Angel of the Knight (18 page)

’Twas only as the group dispersed, determined not to allow Titus to know of the night’s drama until the marriage was consummated, that her worries returned. Tonight ended all the charades. Tonight Falke would know all, and there would be no sanctuary to retreat to.

Gwendolyn entered Falke’s chamber alone, grateful he had given her time to prepare before joining her. He had woken a servant and ordered a bath and tea sent to his room—no doubt an attempt to ease her worries about the marriage bed. ’Twas his nerves
Gwendolyn was concerned over. Especially when he discovered his Angel and Lady Wren were one and the same.

“You chose marriage.” Darianne leaped from the curtained bed and rushed to her ward’s side. “You’re not angry with me, are you?”

“I was, but not anymore,” Gwendolyn admitted. “I believe Falke truly cares for me, Lady Wren.”

Her eyes shining with joy and unshed tears, Darianne led Gwendolyn to the bed. “Aye, that he does. Look at his gift.”

“’Tis almost like Mother’s.” Gwendolyn pulled the gown to her, molding the curves to her own.

Folds of sapphire velvet covered her, the exact shade of her eyes. Silver lotus flower embroidery cuffed the neckline, hem and sleeves. A delicate silver and sapphire girdle encircled the waistline. ’Twas a beautiful dress, costly, and made in Lady Wren’s wide, bulky size.

“’Tis simple to cut a gown down, but not to enlarge. Look at the seams—the velvet matches perfectly.” Darianne brushed the rich fabric with her gnarled fingers. “This gown was commissioned with you in mind.”

A sharp rap at the door gave Gwendolyn a moment to clear the lump from her throat. “’Tis the bath and tea Falke ordered for me. Pray, open the door for them, Darianne.”

Folding the gown over her arm, she brushed the wonderful fabric against her cheek. What would Falke think when he saw her dressed in this gown,
without the wrap of pockets around her waist, and the dye washed from her hair?

“You!”

Darianne’s cry broke Gwendolyn’s daydream. She caught a glimpse of her foster mother’s prone shape on the floor and of Ivette dressed in servant’s clothing. Then darkness descended as a coarse bag was thrown over her. Her arms still held Falke’s gift. Her legs were tied, then she was trussed up on a man’s shoulder like a sack of turnips.

“Follow me.” Gwendolyn recognized Ivette’s silky voice as she was carried from the room. “I’ll get you out through the back entrance, then I’ll make sure the old woman’s taken care of.”

“See that you do,” Ferris cautioned. “She could cause us trouble.”

Darianne!
Gwendolyn squirmed, desperate to save her foster mother. Ferris’s iron grip tightened. She tried to shout, but the thick bag muffled her screams.

A sharp rap to her head stopped Gwendolyn’s struggles. In a clear, menacing voice, Ivette warned, “I mean to be the chatelaine of Mistedge. Nothing and no one will stop me. Not an old woman, a fat drudge or even Falke’s newfound sense of honor.”

“You’ll get what you want,” Ferris advised. “And we get what we want—our court jester back. We lose none of her lands, and there’s the fee you’re paying us.”

“A hundred gold coins for what?” Ivette spat. “’Twas my servant who overheard Falke’s order for the bath and tea. ’Twas I who distracted the guard
so you could overtake him. ’Tis you that should be paying me.”

“With her gone, there will be an uproar,” Ferris reasoned. “Falke will have to appease Laron’s followers, and marriage to you will join the two factions. Falke will rejoice at not having to marry this sow.”

They don’t know we’ve already married.
The realization hit Gwendolyn as cold night air sifted through the hot sack enveloping her. She heard the restless shuffling of horse hooves. The breath was knocked out of her as she was dumped over a saddle. Falke’s gift, the velvet hopelessly crushed, cushioned her as her captors galloped away with her.
They don’t know we’re already married.

Gwendolyn did not know if the fact would be her salvation or her death.

A
monstrous black spider crawled across the wooden beam above Gwendolyn’s head. She lay on a dirty straw pallet and watched the predator finish the last strands of the delicate web. The creature then backed to the center of the sticky creation, waiting for prey.

It took little imagination for Gwendolyn to picture her uncle in place of the spider. Like a fly caught in a web, she was helpless to escape Cravenmoor. And like the spider, Titus would take his time finishing her off.

She rose from the pallet, knowing that her tiny cell was exactly ten paces wide and long. Since her arrival two nights ago she had done nothing but pace and shiver, dreading Titus’s punishment.

Though none yet knew of her beauty, all of Cravenmoor knew she was neither an idiot nor lame. Gwendolyn had no protection from Titus’s retribution.

Gloom seeped into her bones, and she sought the one shred of hope she possessed. She dug her fingers deep into the straw and stroked the fine velvet of her wedding gown. She had managed to keep Falke’s gift from Titus during the hard ride back to Cravenmoor by stuffing it under her wool shift. And since no one had bothered to bring her food or water since her imprisonment, she had been able to keep the exquisite gown for her own.

Wrinkles marred the azure cloth and the silver thread had pulled in places along the bodice, but during the frantic ride back to Cravenmoor, and the two days since they had arrived, the touch of soft fabric had bolstered Gwendolyn’s courage. Falke would come for her. He loved her.

Yet there was doubt in her heart. If she died at Titus’s hand, Falke would have fulfilled his duty, gained Mistedge and his freedom. “Pray, let his words of love be true.” Gwendolyn slumped against the wall, her heart warring between trust and uncertainty.

The clatter of keys and raw language made her lift her head. “Titus wants you in the hall.” The jailer snickered as he unlocked the door. Carefully, she arranged the straw over her gown, hiding the brilliant cloth.

Swinging the door wide, the jailer smiled, displaying teeth brown with decay. Gwendolyn rose, and from the corner of her eye she spotted the spiderweb. Tangled in the strands, a small beetle fought to free itself. ’Twas a hopeless struggle. As was hers.

“Bring the devil’s spawn to me.”

Titus’s roar reverberated in Gwendolyn’s ears as the jailer dragged her across Cravenmoor’s great hall and threw her to the floor. The familiar stench of the rushes, rotten food and animal feces assaulted her. Decay and ruin made the air musty and stale. Gwendolyn slowly rose and lifted her chin in defiance.

Her uncle stood on the dais in front of the table, his pack of wolfhounds growling restlessly near his feet. His nobles flanked the hall, seated at trestle tables laden with food and drink. The smell of overcooked meat made Gwendolyn’s stomach rumble. Luckily, no one heard her. Their jeers and insults drowned out her complaining stomach.

Titus wiped the ale from his beard with his bear-like hand and stood. “You conniving whore. Playing the castle simpleton and all the time stealing from me.” He snapped his fingers and the steward rushed forward with the castle records. “Ferris looked over these.” Titus pointed toward where his favorite bastard lounged near the hearth. “Seems there’s been some rearranging of my wealth.”

“Nay, Uncle, not your wealth. Mine.” With no disguise to protect, Gwendolyn finally allowed herself to speak her mind and her heart. “Those properties are my dowry lands, and you have no right to them.”

“Right?” Titus hooted. The knights and ladies joined in his mock humor. “I am your guardian. ’Tis
to me the profits go. And if Ferris is correct, ’tis your lands that show most of my profit.”

“These shouldn’t be your lands.” Gwendolyn straighten and pointed her finger at where her uncle’s heart should be. “Is Cain your patron saint that you would kill your own brother because you covet his wealth and his wife?”

Laughter evaporated in the hall, replaced with utter silence. Eyes stared at her and at her uncle’s reddening face. Ferris jumped from the chair and approached his father, his hand on his dagger.

“Mistedge has spoiled you, girl. There’s no one here to put on a show for you. No one here that is going to raise his sword to protect you.” Titus sneered as he reached for a ham shank on the table. “’Tis time you learned your place.”

He lowered the meat, letting the pack get the scent. Gwendolyn took a step back and glanced around the room. An animal gleam sharpened the nobles’ stares, and Gwendolyn knew she was alone.

Tantalizing the wolfhounds with the ham shank, Titus chuckled. “Now that I know you’ve your wits about you, you’re going to be much more entertaining.” He swung the chuck of meat in a graceful arc and it landed right at her feet.

In a lightning flash, the pack raced after it. Six animals almost twice her size rushed at Gwendolyn. The lead dog hit her in the gut and she went down, her gown covering the shank. Shouts of encouragement to the dogs broke the hall’s silence. Sharp teeth snapped at her ankles. Before, she had had to endure
the humiliation and rely on Cyrus and Darianne, but no more. She had nothing to hide. And ten years of anger to draw on.

Gwendolyn fought back the gray bodies leaping around her. Frantically, she retrieved the shank, then, lifting it high, she rapped it across the lead dog’s muzzle. His whimper startled the rest of pack long enough for Gwendolyn to regain her feet.

“You want this?” She raised the ham shank high, though barely over the dogs’ heads. “Then go get it.”

Gwendolyn repeated her uncle’s act, but threw the ham amidst the Cravenmoor nobles. Six hounds immediately gave chase and crashed into the table, knocking over the chairs, men and women. For once, Cravenmoor’s knights and ladies became the victims.

Facing her uncle and Ferris, Gwendolyn tossed back her tangled mane of hair and met their stares. She didn’t conceal one drop of the hate and disgust that burned in her heart.

From behind her, she heard the sounds of growls, whimpers, snapping teeth, and men and women cursing, crying and whimpering. It gave Gwendolyn a warm sense of satisfaction. “Now that you know I have my wits about me, I’ll be sure to be less entertaining. At least as long as I’m here.”

Titus roared, “You’re a fool. You think Chretian is coming to rescue you.”

“He’ll come.”

“You are a simpleton.” Titus stepped down from the dais and took sinister, methodical steps toward
her. “Chretian was willing to pay me to take you away, to keep you away before you endeared yourself to the commoners. Right now he’s probably drinking a toast to me for kidnapping you.”

“You’re wrong. Falke will come for me.”

“Why—because you saved a few serfs? He was never going to marry you.”

“Aye, he was and did.”

“What?” The cry died in Titus’s throat as his hand clenched the neck of her gown.

“Aye, Uncle. You did not kidnap your ward, but Lady Gwendolyn de Chretian. With the marriage vows spoken, the contract signed…” she paused, then added, “and the marriage bed consummated.”

“Nay.” Titus’s denial arrived as his fist collided with Gwendolyn’s cheek. The ragged edge of his ring tore at the tender skin near her lips. The taste of blood trickled into her mouth. She placed her hand over the wound and then pulled it away. Blood smeared her palm.

Ferris fretted, “Chretian can call on Henry for troops. We’ll have the wrath of the king on our heads.”

Titus stared at Gwendolyn’s bloody mouth and hand, then gave a harsh whisper. “And Isolde’s as well.”

F
alke stood at the opening of his war tent and stared at Cravenmoor’s bleak walls. Imprisoned within the keep, Gwendolyn waited to be rescued.

Iron bars of pain squeezed his chest. In the back of his mind, he heard his father’s condemnation, “My son, the failure.” But a stronger voice gently chided away Falke’s doubt. ’Twas Lady Wren’s. And Falke knew this voice echoed from his heart.

Although he had discovered Darianne only a few minutes after the crime, it had taken the elderly woman some time to recover and name Titus’s accomplice, Ivette. It had taken even longer to muscle through Laron and his allies to get to her and find out Titus’s whereabouts. Longer still for Falke’s loyal vassals to call for reinforcements. ’Twas nearly seven days now since his wedding and his wife’s abduction.

Seven days for Titus to inflict pain and torture on Gwendolyn. Seven days in which Titus could discover her many secrets.

Falke crossed his arms and returned to the gathered knights inside his tent. His options were few, his time running out. “How long before we can expect the king’s men?”

“Four to five days at least,” Ozbern answered. Falke pivoted to face the knights assembled. Ozbern’s face looked as bleak as Cravenmoor. “That’s if Alric locates Henry in London. If the king is off on one of his hunting jaunts it may take that long just to find him.”

“Call in Titus’s messenger,” Falke ordered. A foot soldier hurried off to obey. Falke disregarded the men’s reminders that Titus could not be trusted.

From outside, the shuffle of feet signaled the arrival of Titus’s man. He entered, a disheveled peasant too thin and elderly to do much manual labor. Dressed in a tunic too large and sagging stockings, the serf rubbed his neck, as though grateful ’twas still attached to his body.

The messenger bobbed his head to each noble, his eyes popping at the shiny armor and broadswords. “My lord,” he gulped, gave Falke an even more pronounced bob of his head, and continued, “My thanks for the meal. And me head.”

“I’ll take your thanks for the meal. The other is uncalled for.”
He must believe all lords are as cruel at Titus.
Falke widened his stance and dropped one hand to the hilt of his sword. “Now tell me, what does Titus offer?”

The serf gulped again, his pronounced Adam’s apple bouncing up and down. He spoke in a rush. “Titus
wishes to discuss terms for your wife’s return. But with you only. Inside Cravenmoor. But the offer’s only open for today.”

“Titus knows Lady Wren is wed!” Ozbern rubbed his chin and questioned, “Are these good tidings?”

“Aye,” Falke reassured his second. “Since we are wed, her dowry lands are lost to Titus. Should my wife die, he can only lose. Unless the king becomes involved.”

“Hence the reason for Titus’s haste,” Ozbern reckoned.

“Aye. Should the king’s troops arrive, Henry will demand an accounting. And Titus has no plea other than guilty.”

“Then let us wait for the king’s men,” Sir Clement reasoned. “Surely with the knowledge that there is no hope of escape, Titus will surrender Lady Wren to us without endangering your life, my lord.”

Falke gave his staunch ally a weak smile. “I fear I would save my own but forfeit Lady Wren’s. My wife is the only one who can bear witness against Titus. ’Tis she alone who can testify that Titus took her against her will. With Lady Wren dead, we have only Darianne’s word that my wife was kidnapped. Think you not Titus has already begun to rehearse a tale of how his ward begged him to take her away from Mistedge?

“I must meet with Titus,” he added. “’tis our only hope of saving my lady.”

Sir Clement stepped forward, a stubborn look of understanding on his craggy face. “You said Titus
would gain no wealth should Lady Wren die, but if she should become a widow ’tis a different tale.”

The knight waited, letting his comrades grasp his logic.

“Then Lady Wren would inherit her widow’s portion and Titus would become her guardian once again,” Ozbern finished.

Falke could not deny the truth. To stall Titus meant his love’s death. To save her life, Falke must forfeit his own.

“My lord?” Titus’s messenger cleared his throat nervously. “Mayhap there’s another way.”

In unison all turned their attention to the peasant. Falke leveled a hard stare in the man’s direction. The serf stuttered, “L-Lady Gwendolyn’s held in the pantry. If I c-could set her free, there’s a gap in the inner wall she could sneak through.” His voice grew more stable and confident. “Everyone at Cravenmoor knows of the hidden door in the outer wall. She could escape from the castle, and after that ’twould be up to you.”

The man’s words gained Falke’s interest. Aye, the plan might work. “What would it take to give you the chance to free my lady?”

“I need most of the castle staff and nobles not lookin’ my way.”

“And my arrival would do that, would it not?”

“Aye, ’tis the best I can think of,” the messenger answered with frank honesty. “Serfs wanta know what kinda man woulda married Lady Gwendolyn. Nobles wanta see what Titus is goin’ to do to ye.
They’d fill the great hall, and wouldn’t look twice at me goin’ to the pantry.”

“I thought as much.” God’s wounds! Falke wanted to scream at the injustice of fate. To have given his heart to a woman such as Lady Wren and have his love returned was the greatest happiness he had ever known. But that joy was doomed to be short-lived. At least his death at Titus’s hand would be his last gift to his beloved. Ozbern and his loyal vassals would bring Gwendolyn to safety.

Pointing to the serf, Falke commanded, “Show us on this map where the hidden gate is.” The rail-thin man obeyed, pointing to an area dense with trees and underbrush. Perfect for his allies to hide in.

“Ozbern, you will take a few men and wait there for Lady Wren. When you have her, take her to the nunnery my aunt resides in. Titus cannot breach the walls of such a sacred place.”

“Falke, you don’t mean to ride into that cesspool?” Ozbern waved his hand with contempt toward the serf. “We can’t trust this man. Why would he help his lord’s enemies?”

A fire of anger glinted in the old peasant’s eyes. “Lord William’s me lord. Not that devil Titus.” He rubbed his gnarled fingers together. “Time past, Mistedge and Cravenmoor visited often. Me only child, a sweet, gentle daughter, married a man of Mistedge. And if she’s still livin’, I hear ’tis ’cause the lady cured them.”

“Aye, Lady Wren did work to end our plague.” The memories of Lady Wren ministering to the sick
brought fresh pain to Falke’s heart. How he loved that woman—her bossy voice, her gentle hands, her loving heart. “If your child lives, you owe my lady. Pray, what is your daughter’s name? I will tell you if she lives.”

“’Tis tellin’ the type of lord ye are to know the common folks’ names.” The messenger folded his hands in prayer and asked, “Could ye tell me if my delicate Blodwyn still lives?”

“Blodwyn?” Falke chortled. “Aye, she lives.”

“Then my prayers are answered.”

“And with your information, so are mine.”

Falke turned to Ozbern. “I put my wife’s safekeeping into your hands.”

Surrender made his second’s voice tight with emotion. “I am your man, Falke. What you command, I will do. Lady Wren will be safe from Titus.”

Falke shook each knight’s hand, felt the warmth of their camaraderie, the depth of their loyalty. It made him humble and outraged. His woman’s love, a home, the loyalty of good men—what more could a man ask for? It had all been his, but for so short a time.

“Prepare our horses,” Falke ordered, then turned to the servant. “If we enter the gates now, how soon can you free my wife?”

“Best time be right as you arrive. Most confusion.”

“Ozbern, pick your men and make haste to the wall to await my wife. You—” Falke motioned to the serf “—what is your name?”

“John, sir.”

“Then let us depart, John, but before we leave, one thing.” Falke waved Sir Clement forward. “John, if you’re lying to me, and you betray me, this man will hunt you down and kill you.”

The muscular knight scowled, a trace of a growl emitting from his twisted mouth. “You can count on it, John.”

Taking John’s coarse woolen sleeve, Falke dragged the man outside to their mounts. The poor man’s knees were shaking as a soldier threw him onto a swaybacked mare. Side by side, they rode out of the camp and across the field to the Cravenmoor drawbridge. As the door slowly lowered, Falke nudged John’s mount with his own to gain the man’s attention.

“When you see my wife, tell her I love her,” Falke requested as the drawbridge thudded to the ground. “Tell her I love Lady Wren.”

“Aye, my lord, I will.”

Falke urged his mount over the wide-planked ramp and wished with all his heart that he could tell her himself just once more.