Angel of the Knight (6 page)

“We must keep her here.” The tingling sensation that had nagged at him disappeared with his words.

“And guard her well. Her death would be all Laron needs to set the rest of Merin’s vassals against you.” Ozbern combed back his hair with his fingers.

“See that one of my men is with her at all times,” Falke ordered in a harsh whisper as he pushed open the castle door and entered.

Red-hot embers in the fireplace pulsated with heat, driving away the chill of the outside air. Ivette embroidered near the wide hearth. Her gaze traveled up the stairs toward the solar and main bedchamber. Instead of returning her inquiring smile, Falke slumped into a chair near the fire. The sharp snap of a fan and the stiff crinkle of silk marked her displeasure at his refusal of her unspoken offer this night.

“Go to bed, Ozbern,” he ordered as he stared into the coals. Alone with his thoughts, he stirred the ashes with an iron poker and watched the embers fly up the chimney, wishing his worries would disappear as easily.

His errant vassal and the men of Cravenmoor offered him no real danger. But the girl’s danger materialized because of him. He couldn’t allow her to be hurt due to his plan. He crinkled his eyes in disgust. God’s wounds, if he wasn’t careful he’d start to sound honorable. And that was something he couldn’t allow. Even for the sake of Lady Wren.

R
obert careened around the corner, swept the great hall with a glance, then bounded up the stairs three at a time. Falke watched the anxious young knight race across the upstairs gallery.

“Lost her again?” Ozbern positioned his rook to capture Falke’s bishop.

“Aye, ’twould seem so.” Falke saved his bishop, the move putting Ozbern’s white rook in danger.

Falke’s squire, Harris, stumbled into the great hall, then strolled casually across the floor. When he reached the stairs, he, too, raced up them. Lady Wren’s two bodyguards exchanged shrugs on the balcony.

“Harris doesn’t know where she is, either?” Ozbern moved a pawn to block his rook’s capture.

“’Twould appear so.” Falke stretched his long legs and propped his fingers together as he pretended to study the chessboard. Seated in a small alcove at the far end of the room, he had a location that enabled him to survey the hall’s activities.

Servants bustled around the trestle tables, collecting the trenchers from the midday meal. Hounds milled through the floor rushes, eager to find scraps. Indulgent villeins threw bones and pieces of meat to the appreciative dogs. Though nearly waist high to the women clearing the table, the dogs remained docile, wagging their tails and licking the hands that fed them. Would that Falke’s vassals were as easily subdued.

Upstairs near the solar, Ivette and the ladies of Mistedge had retreated to their sewing and embroidery. His dismissal nearly a fortnight ago had Ivette playing the wounded lover, though they had shared but a kiss.

Seated near the hearth, Laron and Ferris shared a bottle of Norman wine, speaking in low tones and occasionally throwing a speculative glance toward Falke. Titus snored heavily near the high dais, his overindulgence of rich food and strong wine sapping his alertness. ’Twas one enemy Falke need not worry himself with.

He nodded slightly toward the expansive room. “All those who could do the lady harm are accounted for.” A wisp of a smile tugged at Falke’s lips as he slanted a glance toward the shadowy alcove just to his left.

Ozbern leaned across the board and whispered, “’Tis good to see you enjoy this duty.”

“’Tis naught but self-preservation,” Falke insisted.

“But ’tis an honorable decision nonetheless.” Ozbern smiled as he moved his queen.

“Do not read more than is there. I have no honor, wish no honor. I do and say as I please to get what I want.” Falke swore as he spied a bit of skin. A big toe, in fact. Light wavered through the high window behind him and lit on the corner of the alcove, illuminating a worn leather slipper with a toe protruding from the tip. Lady Wren.

Wrapped in a mantle of charcoal gray, her bulk melted into the lengthening shadows. If Falke squinted and scrutinized the varying shades of gray and black, he could just make out her form standing motionless, eavesdropping on the conversations in the great hall.

She’s good. Very, very good
. The lady played the same game as Falke, but substituted herself as an imbecile for Falke’s chosen drunk. Either way put tongues and men off guard. “Checkmate, Ozbern.” He played his knight, cornering the white king between his bishop and rook.

“Again.” Ozbern slumped back in his chair. “I suppose we should help Robert and Harris.”

“Aye, I suppose we should.” His voice just a trifle louder than necessary, Falke advised, “Send Robert upstairs to her chamber. Harris to the chapel. You take the halls.” With his men so dispatched, Lady Wren would be able to make her daily pilgrimage to the stables without bumping into any of them.

“And you?”

Settling back and gaining an unobstructed view of
the alcove, Falke smiled. “I will savor my victory.” The shadows shifted. The toe vanished. Lady Wren disappeared in the darkness.

Ozbern muttered complaints as he strode off to do his leader’s bidding. Falke waited a few minutes, just long enough of a head start so the girl would not know he followed her. She was too fleet of foot for him to give her much of a head start. He strolled toward the garderobe, then ducked down the adjacent hall to shadow the girl.

He had wrestled with informing his men of her lack of handicap, but had decided to keep mum. The more people that knew of her secret, the more likely ’twould to be revealed. The girl needed as many tricks as possible to elude Titus. Cyrus and his wife, Darianne, had instructed her well. None save Falke knew of her deception.

If not for the night in the stable, Falke would never have guessed the girl possessed such stealth. Nor would he have been watchful for her quiet moves. For nearly a fortnight, he had been mindful of her silent presence among the shadows. When the hall rang with music, the nobles sipped fine wine and the servants busied with finishing up the day’s tasks, Lady Wren cloaked herself in mourning colors and spied.

As long as her would-be assassins remained in Falke’s sight, he allowed her to roam. He would give her what freedom he could as long as she remained at Mistedge. But with reason. He had followed or beat her to the stables each day.

Dampness seeped through the walls of the curved passageway, chilling his skin. Fur-soft moss clung to the stone. Thankfully, the floor rushes were winter old and had long ago had the snap crushed from them. Soundlessly, he made his way through the hall and down a set of stairs to the first floor.

Clatter from the kitchen broke the silence. Falke stilled, then inched closer. The fire snapped and popped as grease and water spattered onto the embers. Servants laughed and spoke in harsh English accents as they consumed the last vestiges of the nobles’ meal.

Poised at the kitchen door, Lady Wren waited, her entire body swathed in a dark mantle. With the kitchen crew engrossed in merriment, she scampered past and slipped out the door to the yard.

The butler rose from the table and approached the kitchen archway. He turned his neckless body toward the door, listening. Falke crouched against the wall, the cold stone pressing into his back. Releasing a sigh, the butler withdrew and returned to the ribaldry in the kitchen.

On tiptoe, Falke crossed the hall, paused to listen for any approaching steps, then carefully opened the door and followed Lady Wren.

A small, square shape shuffled along the inner bailey wall. Carefully, she made her way to the gate and the outer bailey. Above, the guards lounged, unaware of the figure’s presence.

Lady Wren would make the stables without detection. Falke would give her time to inspect the steed’s
legs and apply the aromatic herbs, though the animal seemed to have recuperated. This morning, when he had ventured to check on the animal, the old warhorse had tried to kick his teeth in just for peering over the stall gate. A few days rest and the destrier would be well enough to travel, though a journey back to Cravenmoor might cause a recurrence.

More than a gentle nag of guilt pricked Falke’s heart. He never tolerated abuse of an animal, and Lady Wren and her mount jousted with his determined aloofness. How could he stay distant from the girl’s plight? But he would. He’d not make the same mistake as his father, forfeiting all he truly desired because of honor.

Nay, he had seen his father wither into a bitter man. ’Twas said misery loved company, and Falke’s father had strived to have his wife and sons join him in his disappointment with life. Especially Falke, who had ignored the dogma of honor and sought to savor all of life’s pleasures.

The pungent scent of fresh hay and horses cleared Falke’s thoughts of all except his quarry. Lady Wren. He listened outside the stable door, expecting to hear her soft husky tones calming her horse. Only the shuffling of hooves across sawdust and the quiet snores of horses broke the quiet. Slipping inside, he scanned the rows of stalls. Lady Wren’s horse rested his head over the gate, his eyes closed.

God’s wound’s, where could she be?
Discarding all discretion, Falke ran from stall to stall, searching for the plump shape. Dozing horses, a few mules and
goats complained of his intrusion. He climbed the stairs to the loft and found two stable boys napping in the soft hay, but no Lady Wren.

Dashing out of the stables, he walked toward the fishpond, retracing his steps mentally from the castle, across the inner bailey, to the outer yard to the…Would she leave the castle proper? The tiny hairs along his neck tingled as he strode toward the outer wall.

“Falke.” Ozbern trotted toward him. “Harris found her.”

“What?” Falke shortened his stride, but continued toward the barbican. “Where?”

“In the chapel.” Ozbern puffed his reply. “Lady Wren and the old knight were lighting prayer candles.”

“But it cannot be.” When Falke pulled up short, Ozbern nearly plowed into his back. “She came outside.”

“I know not whom you saw, but Lady Wren is inside the keep. I saw her myself. No other would willingly don her rags and arthritic step.”

Raking his fingers through his hair, Falke shook his head. “I could have sworn…”

“Falke, no one can be in two places at the same time.” Ozbern waved his hand toward the gray stone castle. “Your betrothed is in her room, guarded once again by Harris and Robert. And by two other experienced men. Though why two healthy young men cannot keep up with one crippled imbecile, I know not.”

“Ozbern.” Falke kept his voice patient. “Do not call her cripple, and do not call her imbecile. Lady Wren is many things, but neither of those.”

Lifting his brows, Ozbern dropped his chin, looking stunned. “And pray, has Falke de Chretian finally discovered honor to fight so for a lady?”

“Nay, you should know me better,” Falke countered.

“Then why so fierce when I but speak the truth?”

“Because
I
speak the truth.” Falke waited as his friend and second pondered the information. “The girl has no impediment to her legs. ’Tis but a ruse.”

“And you just now tell me.” Ozbern voice rose in pitch. He patted his palm over his heart.

“’Tis my thought she plays this game to put Titus off guard. I fear the more that know the more likely Titus will find her out.”

Appeased, his second asked, “’Tis true, and Titus is not a man to forgive. But what of her wits? Is she as dull as she seems?”

“Nay. I have heard her speak, both French and English. But not well in either language. She is not as weak-minded as she appears, yet I know not how strong a mind she possesses.”

“Why is it, my friend, that nothing associated with you is as it seems? Not even this poor woman?”

“That is why I keep your company, Ozbern.” Falke slapped his friend on the bank. “You are ever constant.”

“Are you saying I’m a boor?”

“Nay. Only…predictable. ’Tis why I always win at chess. You think overmuch.”

“’Tis my lot, since you act first and think later. But that will change.”

“How so?”

“Now you have something to lose.” Ozbern gave Falke a paternal smile. “Come. After the evening meal the musicians will strike up their instruments, and a poet has stopped by to recite an epic. ’Twill be almost as much entertainment as watching Ivette pretend to hate you.”

“Pretend?”

Ozbern chuckled. “No woman that harbors ill feeling toward a man would walk past him so oft and with that gait.” He let his hips swing gently back and forth.

“She is a woman. She will use what she has to get her way.” Tugging at his chin, Falke gave the barbican one last glance. If ’twas not the Lady Wren he had followed, who was it? ’Twould be several hours before they ate the light evening meal. “I would explore my demesne, Ozbern. Stay here, with an eye to Lady Wren. See that she is escorted wherever she may wander. I will return by nightfall.”

“What is about?”

Years of friendship and countless battles had melded a bond between the two men. Falke could hide little from his second. ’Twas a feeling of both comfort and concern. What could he say to his friend? That the hair along his neck tingled? That he felt restless?

“Nothing, save a wish to stretch these long legs and free me from Ivette, Ferris, Laron and Titus.”

“Very well, I will be on my guard. And mind you, you do the same. I’ve no wish at this late date to find myself without a liege and friend.” Ozbern walked back toward the castle.

Falke strode toward the barbican, his strides lengthening with each step. After his conversation with Ozbern, he realized the mysterious woman could be anywhere. He scanned the landscape.

The one road to the drawbridge dipped into a shallow valley. Standing on the rise, he could see the hovels that made up the village. His uncle had wasted no income on his serfs, and as such, they had no loyalty to Falke.

The grassy fields surrounding the village claimed the hearts of his villeins and freemen. Fertile soil waited to be plowed, sowed and harvested, the bounty of which would feed his people over the long harsh winter. With Lord Merin’s death and the arrival of the Cravenmoor nobles, the planting had been delayed but a few days. Tomorrow he would order the reeve to begin the plowing. For now, he planted his fists at his hips and scanned the grass for the woman he had been following.

There! Just at the forest’s edge, a short form, dark and shapeless, slid into the woods. He marked the spot in his mind and loped across the fields toward it.

Cautiously, he made his way between the trunks of oak and maple trees. Insects hummed near his ear,
and he batted away the flying pests. The ground sagged as he walked, the spring thaw soaking the accumulated dead leaves and soil.

Afternoon sun sneaked through the canopy above his head and spattered light like an artist flicking his brush. From somewhere deep in the shadows, a mournful bird called. A wren. Falke followed the sound, mindful of the tingling at the base of his neck and the racing of his heart.