Angel of the Knight (14 page)

“B
eans and dark bread! We toil all day in their fields and they fed us this slop.” Sir Clement, the most belligerent of the Mistedge knights, threw down his wooden bowl in disgust. “I am a noble and as such expect to be fed properly.”

Gwendolyn looked at the mutinous knights, their backs and faces burned red from the sun. The men looked ready to walk out and leave the villagers to fend for themselves. The warrior within each knight balked at the menial work. Somehow she must make them see that a war raged within this demesne and that when they lifted a plow or hoe, they did battle just the same as if they lifted a broadsword.

“Sir Falke.” She pleaded with him for aid.

“’Tis your expertise, Lady Wren. I know no other that does it so well.” Falke’s golden eyebrows arched, a half smile crooking his lips. He was daring her to confront the group of knights. The very thought terrified her, but his supportive nod and nearness
gave her courage. Very well, she’d not falter. The knights must stay. And deep inside, she knew Falke would protect her as he had this morning. When he had sheltered her in his arms, she had felt invincible and cherished—two emotions that had been rare in her life.

Fortified by Falke’s nearness, she tapped her finger on her lower lip. “I see your point, Sir Clement. Pray, come and speak with today’s cook so that the same mistake will not be made.” Respect and reverence for the knights oozed from her voice.

“I’ll see to it we are fed as our work deems fit.” Sir Clement rose, readjusted his thick leather belt and rolled his shoulder muscles. The cheers of the other knights encouraged his bravado.

“Clement will tell them what for.” Three of the knights, eager to see their leader put the commoners in their place, hustled to their feet and followed. As she escorted the gentlemen away, Falke gave her a sly smile and a wink. Her face burning and her pulse racing, she led the four knights to a modest hut.

Unlike Arry’s home, the wattle-and-daub structure was tight and strong. A window and the open door allowed a breeze to enter. The strong smell of mint pervaded the air and mingled with the sounds of soft hymns.

The group of knights brushed past her and Sir Clement’s voice boomed out, “Where is the cook?”

Gwendolyn pushed her way past the wall of tall men just as they realized where they were. The bluster faded from Sir Clement’s face and he paled to a
sickly white. All the pomposity of the group escaped in an audible gasp.

A thin woman sat on the floor holding the unnaturally still form of a toddler. “Here, sire.” With a damp cloth, she rhythmically cooled the youngster’s face and hands. All along the perimeter of the tiny room, other mothers did the same to their children. Of all the places in the village, Gwendolyn’s heart ached the most in this small hut that served as the children’s ward. Fear, anguish and grief hovered over the women, threatening to overcome them at any moment.

“I…I beg pardon.” For once, Sir Clement and his crew were at a loss for words.

The child in the cook’s arms thrashed weakly. “Hush, dearling.” The cook brushed a tear from her face. Cradling her son, she rocked him softly while dribbling a few drops of water down his throat.

Looking up, the haggard woman asked, “Are you in need of me again, Lady Wren? It seems I’ve just had a blink of time with my boy.” She kissed the child’s head and placed him back on a straw pallet. “Ma will be back soon.”

’Twas plain the sight moved the knights. Gwendolyn had no intention of letting them off so easily. This scene needed to flash in their mind every time the heat became too unbearable or the pull of the plow too painful. “As a matter of fact, ’twas Sir Clement who wished to speak with you. Seems the food was—”

“Excellent.” Sir Clement found his voice and
gave Gwendolyn an apologetic glance. “I and these men—” he waved to the other knights “—wished to thank you for your wonderful repast. We know how precious your time with your babe is. That you gave up some of those moments to prepare our meal humbles us.” He turned to leave, pushing his group of meeker knights out the door.

“Sir Clement?” The cook rose and clasped the knight’s hand. “I wish a word with you.” Gwendolyn held her breath, waiting for the noble’s reaction.

A newfound mercy gentled the usual arrogance in the knight’s eyes. “Pray, how can I be of service?”

“You already have.” The cook’s gaze swept around the room. “We women have always seen your kind as quick to take an insult or to grab a handsome village girl. Our crops and people got the worst of your battles and wars. But when I look out at that field and I see ye workin’ the land so that we all ken eat this winter, then ’tis proud I am to say Sir Clement is a knight of Mistedge. Proud to say I’m from Mistedge. Thank you, thank you all.” Tears glistened in the cook’s eyes. She released her hold on the knight and settled next to her child once more.

Sir Clement cleared his throat, twice. He puffed out his chest and sniffed. “Dust.” He sniffed again, gave each of the women a regal nod, then waved Gwendolyn forward and out the door.

“Could have warned me,” he accused as he tried
to compose himself before rejoining Falke under the shade of the trees.

“Of what? Of life? Of death?” She stopped in the center of the green. “Sir Clement, this is Mistedge, not that closed group within those walls. This demesne has been in decline for years, not from lack of wealth but because of a lack of unity. Now is the time to stand together, not separate. Try to build instead of destroy.”

“Lady Wren. Arry’s come back with more supplies from the castle. We need ye to help parcel them out,” Blodywn called from the road.

Gwendolyn watched the knights sit in the cool shade next to Falke. The episode had opened their eyes to what Mistedge needed in a lord. Sir Clement was willing to forge a friendship. Was Falke?

Sympathy for Sir Clement sneaked up on Falke. The braggart never missed a chance to make a snide remark or despair over Falke’s leadership abilities. Now the bravado was wrung out of the man. But if Lady Wren had woven her magic, Clement would be a better man and perhaps would see her worth, and the knight would help Falke keep her out of Titus’s hands.

“Hey, Clement, what of our meal?” one of the knights who’d remained behind querried. “When is that woman fixing us a real meal?”

“Shut up and eat.” Sir Clement picked up his trencher and ate silently.

“But I thought—”

“Listen to the man.” Falke silenced the heckler with a steely gaze. “Eat while you can. Then we return to work.”

Sir Clement shot him a grateful glance. “My thanks.”

“Lady Wren serves up many types of medicine, both for the body and the soul. Her tonics do not always have a sweet taste.” Falke leaned against the trunk of the oak, then shot forward at the sting from his sunburn.

“And of us all, my good friend Falke has suffered quite a bit of Lady Wren’s tonic for the soul.” Ozbern cracked a good-natured grin. “I believe he is glad Clement bears the brunt of her lesson and not him for once.”

“Ozbern, you are newly risen from your bed.” Falke arched a brow. “Do not waste what strength you have on heedless prattle.”

“Sir Ozbern, as a knight of Mistedge—” Sir Clement sat up straighter, his voice lifted so that all could hear “—I am always glad to do service for my lord.” His gray eyes centered on Falke, letting him register the full impact of his words.

The underlying message did not elude Falke. A pledge of loyalty did not come as a small token to such a knight. Aware of the silent tension, he grasped the knight’s hand and smiled. “And your lord is thankful for this and all services you render me.”
One more protector for Lady Wren.

“I ask one boon, milord. Pray keep me on the fair
side of Lady Wren. Her wounds do sting.” Sir Clement squinted his eyes in an imagined injury.

“Aye, that they do,” Ozbern agreed. “She makes a man see his shortcomings.”

“Nay.” Falke shook his head. “’Tis not the faults of the man she sees. That’s why she’s so hard to win against. Someone tears you down, ’tis only natural to fight back. Lady Wren sees the man you could be.”
The man I’ll never be.
“’Tis hard to win a joust when she can crack all your armor and leave you naked on the field.”

Sir Clement gave him a sage nod and pursed his lips. “I see you’ve had more than one bout with the lady.”

Rising, Falke dusted off the back of his breeches and muttered, “Aye, and lost every battle. Come, the noontime is over and the fields await.”

Without hesitation, the men rose at his word. In slow, deliberate steps, Falke felt the firming of his position as lord. And centered at each of his advances was the prodding hand of Lady Wren. When the fever invaded Mistedge, Falke had thought his luck had evaporated, but now he wondered. What he’d thought of as a disadvantage was fast turning into an asset.

But how far would he have to go to seal his future? Marriage to Lady Wren? Aye, he admired her and was genuinely fond of her. But love? Nay. His father had driven that emotion from Falke’s heart. ’Twould take a miracle to drive it back. And didn’t the lady deserve someone more worthy than him?

What did he know of leading a fief? Caring for serfs? Before, when Mistedge had just meant wealth and land, if he failed, ’twould have been little more than fulfilling his father’s prophecy that Falke would never be more than a mercenary. But now that Mistedge meant its people and all their hopes and dreams, if Falke failed ’twould be a heavy burden. He would not have Lady Wren share that humiliation.

Nor could he forget his angel of the night. Thrice he had returned to the pool, searching for her, to no avail. The woman had disappeared. His discreet inquiries of the villagers proved to him that the woman had not existed before Titus’s arrival. The old lecher’s response to Falke’s description of her made him even more curious. What hold did this woman have over Titus, and how could Falke use it to protect Lady Wren?

But a baser, more primitive motive pushed Falke to find the woman. Her beauty tempted him each night. Despite the fatigue of plowing and working in the fields, he found his dreams haunted by his night angel. And strangely, by Lady Wren. Each night, ’twas the same. The angel would come to him, they would embrace, kiss, make love, and then she would melt away. And standing in the shadows would be Lady Wren.

Bah! After twenty years was he finally developing a conscience? Was he feeling guilty for dreaming of one woman while engaged to another? What foolishness. Falke had made love to several women, all in
one night. Married, widowed, as long as they were willing. All of them beautiful, he reminded himself. And not a one of them had pricked through to his heart.

But somehow, Lady Wren had.

It scared him right down to his garters.

G
wendolyn parted the tall reeds near the pond and scrutinized her reflection. White streaked her dark, tangled tresses, especially near her face. Along her crooked part, the lighter roots threatened to expose her.

The last time she had come to this spot to repair her disguise, Falke had found her. That encounter had prevented her from applying the dye correctly, and it had lasted only weeks instead of months. With Falke busy plowing the fields and Cyrus running interference for her in the village, this time there would be no interruptions.

Gwendolyn stripped off her patched, ragged gown and belt of pockets stuffed with herbs. A faint breeze penetrated her thin linen shift as, kneeling by the pond, she combed vinegar wine through her hair to remove the old color. With relish, she scrubbed her face and washed away the last vestiges of her masquerade.

In a few hours, she would once again be drab, ugly Lady Wren, but inside, she would never be the same. Before coming to Mistedge, she had only dreamed of what she might be missing. Now she knew. A devil-may-care, charming, infuriating knight, Falke de Chretian.

Weariness, both physical and mental, seeped into her bones as she selected herbs to make the dye. The disease in the village taxed her endurance, but Falke’s sheltering arms had breached her innermost walls.

Crushing the withered herbs between two flat stones, she found their pungent odor tickled her nose. Just as she had freed the leaves’ perfume, Falke had freed her emotions, using a gentle touch and soothing words as his mortar and pestle. Yesterday, cradled in his arms, she could not deny her heart’s painful truth. She had fallen in love with Falke de Chretian.

And to show just how dangerous her plight had become, her heart whispered an even more cutting truth—she didn’t want him to love her, Gwendolyn. She longed to have him pledge his heart to the woman who worked at his side day by day, who encouraged him, believed in him—Lady Wren.

What irony! Jealous of herself! And for naught. Falke would never wed her, either as his night angel or as Lady Wren. He would not be forced into marrying Lady Wren, nor would he marry his angel and risk losing his lands to Laron’s treachery.

To tell him or not? Could she trust Falke’s love if
he married her for her beauty? Was it wrong to hope for more than lust to bind a man to her?

But what of Titus? Once she returned to the castle and the villagers talked, he would know she had deceived him about her wits. Would he think to question her looks as well?

Pouring the crumbled herbs into a small wooden bowl, she added water and stirred the murky mixture. ’Twas like seeing her future, dark and shadowy.

Running wet fingers through her long hair, she dipped a limp curl into the bowl, massaging the muddy color into her hair. She ordered herself to forget the tenderness in Falke’s indigo gaze as he’d comforted her, the feel of his lips upon hers as he’d sealed his oath of friendship. ’Twas Lady Wren she must become and remain until Titus could no longer harm her. Or Falke learned that a woman was more than the curves of her body.

“By the saints!”

The sound cut the silence of the forest and stabbed her heart. The curse drove away her despair and replaced it with panic. Like resisting hands, the wild rose brambles just a few measures away from her shook, littering the forest floor with pink, red and white petals. From within came a steady stream of damning oaths.

Jumping to her feet she ran a few paces, then stopped. Where could she run? The village? Nay, not as she was, with her hair stripped of dye. The dye! Heavens, she couldn’t become Lady Wren without it. Her gown. Her belt of herbs. Frantic to escape,
yet unable to run without her camouflage, she raced back to retrieve the precious mixture and her belongings.

The lapse was her undoing.

The brambles parted and Falke pushed his way into the clearing. Rose petals stuck in his shoulder-length hair. A look of surprise, then panic creased the handsome planes of his face. “Angel, wait,” he pleaded as he tugged his arm free of the thorns.

His plea halted her, though she wished it did not. “Just a few moments,” she begged her conscience. “Just a stolen moment with the man I love.”

“With the man
I
love,” countered her mind in the soft, hesitant voice of Lady Wren.

Like a trainer with a skittish filly, Falke approached, his hands outstretched, his voice low and soothing. “Do not fear me.”

A mad, bubbly lightness overcame her as she met his laughing eyes, and soft sunlight sprinkled his honey-colored hair. It made her feel daring, willing to take any risk to be with him.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she answered truthfully.

Falke hesitated, both from his surprise at her response and her tone. ’Twas so like Lady Wren’s, a mixture of breathless wonder and gratitude. His angel studied him through a thick fringe of dark lashes, her lower lip puckered in concentration.

“Pray, tell me your name.” Expectation nearly choked him as he spoke.

“Angel will do.” She withheld her name, but
Falke had already christened her as his. This beauty would not escape him again.

Heat fanned from his groin and stabbed at his chest. Christ’s blood, but she was more beautiful than he remembered. Sunlight created a halo as it reflected off her unbound, waist-length hair. As she moved, the tresses flowed like liquid silver along her graceful neck and curled down her shoulders. One strand, the end stained by mud, clung to the valley between her full breasts. The tip curled demurely, drawing his attention to the outline of her nipple beneath her thin linen shift.

Primal lust flared and Falke doubted Hades could withstand such heat. Arousal silkened his tones as he sought to flatter the woman. “I have searched for you often since last we met.”

“You have?” Censure and surprise made her eyes widen. “I would think you too busy plowing the fields to waste time on such pursuits.”

“The oxen tore the yoke leathers, so I thought to while away the time here in hopes of finding you. The search for perfect beauty is always just.” Arming himself with his charming smile, he approached her and reached for her hand.

She very purposefully drew both hands behind her back and cocked one brow. “I thought you had learned to cease your flattery by now.”

“And pray, who would teach me such a lesson?”

“Lady Wren.”

The name was like a bucket of cold water on his passion. Aye, Lady Wren would snort in disdain if
he tried to woo her with pretty words and a charming smile. His suspicions flamed as his ardor simmered. This beautiful woman knew Mistedge well, while no one there seemed to know of her existence.

“Lady Wren has taught me the use of plain speech.” Falke crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at the petite woman. “So I will use such with you. How is it you know so much of the happenings in the village, yet have never set foot there? And most importantly, why do you scare a devil like Titus into fleeing?”

Her head dropped, and Falke noticed one bare toe peeking from under the hem of her gown. Unease twined around his heart. Angel was like a song that ran over and over in his head, yet he could not recall the words. Or a tantalizing dish prepared with a spice he could not identify. And most disconcerting of all, he felt that his well-honed instincts were again…teasing at him.

Angel raised her head and looked upward, as though reading a script in the heavens. “I am the…mistress of one of your vassals. He hid me here in the woods so that I would be near but he need not have to share me with others.”

“Which lord?” Falke demanded as he mentally prayed,
Let it not be Laron.

“I will not say, for fear of him and for him.” Then her eyes softened and a smile curved her lush lips. “But rest assured, Lord Falke, my lord is true to you and your claim to Mistedge.”

“You protect this man, even though he left you to fend for yourself in this plague?”

“He could not venture out and expose himself. And I have kept myself away from the village for my safety and his, though Lady Wren found me. ’Tis she that keeps me abreast of the happenings at Mistedge.”

“Why would Lady Wren not tell me of meeting you?”

“I begged her not to, and she felt you had better things to do than search the woods for me.”

That sounded like his Lady Wren. Work first, pleasure last. Falke rubbed his chin, coming to terms with the fact that his innocent angel was the mistress of one of his lords, a loyal one at that if she was to be believed. Yet one mystery remained. The most important to him and Lady Wren.

“And Titus? I saw fear in his eyes when I described you,” he stated.

“Lady Wren told me I looked very much like her mother, Isolde.” Angel lifted her gaze and met his. Hatred honed their depths to so fine an edge that Falke felt their sting. “Titus fears Isolde’s wrath from beyond the grave. At least this is what Lady Wren has told me. When you described me, Titus must have thought I was a ghost. Would that I were, and could scare the evil from his heart.”

The intensity of her hatred made Falke question her story. “Lady Wren has just cause for her loathing. What sin has Titus done you?”

“I hate all men that would use a woman so. Titus lusted
after Isolde’s beauty and when he could not posses it, he allowed her to die.” Angel gave her chin a defiant tilt. “A woman’s beauty does not lie within the vessel, but within the spirit. Should a man ever learn to love that essence, he would possess a love beyond all.”

Ferocity marked each word, and Falke knew them to be from the heart. His cousin Roen and his wife, Lenora, possessed a union that knew no limits or boundaries. And his mother had held such a love for his father. Bernard de Chretian’s rejection of his wife’s priceless offering had destroyed her. Nay, Falke would never risk such heartache and loss.

His angel possessed no great weapon over Titus, and thus he could not use her to save Lady Wren. Nor would he marry his betrothed and sentence her to the life his mother had. She deserved so much better.

A terrible fatigue settled over him. What use was he as a lord? His people were dying, his fields lay in half-plowed, crooked rows, and he could not save one lone woman. A woman who moved his soul in ways that frightened and intrigued him. Bah! He was useless.

Ignoring the ravishing vision before him, Falke dropped to the mossy ground and slumped against the trunk of a willow. Since he’d kissed her, his life had shifted into a nightmare. His only solace was Lady Wren’s gentle half smile and sharp wit.

“Milord? Are you ill?” Angel knelt at his side, her palm testing his forehead for fever. Concern created
a tiny V between her silvery brows. Again a bolt shot of unease lanced through Falke and made him brush away her hand in frustration. Why did her simple movements trigger his heart so?

“Heartsick, nothing more.” The admission passed his lips as he gave her a wry smile. Lady Wren, the pestilence, the villagers, Laron, Ozbern and Robert’s illness. All weighed heavily on Falke at this moment.

He stroked her cheek with tenderness. “You warned me your kiss would take away my luck, and so it seems it did. If I thought your kiss would cure all that ails the village, I would demand another.”

“And I would give it.” Her voice dropped with disappointment as she added, “I am but flesh and blood.”

And what a delightful arrangement of flesh she was. Her body intoxicated him with its nearness, as though her very skin was a wine, and Falke longed to savor its bouquet. Desire drove him to boldness, yet when he gazed at her face ’twas the concern in her eyes that stirred emotions deep within him. Emotions that overpowered all his roguish instincts.

He spoke without guile, without studied effect, and voiced his inner thoughts. “And if I asked, as a man of flesh and blood, weary of battling disease, plowing fields, and awash in betrayal, would you grant me the boon of a kiss?”

Lust Gwendolyn recognized and could ignore. But the wistful tremor in Falke’s voice betrayed more. He needed comfort from the visions of death in the village and the threat of betrayal from within the castle
walls. Comfort that he had so willingly given to Lady Wren. Gwendolyn could not deny him.

“Aye, milord. I would willingly give you a kiss.” And much more.

She steadied herself for the crushing bruise of his mouth on hers and then closed her eyes. She waited. Nothing happened. She opened one eye.

His face hovered over her own, his lips just a breath away from hers. “I fear your lord has mishandled you.” His lips met her own, gentle, searching, imploring. With a whisperlike caress, his mouth explored the outline of her upper lip. Each touch took away her breath, and her fear.

“Did that lord of yours ever do this?” Falke nibbled the corner of her full mouth, then traced the line of her neck with his fingertip. Her pulse quickened at his touch.

“Nay.” She sighed as delicious heat meandered down her neck and dipped between her breasts.

“I thought not.”

Gwendolyn smiled at the pride in his voice. And the knowledge that he wanted her to feel this pleasure intensified all the exotic sensations speeding through her body.

Coupling was no mystery to her. The Cravenmoor knights took women whenever they wished, in the great hall, the solar, even during meals. A few slobbery kisses, two or three grunts, and most had finished in blink of an eye. Pain had contorted the women’s faces, and a look of relief accompanied the last thrust. Never had Gwendolyn imagined a man’s
touch could be so wanted, so desired, and never had she thought the act could be so…deliciously…slow.

His breath at the hollow of her neck sent a shiver of delight along her spine. A rough, callused hand cradled her head, supporting the weight of her thick hair. The other combed through her damp strands, making bare toes curl as his strong, long fingers caressed her neck, collarbone, then the contours of her breast, finally resting near the stiff peak.

Her back arched as though pleading, begging, demanding the mound be captured. As though sensing that desire, Falke complied, but with his mouth. Lightning quick sensations pulsated through her. Hot, driving, needful.