Читать книгу Angel Of The Knight - Diana Hall - Страница 11

The servant boy paused outside the fourth-floor chamber and cast Gwendolyn a cautious glance. He whispered to Darianne, “She ain’t dangerous or anything, is she?”

Gwendolyn quelled the urge to start a low wolf howl and really scare the rude child.

“Nay. As long as she’s left alone,” Darianne advised.

The lad pushed open the heavy oak-and-metal door as Darianne ushered Gwendolyn inside the chamber. Cyrus followed, carrying their meager belongings.

The freckle-faced boy handed Darianne an earthen jar. “The chambermaid said there be a lamp on yon wall. Here’s oil for it.”

“Thank you, lad.” Cyrus spoke with regal reserve.

“There’s not many ’twill be up these stairs,” the boy advised gently in a thick English accent. “If’n ye be in need, me name is Lucas. I’m not worth much, but I’ll help ye if I ken. From the look of this room, ye’ll be needin’ me.”

Through the high arched window, afternoon sunlight filtered in, creating a drowsy spring warmth. Crates and trunks lay strewn about the tiny cell. Spiderwebs coated with dust laced boxes and the corners of the room. The stone walls were blank of any whitewash, murals or tapestries. A pile of musty smelling straw lay on the floor as a pallet. Compared to her room at Cravenmoor, these accommodations were majestic to Gwendolyn.

“’Tis fine.” Darianne threw her tattered scarf and mantle across a box and shoved at a trunk to clear space. She motioned for Gwendolyn to sit on the floor. Gwendolyn hesitated, not willing to let her aged friends do all the work. Her foster mother pointed to the boy and again signaled for her to sit.

Lucas cast a wary eye at Gwendolyn sitting crosslegged on the floor. “I’m thinkin’ ye’ll not get much help from ’em. None are partial to climbin’ those stairs or to waitin’ on the likes of her. And then there’s not many here who are jumpin’ at the new lord’s command.”

“Why is that?” Cyrus kept his voice casual, but both he and Gwendolyn waited with impatience for the boy to answer.

“Well, ’tis his manner.” Lucas scratched his head and shrugged his shoulder. “Things just seems to fall ’is way. And then there’s the business of the old lord.”

“What happened to Lord Merin?” Darianne fished about in her bag while she asked the question. Gwendolyn prayed the boy wouldn’t comprehend the inquisition they were putting him through.

“Yesterday, the two of ’em had a row about…” Lucas dropped his voice to a whisper “…marryin’ her.” His voice resumed a normal tone. “Lord Merin rode off at a gallop during the hunt. Weren’t but a short time later, the new lord returns with Lord Merin’s body strapped to the back of his horse and claims the old lord fell from ’e’s palfrey. But for Lady Celestine and Lady Ivette’s standin’ up for ’im, Sir Laron would have had Lord Falke’s head.”

“And do you think ’twas only an accident?” Darianne wiped off a crate to serve as a table.

“I think…” the boy hunched his shoulders and looked down the hall to see that no one approached. “…Lord Falke is one lucky man. His friends are always sayin’ that Sir Falke was kissed by an angel as a baby ’cause he was born on the seventh day of the seventh month and ’e’s the seventh son born. And I think…” his voice grew quiet again and his head nodded like that of a wise old abbot “…that what’s good luck for Lord Falke ain’t always good luck fer everyone else.”

Cyrus raised his white brows and lowered his voice. “I think now you should be on about your business.”

“Aye, I’ll get me ears boxed for sure if I tarry.” A smile flashed across the boy’s lips as he flew from the room. Darianne almost caught his foot in the door when she rushed to seal the chamber.

“Falke’s as bad as Titus.” Gwendolyn jumped up and forced her arthritic foster mother to take a seat. “He killed his uncle for the land. Falke de Chretian could be one of my uncle’s bastards, they’re so much alike.”

“We don’t know that for sure.” Cyrus spread their blankets onto the straw pallet. “Remember, Falke stood up for you against Titus.”

“Was that because of an inner goodness or a wish to show up my uncle?” Gwendolyn played devil’s advocate. She could not forget the anger in Falke’s gaze. His pale blue eyes, so like the clear spring sky, had turned brittle and hard. Full of menace and danger. Like the gleam of a sharp-edge sword. Was that ire directed at Titus because of his treatment of her or from some past confrontation with her uncle?

“We can’t afford to make a mistake about my intended husband. Once he knows the truth, we’re at his mercy.” She pushed her hands deep into her pockets and paced the room.

“Then we wait. And pray.” Darianne spoke the obvious.

Gwendolyn hopped up on a trunk and, on tiptoe, peered out the window. The sun burned through a cloud-filled sky and the tower’s shadow stretched out long and thin on the ground. A group of knights passed below her and the sunlight highlighted the tall blond figure of Falke de Chretian. Wide shoulders moved with casual ease along the upper defense wall. A breeze danced through his long, unbound hair. The rich amber of his velvet tunic shone in the sunlight, and as he moved, the muscles in his arms and legs strained the material.

He walked past the infantrymen stationed on the wall. None of the men came to full attention. Falke passed without seeming to notice the insult given him.

So Lucas’s opinions were shared by the fighting men as well as the serfs. The boy had mentioned that a knight had opposed Falke. Sir Laron. A decision might be taken out of her hands if he ousted Falke from Mistedge. Would he be a better choice to unveil the truth to?

“I need more information.” Gwendolyn turned to her friends. “And I can’t get it here.”

“And how do you mean to get it?” Cyrus’s voice told her he already knew her answer.

“The usual way. When the nobles are their most talkative…after they’ve drunk their fill of wine and ale.”

“Nay, Gwendolyn, don’t put yourself through that today. There will be time enough tomorrow, when you’ve rested.”

“Time is exactly what we don’t have, Cyrus.” Gwendolyn turned and watched the guardsmen. Their animosity toward Falke blanketed the keep even more than the afternoon shadows. With a sigh, she muttered, “I’m afraid ’tis even shorter than we thought.”

Falke strolled along the defense wall and chose to ignore the black looks the guardsmen threw his way. Give them time and the gossip would die down.

Ozbern placed a restraining hand on Falke’s elbow, then pointed over his shoulder at the soldiers. “They hate you. Your vassals don’t trust you. Laron is no doubt plotting to depose you as lord, and you’re stuck marrying an imbecile.”

“Don’t call her that,” Falke barked, then softened his voice. “Whatever she is, I saw a spark of life in those eyes.”

Ozbern shook his dark curly head. “Whatever she is, or isn’t, do you intend to marry her?”

“God’s blood man, nay. I’m not my father. No one will make my decisions for me.”

The shorter knight let out a long, slow sigh. “Falke, whatever you do, will you think beyond yourself?”

Giving his friend a glib smile, Falke asked, “And what is more important than me?”

“Your uncle and aunt. Crispen’s last wishes. The people of this keep.” Ozbern gripped the stone wall and looked out over the meager peasant village huddled a few miles from the bailey walls. The pitiful huts wallowed in mud, along with the livestock in the small bare pasture. A stench even more imposing than that from the Cravenmoor nobility wafted in the air.

“’Tis not much, I grant you that, but don’t throw away this opportunity in a vain attempt to prove you’re not an honorable man.”

“I’m not.” Deep anger drove straight through Falke’s heart. He tensed his jaw and snarled. “My father taught me well that empty code of chivalry, what it was to be governed by what others think of you. For that hollow code he threw away the love of his life.” Taking a cleansing breath, he looked over the castle wall at the squalid village. “Honor is nothing but a shackle around a man’s soul. I rode to Crispen’s side in battle because he was my friend and my heart told me to do so, not because of some false sense of duty. And despite my actions, Crispen died.”

Disgust sharpened his tone and hardened his face. “And in a farce of nobility, along with King Henry’s strong urgings, my uncle made me his son’s replacement. Merin couldn’t abide me. To him, I was nothing more than a ne’er-do-well who lives off his uncanny luck.”

Ozbern shook his dark head. “’Twas no angel’s kiss that made your sword arm strong, but hours of practice. Nor did any seraphim plot your battle strategy. Despite all your bravado to the opposite, Falke de Chretian, you’re a good man. You deserve this keep. And by heavens, in spite of you, I intend to see you keep it.”

Falke gave Ozbern a rueful smile. “I’m not sure whether to call you friend or foe.”

“Friend. Believe me, only a friend would put up with your attitude.” Ozbern shared a laugh with his leader. “Now, we need a strategy to expedite you from marriage to the lady Wren.”

Falke rubbed his face with his hand and racked his mind for a plan, any plan. Afternoon heat beat down on the wide expanse of his back and he felt like the weight of the huge celestial body rested on his shoulders. Aunt Celestine was adamant about him upholding the contract.

Six years as a mercenary for King Henry had left him and his men bone weary. Falke desperately wanted a place to call his own. But he wasn’t ready to forfeit his freedom to gain his dream. Somehow he had to find an acceptable way to halt or at least postpone his wedding.

“Of course!” He slapped his friend on the back. “I can’t believe how simple the solution is.”

“What have you devised now, my crafty friend?” Ozbern nearly staggered from the blow.

Falke hummed under his breath. “I just need to approach my aunt in the proper contrite mood and I will buy myself at least a year.”

“How?”

“I believe ’tis customary for a period of mourning to pass in honor of the death of a loved one. Also, after today’s shocking revelations about my betrothed, I think ’twould be perfectly understandable for Aunt Celestine to retire to a nearby convent for her mourning. A place of quiet and serene surroundings where my poor aunt can collect her thoughts. And we could have no wedding without her.”

A wry smile came to Ozbern lips. “And with your gift for glib talk, you’re bound to pull it off. ’Twill buy you a year, but what of Laron? He’ll have a year to forge a wedge between you and your vassals.”

“And I’ll have a year to gain their faith.” Falke began to hum a lively peasant song under his breath.

“You’re that confident your plan will work?”

“Don’t they always?” With a jaunty skip, Falke resumed his stroll and hummed louder. He even gave each surly guardsman he passed a wide grin. This plan would work. His plans always worked.

The great hall echoed with the voices of knights and ladies ready to begin the evening meal. Falke scanned the room from his seat at the high table, beaming with self-pride. After hours of cajoling, sympathizing and nodding serenely, Falke had convinced his aunt that she had conceived the idea to enter the convent. Even now, a group of Falke’s own men were escorting her to an abbey. All that remained was to inform the assembled nobles of the delay.

As if drawing up battle lines, the nobility had separated into two sides. Men and women of Mistedge crowded together on the tables to his right. On his left, with ample room to spare, sat the Cravenmoor contingent, minus his betrothed and her servants.

“My cup is empty,” Titus bellowed. Jumping into action, a page rushed to pour scarlet wine into the knight’s cup.

“Give me that.” Titus yanked the jug from the boy’s grip and gave the page a backhanded slap.

“That will be enough.” Falke spoke in a low tone but made sure his voice carried the length of the Cravenmoor table. “My people will not be manhandled.”

The room’s din quieted to a churchlike silence. Titus patted his bloated stomach and belched. “You ain’t the real lord till you marry my niece.”

“The man has a point. Just when will the ceremony take place?” Laron asked from his seat next to Ivette. His lips tilted in a smug smile, a caricature of Falke’s own cavalier expression. “After the wedding, the vassals of Lord Merin will swear their allegiance to the new lord of Mistedge. And not a moment before.”

Mistedge knights turned frosty glares to the high table. An angry mutter of agreement spread from man to man.

“And a wedding will take place.” Falke spoke to stamp out the resentment Laron’s comments had rekindled. “But, as you all saw today, my aunt is in need of rest. Today’s incident has strained Lady Celestine. Therefore, she has decided to enter a convent for a year of mourning. At the end of that time, the contract between Mistedge and Cravenmoor will once again be evaluated.”

“A year!” Laron jumped up from his place, an angry snarl on his face. “You’re just juggling for time.”

“I’m showing proper respect for my deceased uncle,” Falke retorted.

“Laron,” Ivette’s scolding tone interrupted. “A year is the minimum time required to show our loss at the death of our lord and uncle.” She flashed Falke a crafty smile. “In the meantime, Sir Falke will lead us wisely, I’m sure.”

“Brat, get out here,” Titus shouted.

From the shadows, the girl materialized. With her face hidden by her hair, she walked with slow, agonized steps toward her uncle, then stopped well out of arm’s reach. How many slaps had it taken for her to gauge so effortlessly the length of her uncle’s grasp?

The urge to slash the lecher’s arms from his torso ripped into Falke. His hand clenched the dagger at his belt, turning his knuckles white with checked anger. No living thing deserved the abasement Titus shed on this poor lass.

Falke rose and motioned to the table where her knights sat. “Lady Gwendolyn, you must be hungry. Won’t you be seated and partake of some nourishment?”

Mean-spirited laughter from Titus and his crew greeted Falke’s remark. A flush-faced woman spoke, her gown displaying her soiled chemise beneath and dark love marks on her throat. “Now don’t that sound so fine, Lady Gwendolyn?” Slapping her thigh, the woman threw a gnawed bone at the girl. “She eats with the dogs, like the rest of the animals.”

From the Cravenmoor table, bones, pieces of bread and apple cores rained down on the hapless girl.

“Halt!” Falke’s unbridled contempt and his halfdrawn sword stopped the rain of trash. “God’s wounds, Titus, how can you treat your own blood this way?”

“Don’t be high and mighty with me.” The lecherous old man leaned his elbows heavily on the table. “Your own serfs and nobles call her names. ’Tis Lady Wren they call her.”

Falke’s gaze sought out Lady Ivette’s. The corners of her full lips tilted in a slight smile. Pride in her little rhyme rimmed her mouth.

He looked at the girl scrambling to pick up the leftovers. If she lived on scraps, how had she accumulated so much weight? He doubted he could span her waist with both arms. A streak of empathy coursed through him. Her life with Titus must be miserable.

“Lady Gwendolyn.” Falke rose and knelt beside her. “Pray, come and share my trencher.” He touched her shoulder to draw her attention away from the scraps among the rushes.

Like a frightened rabbit, she froze. Her hands stilled. For such a short woman, she possessed large hands. Long slender fingers ended in torn but clean nails. In fact, although the rest of her was filthy, her hands were scrubbed raw with cleanliness. The smell of strong lye soap overpowered the damp, woodsy odor of her hair.

“Milord, thank you for your kindness.” Her elderly guardian rushed forward. “But ’twould be best if we leave now.” Cyrus helped the girl to her feet. She leaned on his elbow, her left foot dragging as she walked.

“See to it you have hot food from the kitchen.” Falke issued the order, but doubted the man would see the command carried out. The two looked like beaten dogs retreating from a fight.

“You’ll not get away with this scheme.” Laron’s pale face was mottled with fury.

“Aye, that he won’t,” Titus agreed, and gave Falke an evil grin. “I’ve brought her here for a wedding and I’m not taking her back. At least not without compensation for a year’s keep.”

“Of course.” Falke had been prepared for Titus’s ultimatum. Untying the heavy leather pocket at his belt, he dropped the bag in front of Titus. With a greedy gleam in his eye, the old swine grabbed the gold, gauging the weight of it in the palm of his hand.

A sliver of conscience sliced through Falke. Could he really send the girl back with this depraved man? In his mind, the ominous voice of his father rebuked him for the dishonorable act. Falke forced himself to muffle the voice and harden his emotions.

“I appreciate doing business with you,” Titus cackled. “Mayhap we can do a bit more business before I leave.”

An underlying evil lay in his words and slithered along Falke’s spine. Repulsed, he answered, “I think our business has concluded.”

Titus rose and smirked. “’Twould be to your benefit to hear me out.” He gave an evil laugh, then stalked from the room. The rest of the table dispersed quickly, except for Ferris. The willow-thin knight refilled his goblet with wine and cursed his father between sips.

“Robert,” Falke called to one of his younger knights, seated at his right. “’Tis enough wine for tonight. What will Sir Laron think if my men make drunkards of themselves?”

“But, Falke,” his man protested, “’tis only my third…nay, my fourth cup.” He lifted his glass high in the air and spoke in a slurred voice. “Sir Laron…is a knight…who appreciates a good press.” Robert, his fine auburn hair covering his bleary eyes, brought the cup to his lips, overestimated the distance and sloshed wine down the front of his gold tunic. A dark stain spread across the wool.

“I’d expect as much from one of your men.” Laron sniffed with disdain.

Ozbern gave Falke a quizzical look. “He’s too far into his cups to stop him now.”

Falke laughed, then smiled at Robert, who staggered across the room, balancing two wine jugs and several cups. When the young knight reached a bench near the fireplace, he sat and poured another goblet of wine. Robert raised the cup, took one sip, then grew limp. The knight passed out, the crack of bone against wood making Falke flinch in empathic pain.

Robert rolled off the bench and landed facedown in the rushes. Falke rose, surveyed the passed-out figure and commented, “A night in the cold and a heavy head will teach him a lesson.”

The comment dispersed the nobles into small gossiping cliques. Ozbern rose, cocked a brow toward Laron, then sauntered off toward the gallery.

Tension gripped Falke’s neck like a hawk’s talons. He wanted a breath of fresh air and a moment or two of privacy. He strode through the hall to the courtyard.

The fragrance of new grass hung in the cool evening air. Mistedge blossomed with spring’s promise of new beginnings. And the keep offered Falke a promise also, of remaking himself from a cavalier to a lord. With time and patience, all the pieces would fall into place. The vassals. The villeins. Lady Wren? The girl would take much thought, but somehow he would arrange to end the betrothal.

Worry nagged at the back of his mind. His feet followed the garden path as it curved away from the castle. A whiff of old urine and spoiled wine warned him of who waited ahead.

Emerging from the pruned shrubs, Titus broke into a ragged-toothed grin. “A year will come and go afore you know it. What will you do when the time’s up?”

“As I said, I’ll rethink the situation.” Falke tried to sidestep around the corpulent knight.

“’Tis a dangerous trip home.” The malice in Titus’s voice brought Falke to a quick stop. Titus rubbed his beefy hands together. “For fifty gold pieces and a deed to her lands, I’ll see she finds the sharp edge of a sword should we be attacked by, say…bandits. None of those high-and-mighty lords will be able to connect you with her death.”

An unexplainable fear replaced the villainy in his stare. Falke detected a slight wavering in Titus’s voice as he finished, “But the deed must not be done on Cravenmoor soil, nor can a Cravenmoor knight spill her blood.”

Revulsion gagged Falke and he restrained the urge to beat the old man senseless. He could feel the steady throb of blood pounding in his head and heart. And questions. Why was Titus so adamant about the where and who? And why the fear?

“Do we have a deal?” Titus held out his hand as a gesture of goodwill.

Falke ignored the outstretched hand. “I’ll think over your proposal.”

The criminal huffed with indignation and hooked his thumbs on his leather belt. “You were quick to seek me out when foul work was needed before. When you needed information on Stephen’s troops, you came knocking on my door.”

“That was before I realized how you tortured those men for answers. Before I saw their broken bodies in your battle camp.” The tentative grip on his ire slipped. Falke emitted a low growl under his breath.

Titus’s face blanched. He scurried down the path toward the castle. Tension racked Falke’s shoulders and he mentally forced his muscles to relax. God’s blood! Titus had a soul blacker than the pits of hell. Falke would like to wipe the old robber baron’s grin right off his face. More specifically, Falke would like to force every crooked tooth down the bounder’s throat.

Desperate to work off his anger, Falke decided to leave the castle for a brisk run. The evening sun melted to a golden arc just above the horizon and the temperature dropped with springtime quickness. He ambled through the inner bailey gate and noted the marshal dozing at his post. Lack of a sure leader was fast turning the troops soft. If Falke didn’t gain his vassals’ allegiance soon, Mistedge would be ill prepared to ward off an attack.

As he entered the outer bailey, he noted the guards’ chambers. Infantry troops bedded down in the chamber halls and supplies of weapons were housed in the lower levels. Bombastic laughter and ear-burning curses echoed from the row of windows. Several colorful phrases involved Falke and various types of torture devices. Reason wasted little time convincing Falke ’twould be best to steer clear of the soldiers for now.

Set off by itself, the stable offered respite from the chill and a place to collect his thoughts. Postponing the idea of leaving the castle, he slipped inside, and plopped down on a pile of sweet-smelling hay to watch the glorious sunset through the open doorway.

“Thank you.” A husky voice floated to him from within the barn in accented English. “Tell me about horse.” Falke scooted to the shadows to investigate. A shuffle came from the back of the stable, and he spotted a boy’s brown cowlick bobbing inside a stall.

“I couldn’t find Cyrus or Darianne to tell them about the animal’s legs. Ye could have knocked me over with a quill when ye spoke to me. In me own tongue, no less. There’s nobles around here who can’t speak it as well as you. And to think ye be a know’n the heal’n ways, too.”

“Don’t speak much, Lucas.” Only a head taller than the child, Lady Gwendolyn moved from one side of the stall and disappeared again behind the wooden gate. “No tell anyone. My uncle. Go hard on me.”

The boy nodded his head with vigor. “I’ve heard about ’em. I’m thinkin’ ’e’s like me da, Lady Wren—” He stumbled on an apology. “I-I’m sorry, Lady Gwendolyn. ’Tis just that everyone’s been callin’ ye that.”

“’Tis no harm. Hold this bowl. I soak the rags.”

The desire to peek over the gate and survey the operations nagged at Falke. He ducked into the empty stall next to the pair and sought a crack to spy through. The girl’s disclosure intrigued him. She spoke English as well as French? Titus called her an imbecile, but the boy was right—there were many nobles who could not communicate with their serfs as well as she.

She moved with ease around the tiny boxed pen. He couldn’t hear any dragging feet against the wood floor. The limp was another facade. What else did she hide from Titus? Falke remembered a young girl’s wooden doll he had seen in the Holy Lands. In reality, it had been a series of dolls, each smaller than the next, all nested together. How many inner layers resided within the outer shell of Lady Gwendolyn?

“’Twas too long a journey for him.” Genuine concern cracked the even timbre of her voice.

A finger-wide split between two boards offered Falke a view into the next stall. A short candle sputtered light onto Lady Gwendolyn’s hands. Again Falke found himself mesmerized by that part of her body. The muscles in her fingers flexed and contracted while she massaged the inflamed tendons of her mount’s legs. With skilled efficiency, she rubbed a sharp-smelling ointment deep into the horse’s joints.

“Now I’ll wrap them.” She withdrew long strips of brown cloth from the bowl the boy held. The smell of juniper and camphor mixed with the aroma of the liniment. She swaddled each leg with even, parallel turns of the wraps, then wiped her hands on the front of her skirt.

“Will that fix ’em up?” The boy stayed close to Gwendolyn and away from the stallion’s sharp teeth.

“Aye.” She stood and shook the hay from her gown. The kirtle ended in a ragged rip across the front and exposed her ankles to the cool night air. A glance at the wrapping and the gown confirmed the origin of the strips of cloth. How many of the patches on her gown were due to wear and how many due to use as bandages?

“What should I do tomorrow? Remove them strips?” The boy offered his aid, but kept his gaze on the huge head of the animal.

“Nay. Greatheart…not like strangers. Save with me.”

The boy flattened himself against the wall of the stall. Gwendolyn stretched out her hand and rested it on Lucas’s head. She brushed back the curtain of hair from her face, and once again Falke found himself amazed at the color of her eyes—two jewels of brilliant sapphire light.

Her voice deepened and grew steady. “Cyrus or I will nurse him. And Lucas, if anyone asks, tell him Cyrus wrapped the legs. Can you do that?”

Her blue eyes suddenly grew worried. They no longer shone with youth. Instead, Falke saw them dim with ancient wariness. She bit her upper lip and cupped the boy’s chin with her hand. “Lucas, ’tis very important.”

Lucas nodded his head and gave her a big grin. “Lady Wren—I mean Gwendolyn—ye can trust me.”

“Good.” She tossed her head and the matted dark mane again covered most of her face. Her voice became hesitant again. “Check outside. No one can see.” The boy ran out the gate. Falke duckwalked to a corner and waited for the two to leave.

“Goodnight, Greatheart. We lived another day.” Sorrow and courage colored her statement reminding Falke of an old woman who has outlived all those she loved.

“Lady Wren, there’s no one about.” The boy gave her a quick wave from the stable door.

Light, sure steps danced across the floor, then the only sounds were the even breaths of the livestock. Falke peered over the gate. The boy’s and woman’s forms flittered past the stable window and disappeared around the corner.

He braced his arm on the top board and jumped the stall gate. At the door, he searched the dusk for signs she had succeeded in reaching the castle unseen.

From the garden path, Ozbern emerged breathless and panting. “There you are. I’ve been looking for you.”

“Why? Did you see anything?” Had Lady Gwendolyn been spotted?

“Nay, not see. But I heard from Robert.” Ozbern’s tone was rueful and admiring at the same time. “I don’t know what possessed you to have him play the drunk for Laron, but it worked. After the rest of the knights withdrew, Ferris and Laron had quite a conversation. They let their tongues wag until they passed out drunk. Guess what plan they devised?” Ozbern quirked his mouth in an all-knowing grin.

“Ferris offered to kill Lady Wren—Lady Gwendolyn—and frame me for the woman’s demise.” Falke squelched the smug smile on his friend’s face.

“Blast it, Falke, just once I’d like to supply a bit information that you don’t already know.” Ozbern shook his dark mane of hair in self-disgust.

“Titus offered me a similar deal. Though I think Ferris acts alone on this. Titus was adamant that no Cravenmoor people be involved. But father and son are much alike.”

“What kind of people are we dealing with?” Distaste hardened Ozbern’s tone.

Falke walked back to the castle with Ozbern matching his strides. ’Twas a good question his friend asked. A man who offered to kill his ward, a bastard who offered to kill his cousin, and a woman-child who played the buffoon but hid an ember of humanity…The image of her strong hands working with practiced ease created in Falke a desire to erase the sadness that dulled her azure eyes.

“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.