their argument. Just before the hunt, Lord Merin threatened to disinherit Chretian unless he wed the daughter of William Duberque.”

“’Twas not an argument, Brother, just a conversation.” Tall and willowy, Lady Ivette rose from her stool. Her fine linen kirtle hugged her hips, and as she walked toward Falke, the tiny links of her girdle tinkled like bells. She touched his arm with her fingers and turned her dark eyes back to her sibling. “The accident occurred as Sir Falke stated. I was there and saw it all.”

As she turned to the tribunal, her voice wavered. “’Tis a crime the manner in which my brother throws accusations at Sir Falke. I know Laron believed our uncle would name him as heir. But King Henry approved of Sir Falke.”

“Only because Falke was lucky enough to take a blow meant for Henry and thereby gain the royal favor,” Laron sneered.

“Aye,” Falke agreed, “luck placed me on the battlefield with our king. Pray, what kept you safe within the walls of Mistedge while men died to protect their king?”

“You accuse me of cowardice?” Laron’s hand rested on the pommel of his sword.

Falke snickered at the knight’s implied threat. Standing, he crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow, daring Laron to attack.

“Fellow knights.” A scarred warrior stood and glared at Laron and Falke. “We are here to solve the death of our lord, not cause yet more.”

Laron chewed the side of his mouth and sat down, pouting.

The older knight then addressed the panel. “Lord Merin’s widow insists Chretian is innocent, and Lady Ivette supports the alibi. We’ve naught more to do but bury our lord and see that his last wishes are carried out.”

Disgruntled ayes closed the proceedings, but Falke could feel the nobles’ animosity. He brushed an imaginary speck from his amber velvet tunic and returned to his seat. Winking at his second-in-command, positioned next to him, Falke gave a cheery smile. “I told you, Ozbern, there was naught to worry over. Justice prevails.”

“You and your eternal luck. Just how eager do you think Lady Ivette would have been to support your story if she didn’t have hopes of being the new lady of Mistedge?”

“Which is why I cultivated her friendship when first I arrived. She bats an eye and the most seasoned warrior melts at her beauty.” Falke tilted his head in the direction of the lady in question.

“But you’re in an awkward position.” His friend raised his dark brows. “How do you appease your uncle’s vassals and keep Lady Ivette dangling? The lords insist you fulfill Merin’s contract of marriage.”

Falke chuckled. “In due time. At present, I must properly thank my staunch supporter.” He rose to his feet in one fluid motion. Looking down on most of the men in the room, he gave a regal nod to those that most opposed him. He sauntered across the room to where Lady Ivette waited with her maid. Her delicate face, framed by a cream-colored wimple, bore not a pox scar or irregularity. If Helen of Troy launched a thousand ships, a thousand more would set sail for Ivette.

“I wish to thank you for your words.” Falke gave her a gallant bow and his most charming smile.

Welcome flashed in her blue-black eyes. “Nay, do not thank me. ’Twas only the truth.” Ivette waved away her maid. “I hope you do not hold my brother’s behavior against me.”

“I am thankful you do not share Laron’s opinion of me.”

She smiled and slowly ran her tongue along her teeth to her lip. “There are many things I would share with you.”

He slanted one brow. “Really? Pray, can you elaborate? I would be most interested.”

A titter of laughter answered his question. “Aye, I would show you…someday. For now, let us walk in the garden and leave the staring eyes of these men.”

“Gladly.” Falke took her arm, then led her past the glaring eyes of his vassals. The heat of their anger beat against his back as he walked out into the fresh air.

Leaving the winter scents of old rushes and smoke-lit rooms, Falke inhaled the perfume of the newly arrived spring. New shoots eagerly reached for the morning sunshine. Stark trees and shrubs showed an array of tiny leaves. A lone bird chirped from the whitewashed trellis, its song a hymn to the season.

“What an ugly little bird,” Ivette clucked. “All brown and drab. What a dreary existence it must have.”

“’Tis a wren. A delightful song, is it not?” The bird’s melancholy notes caused his heart to flutter. His second sense, which some called luck, clicked inside his head. The little bird cocked its head and stared at Falke intently, then began its song over again.

“Delightful? Nay, ’tis a rather sorrowful melody. Mayhaps it knows its lack of beauty and laments its fate.” Ivette snapped shut her fan and laughed.

Her voice halted the bird’s serenade and it retreated to a maple tree. The song did not resume, but Falke’s instincts remained charged with energy.

He watched the bird hop along a branch and perch its bit of weight on a thin twig. “Its lack of splendor is only more apparent because of the beauty before me.”

The flattery melted Ivette’s pout. She gazed at him through the dark fringe of her eyelashes. “Sir Falke, you are too kind.”

“Kindness has nothing to do with my words. ’Tis not gratitude I seek, lady.” He cradled her cheek in his hand.

“Then perhaps you should be more aggressive in your search, Lord Falke.” She emphasized his title and thereby his rights as her liege.

All gentleness left his caress and he pulled her to him. Eagerly, she sought his lips and molded her body to his. The nubs of her breasts rubbed against his chest, inflaming his lust. He held a practiced seductress in his arms. With full knowledge of her intentions, he cupped one full globe, his finger massaging the hard tip.

“Sir Falke.” A breathless page ran down the cobblestone path. “They’re here.”

Releasing Ivette, Falke vented his frustration at the lad. “God’s blood, make sense of yourself. Who is here?”

Red faced, the page stumbled to a stop and gulped deep breaths into his wiry rib cage. “Cravenmoor. Sir Falke, your bride has arrived.”

Ivette sucked in her breath and a quiet pall settled on the garden. Cravenmoor here already? Crafty old Merin must have sent for the girl as soon as Falke accepted his offer of inheritance.

“Milord, they’re entering the castle gate now.” The lad shifted from one foot to the other, obviously impatient to see the queue of guests.

“I suppose I should be there to greet them.” The page raced off before Falke could even finish. Taking Ivette’s hand, he strolled toward the castle, his mind churning with ideas on how to handle the Cravenmoor dilemma.

For some reason the melody of the little bird wouldn’t dislodge from his mind. A speck of a shadow flew off into the sparse green of the woods beyond the garden just as Falke climbed the forebuilding stairs.

The men and women of Mistedge already huddled in tight groups, awaiting the arrivals. Ozbern came to Falke’s side, shrugged his shoulders and nodded toward the mayhem entering the inner bailey.

The procession dragged through the barbican gate in a cloud of noise and dust. Sir Titus, seated on a hide-scarred palfrey, shouted curses at the servants. His crop slashed across the back of a bearer. “Drop that trunk and I’ll open your back with fifty lashes.”

Falke watched the display of cruelty and noted to his friend, “Titus hasn’t mellowed with age.”

Ozbern nodded and wagged his finger toward where Ivette stood with a cluster of ladies. She ripped the lace from her handkerchief as the women gossiped. Tiny shreds of thread floated to the ground like snowflakes. “’Tis plain Ivette is worried. Am I correct in assuming you knew not of this arrival?” Ozbern queried.

“Aye, Merin must have been certain I’d agree to the arrangement.” Falke scratched his chin. “Or he thought ’twould be harder for me to deny the girl if she stood before me.”

“Perhaps this girl will not be as sordid as her guardian.”

“Growing up in a household ruled by Titus?” Falke crossed his arms and widened his stance. Revulsion tensed his muscles. “That man is the vilest human being I know. My aunt is certain he arranged his brother’s death and the widow’s. Just the fact that his niece is still alive tells me something.”

“Titus is known as a lecher. Any man would be a fool to leave his daughter alone with him.” Grimness settled in lines around Ozbern’s mouth. “’Tis said Isolde, her mother, was the fairest woman of the realm.”

“If Isolde’s daughter has any looks about her, you can be sure Titus has already tasted her wares. She’s probably as twisted as he is. Mark me, my friend, I’ll not wed away my freedom just to honor a dead uncle’s wish. Mistedge is mine, marriage or no. Henry has decreed me heir.”

“Aye, so he has.” Ozbern cocked his head toward the assembled lords. “But should these vassals plan rebellion, with King Henry busy setting London to rights, your throat could be cut and a new lord in place before Henry has time to act in your behalf. A sliced gullet or marriage?” He rubbed his neck tentatively. “Of the two, I suggest the wedding. At least you would be able to enjoy a fine feast.”

“As always, my friend, you add a bit of sunshine to my dreary day.” Falke slapped Ozbern on the back. As the party cleared the inner bailey gate, Falke sighed. ’Twas time to greet his guests.

Horses and servants huddled around Titus, hesitant to move before he gave the signal to dismount. When the dust settled, Falke addressed his guests. “Lord Titus, welcome to my home.” He paused to allow the meaning of the words to sink in.

Titus’s beady eyes searched the crowd for Lord Merin, then he smiled. The wide grin of chipped and crooked teeth reminded Falke of neglected tombstones. “So, Merin’s dead already. Didn’t waste much time, did you?”

“My uncle died from a hunting accident.” Falke kept his eye on the cagey older man, but he searched the group for the girl. He saw no young maiden in the assembly, only a few knights and camp followers with the servants.

“Hunting accident? I know a bit about those myself. ” Titus gave a hearty laugh. “’Twas the same that happened to my poor brother. Now I’m lord of Cravenmoor because of it. ’Tis strange how fate unwinds…ain’t it?”

“Lord Titus, we are all in mourning for my husband.” Falke’s aunt spoke with displeasure as she joined him. “Now, where is Isolde’s daughter, Lady Gwendolyn?”

Titus’s mouth curled into a sneer. “So, Lady Celestine, I didn’t think you dirtied yourself with the likes of me.”

“That will be enough, Titus.” Falke stepped in front of his aunt, protecting her from the foul man. Ozbern rested his hand on his sword hilt, his thumb massaging the emerald in the pommel. Tension rippled through the inner bailey. The men of Mistedge stood ready to defend their lady’s honor.

A dark-haired Cravenmoor knight sidled up to Titus. “Shut up, you old fool, before you get us all killed. We’re outnumbered ten to one. You’ll get your say.”

“Wise advice, Ferris.” Falke looked back at the older man. “I suggest you take your son’s words to heart.”

The snarl on Titus’s lips changed to a secretive smile. “My apologies.” His crop flew out and sliced across Ferris’s cheek. A thin line of blood seeped from the high cheekbone. “And you would do well to know your place, bastard.”