Angel of the Knight (13 page)

Her toe ground a dirt clod into the dry earth. Her hands shoved deep into the slits of her dun-colored tunic. “Nay, Lord Falke, I do not expect the weak to do the work.”

“Then who? Only a handful of villagers are well and you need them to help you.”

“Aye, ’tis true.” Exasperation steamed from her short body.

Falke could feel the waves of frustration she emitted. “Christ’s blood, woman, just get it off your chest and be done with it.”

“Fine.” The last thread of restraint broke. “Are you a blind man? These fields must be planted and soon. I’ll not save these people now only to hear they starved come the winter.”

“First the fever, then the fields,” Falke advised.

Her hand flew from the recesses of her tunic and pointed one long finger at him. Despite her stature, she commanded all of his attention. Her head flew up and she seared him with a look of pure anger. “If the villagers can’t plow the fields, then that castle of knights and lords surely can.”

Her eyes opened wide in shock at her own candor. She gulped, then panic erased all emotion from her face. In fear, she tried to run from him.

“Hold on.” Falke reached out to stop her, but he found empty air. Lady Wren had gauged him, just as she did Titus. Did she do the same to every man? Judge how far away to stand to avoid a strike or a kick? Pity tempered Falke’s anger as his long legs rapidly caught up with her.

“Stop, Lady,” he commanded.

Immediately, she crumbled to the ground and curled into a tight knot, her hand covering her face, her muscles tensed for an expectant blow.

“Stand, Lady Wren.”

Gwendolyn took a deep breath and complied. ’Twas her own fault for acting the way she had, reprimanding Falke for neglecting the fields. What was she thinking? Cyrus had taught her to hide her emotions better than this. She was lucky it was Falke and not Titus or Ferris. Had she lost her temper with
them, ’twould be more than a beating she’d be receiving.

“I’m ready, Lord Falke.”

Afternoon sunlight glistened on Falke’s darkly tanned chest. Sweat gleamed on the ripples of his abdomen. A trickle of moisture meandered down his bare chest and disappeared beneath the wide leather belt at his hips. Fury darkened his blue eyes. He stood before her, an Apollo with golden hair and skin, and she knew how she must appear to him. Drab. Dull. Ugly.

He stood so close to her she could smell the heady, musky scent of his body mingled with a trace of lye. The coarse wool fabric of her kirtle hid her trembling fingers. She closed her eyes and waited.

His hand cradled her chin. She stiffened for the blow. Then softly, gently, he forced her chin up, and with the other hand brushed the hair from face.

“Mark me, Lady Wren, from this day, speak as you will with me and have no fear.” She opened her eyes and stared into the brilliant crystal blue of his gaze. His tone hypnotized her with its soothing sound. “I will never lay a hand upon you in anger. On this you have my word.”

“The word of a knight with no honor?” She bit her lower lip and cursed her impudence.

He leaned closer, his full mouth just a thread’s width from her own. “My word as a friend, and in this I am always faithful. Just ask Ozbern.” He sealed the contract with a kiss.

Heat radiated from the point of their joining, and
Gwendolyn felt the rigidness ease from her stance. A wild churning spun in her gut and she clung to him, afraid to release him for fear she would faint. Afraid to touch him, for fear she would make a fool of herself and reveal the intensity of desire that washed over her. Too quickly, he severed their connection. She took a deep breath and savored the taste of him that lingered on her lips.

“Friends, milady?”

How could she speak when her heart was beating as fast as a kestrel’s wings? She nodded and kept her silence.

Falke took her hand and led her to a mossy rock. Seating her on the stone as if it was a throne, he pointed toward the castle. “I know you’re bright enough to realize Laron wants Mistedge. If my vassals see me plowing fields like a common laborer…well, ’twill be all the easier for Laron to overthrow me.”

“But Lord Falke, the people will support you. This week they’ve seen you’re willing to put your life on the line for them.”

“Aye, which is the irony of the situation.” Falke leaned back against the rock. His muscled thighs grazed Gwendolyn’s leg. Strange, wonderful sensations danced along the point of contact.

“Lady Wren,” he continued, “when first I entered this village, I cared not whether I kept this place or not. I would have plowed those fields just to thumb my nose at the crew within. But now I do want it.”

“Then fight for it.”

“I am trying.” Anger seeped back into his tone.

Frightened, Gwendolyn shrank back, but Falke’s ire faded before her eyes. He patted her hand and smiled. “Remember, do not fear me.”

“I don’t,” she whispered. Then again, she repeated, “I don’t.” And she didn’t. Aside from Cyrus, Falke was the only other man who had ever gained her confidence.

“Good, because I value your friendship, milady. I will have sore need of it when the fever breaks. Laron will be at my throat. And I cannot lose this place.” Loneliness softened his voice.

“You won’t.” Gwendolyn rested one hand on Falke’s shoulder. She could feel the heat of his bare skin, and a warmth began to build in her heart.

“Why do you have such faith in me, when my own father never did?”

“I see things.” Gwendolyn tried to explain her unquestioning belief in him. “My days have not been filled with sewing, dancing or music. I have spent my time hiding from Titus and his lot. It’s given me an eye to observation.”

Falke stared at her, and Gwendolyn held her breath, thinking he could really see her, minus the hair dye and padding around her hips.

“Go on,” he urged, and Gwendolyn thought he might add, “my night angel,” but he did not.

“I have listened in the castle, to both your friends and foes. But I did not know your ilk until you left the inner bailey. Lord Falke, I think you know not
the definition of honor. For you are an honorable man.”

“There you are wrong, sweet lady.” Falke shook his great mane of golden hair. “For my father taught each of his seven sons the code of chivalry, and what sacrifices must be made in the name of it.”

Bitterness hardened his face, making him seem remote and cold. “My father gave up the woman he loved, who he adored, because she had been raped, just before their wedding. Honor would not allow him to have a woman tainted, though the sin was none of her own fault. His refusal meant the poor girl was wed to her rapist—her family feared she might bear a child from the act, and God forbid they share that shame. My father was given a choice of another family’s daughter, which he took, though he barely knew her name.”

Intensity shook his voice. “I spit on any doctrine that sentenced my mother to a loveless marriage. She deserved better. As do you.”

Slowly, Gwendolyn climbed down from her perch. Falke had more honor than even she had guessed. He acted from the heart. And his heart would never allow him to marry her. Not unless he loved her. “What if I were beautiful—”

“’Twould make no difference.” He held her hand and gave her a sad smile. “I will not marry you just to keep Mistedge. I would not see you waste away as my mother did. Nor will I let Titus take you back to that hell. Rest assured of that.”

“My thanks, Lord Falke.” She took a long, shuddering breath and swallowed her fear. Titus would never abandon her to Falke unless a hefty sum of money greased his palm, and the coffers of Mistedge would be lean this year. Falke could not afford to pay off Titus, nor could Mistedge stand ready to fight. She would have to leave here, to save the villagers and Falke. Unless he married her.

Nor could she reveal her true form, for although he might lust after her as she appeared at the pond, he did not love her. And he would never love Lady Wren. To keep Titus in the dark, she must keep Falke that way as well.

“And Lady Wren…” Falke’s gentle voice jerked Gwendolyn from her sad conclusions. He leaned forward so that she was forced to meet his gaze. “I want you to know that to me you are beautiful. You have a spirit and soul so lovely that no mirror can do them justice.”

His words were sweet torture, and Gwendolyn could endure no more. “Excuse me, I must return to tending the ill.”

“Lady Wren, wait, I will escort you—”

“Nay, I have work that needs be done.” Pointing to the fields, she spoke from her heart, unafraid. “And you have work to do. Do not fear the opinion of those knights within. Nobility rests in a man’s actions, not in his birth. You need only look to my uncle to see the truth I speak. Plow the fields, save the people, and Mistedge will be yours.”

And never mine to share with you
. She left him leaning against the rock, staring at the fields.

Tired, worried and frazzled, Gwendolyn eased the crick in her back as she stood. Hours under the hot afternoon sun had melted her composure. She wanted to sit down and cry, but she hadn’t the time. New patients continued to be carried in from the outer bailey and village. If there were just some sign that the end of the plague was near! Anything to bolster her flagging hopes.

“Well, what is that rogue up to now?” Blodwyn’s voice interrupted Gwendolyn’s dismal thoughts. She glanced about and saw a crowd of serfs standing at the edge of the tent.

“’E’s a tryin’ to put the yoke on me oxen.” A hunched-over man pursed his lips. “’E’s goin’ to plow by ’eself.”

Rushing forward, Gwendolyn pushed her way to the front of the gawking crowd. In the field, Falke fought a losing battle with a team of quarrelsome livestock. Over and over he tried to force the contrary animals into the harness. Finally, he succeeded in capturing the animals and moved them toward the field.

“My God.” Alric snaked his way to Gwendolyn’s side. “Has Falke gone mad?”

“Nay.” With pride, she corrected him. Raising her voice so that it would carry, she added, “Lord Falke is seeing to the needs of his people.”

“Laron and Ferris must be having a good laugh.”
Alric spat out the words. “Falke has no idea how to plow a field. He looks like a fool out there alone.”

Lifting her head, she gave the arrogant young knight an angry glare. “He is your lord, is he not?”

“Of course.”

“Then why aren’t you helping him?”

“You want me…to go down there…and plow a field?” Alric voice sang with disbelief and indignation.

“Nay,” Gwendolyn replied in a solemn, quiet tone, “I want you to go down there and plow and plant all the fields.”

The knight turned and came face-to-face with the spent villagers. Their drooping shoulders and gray-white faces proved the people’s exhaustion. They had no more to give. What remained of their small supply of energy was needed to fight off the fever and tend to the ill.

“Falke and I will never live this down. Knights working like field hands…!” Alric muttered as he looked at the few crooked rows that his lord had managed to dredge from the dirt. Waving his hand in the air, he trotted down the path and called, “Falke, wait up. I’ll help you.”

“Now, that Sir Falke be a nobleman with vision,” Blodwyn commented to another woman.

“Aye, and a man not afraid of hard work.” The elderly man nodded his white head in reverence. “I was a thinkin’ the man was too caught up in ’e’s own affairs to be thinkin’ about us. ’Pears I might be mistaken.”

A general mood of acceptance engulfed the crowd. Gwendolyn could not help but rejoice. Falke had gained the people’s trust and loyalty, but would the knights in the castle understand the sacrifices Falke was willing to make for Mistedge? From her eavesdropping, she had surmised that Falke’s more senior vassals sought a leader with more than just a title. They sought a man who put Mistedge first, a man they could depend on.

“Lady Wren,” the old villager called out to her, “if ye ken spare me, I have a mind to go down there and show those boys a thing or two about farming.”

Gwendolyn glanced down at the now unmoving oxen and the two knights tugging on the yoke. “Pray do so, Durin.” In her heart she prayed that Sir Falke would show his vassals a thing or two about being a lord.

“What a disgrace.” Laron paced back and forth along the narrow walkway of the inner wall. “Imagine, the lord of Mistedge plowing a field.”

The assembled lords and ladies shook their heads and
tsked
in censure. Sir Baldwin peered over the wall at the men trying to budge the stubborn oxen. A wry smile crossed his grizzled face. “And he’s doing a pretty poor job of it.” Waving to a few elderly lords, he gave them a wink. “I think we underrated the lad, my friends.”

“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.”

F
alke 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 face. “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.