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, Falke whispered, “Go ahead and cry.”

Instead of relief, fear blended with Gwendolyn’s 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.”

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 mind flared at the notion. A woman who didn’t cry…!

Dear Reader,

This month our exciting medieval series KNIGHTS OF THE BLACK ROSE continues with The Rogue by Ana Seymour, a secret baby story in which rogue knight Nicholas Hendry finds his one true love. Judith Stacy returns with Written in the Heart, the delightful tale of an uptight California businessman who hires a marriage-shy female handwriting analyst to solve some of his company’s capers. In Angel of the Knight, a medieval novel by Diana Hall, a carefree warrior falls deeply in love with his betrothed, and does all he can to free her from a family curse. Talented newcomer Mary Burton brings us A Bride for McCain, about a mining millionaire who enters a marriage of convenience with the town’s schoolteacher.

Whatever your taste in reading, you’ll be sure to find a romantic journey back to the past between the covers of a Harlequin Historicals novel. We hope you’ll join us next month, too!

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell,

Senior Editor

Angel of the Knight
Diana Hall

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Available from Harlequin Historicals and DIANA HALL

Warrior’s Deception #309

Branded Hearts #482

Angel of the Knight #501

To all my angels who helped me during Ricky’s cancer:

Mom and Dad: I couldn’t have made it through this time

without both of you. I can’t thank you enough.

Tami, John and Mitch: Thanks for all the hugs, smiles

and hours of talking.

Savanna: I’m proud of you. Thanks for all your

help and strength.

Chuck and Maggie, David and Audrey—great friends

and wonderful listeners.

Tracy and Patience: Thanks for giving me the time

I needed.

All my writing friends at VFRWA and PLRWA,

especially Casey, Debbie, Joan, Kate, Orysia, Nancy and

Michelle: You keep me looking toward the future instead

of back to the past.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Epilogue

Prologue

England, 1144

Isolde clutched her protruding abdomen and prayed death would be merciful. Talons of pain raked her womb. Her scream bounced off the cold stone walls and reverberated in her ears.

“My poor lady. Curse that man and his evil.” Ever faithful Darianne tipped a gourd of water to Isolde’s chapped and bleeding lips.

Isolde savored each drip of lukewarm water, then asked, “Gwendolyn?”

“Outside the door.”

Isolde braced herself as another contraction began. Her lady-in-waiting shoved a cloth-wrapped piece of wood between Isolde’s teeth. She clamped down. Agony hypnotized her into a trance of torture and despair.

“Mother?” Her daughter slipped through the door of the cell. With iron determination, so like her mother’s, the girl wrapped herself around a bed leg, clinging to the rickety frame. Long strands of snow-white hair hung in wild disarray around her face. Sapphire-blue eyes glistened with tears.

“Leave your mother be, Gwendolyn.” Darianne gently tried to pry the child away. “Husband, you were to keep her from this sight.”

A gnarled knight, just past his prime, entered. Battle scars marred his face, while tears stained his clean but frayed tunic. “You know how nimble she is.”

“Let…her…be.” Isolde’s own hair was plastered against her skull with sweat and grime. She fingered her daughter’s silvery tendrils and gazed into the startling blue eyes. Gwendolyn resembled her too closely. She’d bear Titus’s barbs and beatings now.

Another contraction seized Isolde. The stab of pain tore deep. Despite the pain, she listened—stiffened when she heard the rough clunk of boots on the bare stone floor. She turned her head, warily eyeing the door.

Titus entered and swaggered over. “Has my bastard killed her yet?”

Loud booming laughter shook his muscle-bound body, but Isolde could see the effects of his extravagances. A belt of sagging flesh girthed his waist and jowls widened his coarse face.

“She needs a physician.” Darianne hovered nearby, but out of Titus’s reach. “The babe’s turned and we may lose the both of them. I’ve done all I can with my herbs.”

Titus sneered as he confronted Isolde. “No aid, no relief until you sign all rights to these lands to me. Sign the contract or die in childbirth, unclean and unholy.”

“She’s been in labor for two days. ’Tis more than she can stand,” Cyrus begged.

The sneer hardened on Titus’s face. “Sign, woman, or die.”

The pain threatened to overtake her, yet Isolde fought on, not for herself, but for her daughter. Her response came out a scream. “Nay, I’ll not sign away my daughter’s birthright.” Her body ached to rest from the onslaught of labor. The brief reprieve between contractions was not enough. A cloud of white swept past her. “Gwendolyn!”

Her daughter tackled Titus and sank her teeth deep into the flesh of his leg. The burly man yelped, then picked up his attacker by the scruff of her wool shift. With a careless toss, he heaved her from him. The petite form hit the wall. Gwendolyn’s head cracked against the hard stone. Her body lay slumped in the corner like a discarded rag. A low moan escaped her lips. The knight and his lady gasped but did not move.

“That was foolish.” Isolde fought to make her mind clear. Her fate was sealed, but Gwendolyn still had a chance, a hope of surviving. “You may forge my signature and have no repercussions from King Stephen, but what of Henry?”

The cold sneer melted from Titus’s features. Isolde had only moments before a contraction pushed reason from her mind. In a deceptively calm voice, she argued for her daughter’s life. “Henry will drive you from Cravenmoor, wrest from you your ill-gotten gains should he be crowned. Gwendolyn, as legitimate heir, is your only protection from Henry’s ire.”

Titus gripped Isolde’s hand, his fingers digging into her wrist. “You should have wed me when I offered.”

“And burn in hell for marrying my husband’s murderer?” She waited for the slap that would follow her retort. ’Twas not a long delay. Her cheek stung from the blow.

“My brother died from a hunting accident. I would think you would learn by now not to cross me.” He rubbed his knuckles against the red mark he’d produced.

Isolde wished she could spit in his face, but she didn’t have the strength. In a quiet voice, she requested, “Leave me to die.”

Titus’s face grew mottled with anger. “Then you die for nothing.”

“Nay, Titus, do not think so.” This time, Isolde used the pain, used the months of torment to summon a will beyond her own. “For with my death, Gwendolyn’s survival is assured. Kill her, and your wealth is lost. And know this—my death brings me strength. I will not lay in consecrated ground and thus will not rest. Draw my child’s blood, and I will seek you out, though I must travel from the bowels of hell to do so. Neither heaven nor hell will keep me from you.”

Titus stumbled away from her, his eyes wide, his jaw slack. She had penetrated his thick skin, for a man as evil as her brother-in-law must believe in an evil more dark than himself. Believe in that power and fear it.

Recovering, he jerked his head in Gwendolyn’s direction. “I may not be able to own the lands, but I’ll be the whelp’s guardian. I’ll grow rich off her.” He rose and moved to the unconscious form. He nudged the child with his toe and gave Isolde a lecherous stare. “She reminds me of you—same hair and eyes. She’ll provide me with entertainment longer than you did.” His laughter lingered in the room as he left.

Darianne and Cyrus rushed to the child. Gwendolyn wrapped her arms around the woman’s neck.

Isolde sucked in her breath and cursed Titus’s evil. Her limbs grew strangely numb, the life seeping from her. Only moments remained, but what of her child?

Cyrus knelt at her bedside. “Gwendolyn’s battered, but she’ll mend.” He rested his palm on the dagger in his belt. “Release me from my vow, Lady Isolde, and I’ll kill the hell-spawned devil.”

“Nay, Sir Cyrus.” Isolde had to speak before the pain made thought impossible. “Titus has too many men to be taken unaware. If you should die, who would look after my Gwendolyn?”

Darianne cradled the child as she knelt near her husband. Isolde reached out and caressed Gwendolyn’s black-and-blue cheek. Eight short years her daughter had lived, and few of them joyful. Would she remember the happier times, before Titus’s lust and greed had driven him to arrange William’s murder?

Time grew short and precious. “Darianne and Cyrus,” Isolde murmured, “I give you my child to protect as your own.” She fingered the soft straight hair and mumbled on. “Heaven has cursed her with my beauty. Spare her the ravishment my looks brought upon me. Do not let Titus destroy her.”

The couple intertwined their hands. “With our last breaths, we will protect her,” they vowed together. Tears streamed down Cyrus’s weathered face. Darianne kissed Gwendolyn’s temple.

A knife of pain sliced thorough Isolde. Her eyes opened wide in shock at the intense agony. Then she felt a disattachment from her body. A brilliant white light blinded her, and within it stood a tall, familiar figure, beckoning. William!

Light and young again, she rushed to her husband’s arms, but stopped just before being engulfed in their welcome embrace.

“William, what of our child?” How could she leave her daughter alone in the world?

“Come, my love, your time of suffering is over. Darianne and Cyrus will look after her.” William’s rich voice soothed her fears. “And we shall watch over her from above.”

Isolde closed the distance and embraced her husband.

Darianne gently closed her lady’s eyes and drew the moth-eaten blanket over her face. In death, the serene beauty of Isolde’s face reappeared from the ravages of pain.

Cyrus wiped his tears on the back of his sleeve. “I should kill that bastard now and be done with it.”

Darianne batted him with her arm and motioned for him to help her rise. Still holding Gwendolyn, she tottered to her feet. “Nay, his death is not so important as this child’s life. The next years will be hard. We must have our wits about us or we’ll all end up supping at death’s table.”

Cyrus looked at the sleeping child’s face. Marred with dark bruises, it still foretold a beauty to come that might even surpass her mother’s. “Our lady spoke true. Titus will want Gwendolyn as he desired Isolde. He’ll not care that the child is his niece. What can we do?”

Darianne clutched the girl closer to her bosom. What could she and her husband do against Titus’s evil? They were both past their prime, with only their wits as weapons. Titus kept her alive only because of her knowledge of healing herbs. Herbs! Aye, there was a chance, though a small one, that they could save the child from Titus’s evil touch.

She gave Gwendolyn to Cyrus and began to gather up some small twigs and leaves into bags. “Take the child to our rooms and then inform a servant to bring a pot of boiling water.”

“What are you about, woman?” Cyrus readjusted the child’s limp form in his arms.

“I mean to erase the gifts heaven sent this child.” Darianne pushed her husband out the door. Before she left, she turned back to the body of her lady, wrapped in a makeshift death shroud. “From this day on, Gwendolyn will cease to resemble you, my lady. I pray you will forgive me for what I’m about to do to your child.” She closed the door and whispered a prayer for the dead woman, the child, and for herself. The last few years had been torture; the years ahead would be worse.

Chapter One

England, 1154

“Hurry up, lass. He’s sure to wake soon.” Cyrus cast a baleful gaze toward the snoring drunk sprawled across the straw pallet on the floor. “Besotted before the midday meal.” He shook his head in despair. “’Twould not be so in your father’s time.”

“Almost done.” Gwendolyn dipped her quill into the inkwell and scrutinized the list in front of her. “I can change this one to a four. This three to an eight.” Tallying up the numbers in her head, she smiled. “The total’s the same. I’ve just rearranged the assets.”

The man on the floor muttered in his sleep and scratched his groin. He chomped his teeth and yawned. The smell of sour wine drifted toward her.

“Let us be gone from here.” Cyrus tugged at her sleeve. “’Twould not go well should the steward find us.”

“He’s not found us these many years, and at the rate he drinks, ’tis not likely he ever will.” Disgust and resignation echoed in her voice. The conditions at Cravenmoor never changed, never would until she could find a way to remove her uncle as lord.

She hopped down from the tall stool and wiped the ink from the tip of her quill. “I gave Sir Demark enough potion to ensure sleep long into the night. None will know of our involvement.”

Opening the door just enough to poke her head through, she scanned the corridor. No sign of guard or servant. Not that she expected one. Cravenmoor had settled into disrepair and ruin since her uncle had taken control. ’Twas all she could do not to fall into the same state. She had to hold on to a shred of hope, if not for herself, then for her people.

As much as she suffered from her uncle’s hand, they fared even worse. Worked from dawn to dusk, and barely allowed enough food to fill their children’s stomachs, her villeins lived a dismal existence. With Cyrus’s help, she managed to sneak food from Titus’s storehouse to feed the village, but credit for the gifts were given to Isolde’s ghost. Gwendolyn did not mind. To starving people, loyalty was a luxury. One word to her uncle about her pilfering, and a serf would have a full belly and she a far more brutal life than she now endured.

“’Tis clear.” She motioned for Cyrus to follow her. Merging with the gloom of the castle’s dark areas, Gwendolyn slipped out the door and raced to the stairs. The elderly knight joined her, the creak of his knees cutting the quiet of the upper tower.

“I’ll boil you some lineament for your legs,” she whispered. A small reward for Cyrus’s years of devotion and love. Gwendolyn prayed she could someday repay the knight and his wife for their selfless loyalty to her and her secret.

The old man shrugged his shoulders and nodded. “’Tis too old I am for this duplicity.”

“Nonsense, you get around well for a man of more than half a century,” she chided, but a meddlesome doubt tickled her conscience. Ten years was a long time to keep up a charade. The mental anxiety wore her thin at times; Darianne and Cyrus must be exhausted. She and her adopted family walked a tightrope. One false step, and all three would be brought down.

Noise from the noon meal drifted from the great hall to the landing. Everyone should be downstairs by now. The busy servants would present the joints of meat and fowl, while the nobility of Cravenmoor consumed the food in front of the near-starving staff.

With light steps, Gwendolyn scampered down the stairs and jumped the last three steps to the gallery. The rotting wood complained. Again she waited and listened. The curses and unsavory jests from the tables below became clearer. Her uncle’s jeering laughter made the hair along her neck tingle.

Cyrus reached her side, his breath coming in loud puffs. “Sooner or later, Titus is bound to discover you’ve been altering the books. And when he does…” His aged palms came together as in prayer.

Gwendolyn knew her plight, but was at a loss to end it. She sought the one sight in Cravenmoor that gave her solace: the effigy of her mother.

Wormholes ate at the mahogany banister. A bench, broken in a drunken brawl, littered the gallery hall. The floor rushes reeked of animal and human excrement. Intricate wall designs had decorated the great hall years ago, but now were faint tracings. Only one item remained of Cravenmoor’s splendor, and Gwendolyn crossed to it.

A life-size effigy of her mother stood sentry on the gallery, gazing down at the great hall and all the assembled men and women. Gwendolyn did not know whether Titus feared or revered the image, but he insisted the effigy be flawless. Regularly, a new wash of platinum paint highlighted the hair, and artists renewed the sapphire shade on the eyes.

Carved for her father, the statue flaunted tradition by showing a true likeness of Isolde. No wimple framed her mother’s face; instead her long hair tumbled to her waist. A sapphire kirtle with knotted sleeves draped the image, displaying the curve of her breasts, the narrow width of her waist and the gentle swell of her hips. The hardwood statue enabled Gwendolyn to remember her mother’s beauty, and offered an opportunity to spy on her uncle’s entourage. Hiding behind the base, she listened to the mayhem below.

Peering down, she spotted Titus at the high dais. He stuffed his mouth with roasted meat with one hand, while slipping the other down the blouse of the serving wench. The young girl trembled as she tried to refill an empty goblet. Drops of dark wine spilled across the stained linen tablecloth and spattered her uncle’s tunic.

“Idiot.” He released the wench and batted her away like a bothersome insect.

Gwendolyn leaned against the smooth wooden effigy, drawing courage from her mother’s image. As she closed her eyes, she felt her aged protector’s strong hand on her shoulder. “Dear Cyrus,” she murmured, releasing a long slow sigh. “If not for you and Darianne, that would have been my fate long ago. Titus keeps me alive now as an amusement and because of my mother’s death vow. Greed is Titus’s king and treachery his most beloved mistress. Should he discover the true profit my lands bring, I would have no hope of ever escaping. He would keep me prisoner till my death.”

“Aye, the man’s got no soul. And thus he fears your mother’s death vow.”

“But those words will not protect me forever.”

“Nay, but there have been many sightings of Isolde’s ghost.” Cyrus gave her a wink. “Trust that when King Henry hears of your plight, all will be put to rights.”

“King Henry?” She snorted. “He’s still trying to restore order in the civilized parts of England. ’Twill be some time before his judges and his influence reach us here in Cravenmoor.” The stairs creaked, and Gwendolyn hushed. She peeked from behind her sanctuary.

Ferris, the worst of her uncle’s bastard sons, stood at the far end of the galley. His dark eyes searched the hall below, then settled on her. The handsome lines of his face twisted into a familiar sneer.

Gwendolyn let the tangled mass of her dark hair cover most of her face. The hatred, the fear, the disgust churned away inside her soul, but she kept a vacant stare in her eyes as she lolled her head to the side.

Ferris approached and tapped her with the point of his sword. “What do you spy on, fat cow?” He stared down his long thin nose at Cyrus. “Why is she not waiting on her betters?”

“’Twas another fit, milord. I brought her upstairs so she’d not disturb your meal.” Cyrus pulled on her arm and led her from the hiding place. Gwendolyn kept her eyes downcast and her hands pushed deep in the folds of her gown. The coarse material snagged on her hangnails.

“Get the sow downstairs. Titus wants her.” Ferris slapped her leg with the flat side of his sword and waited, his black eyes exploring her face for a reaction.

The sting from the sword burned. A show of pain would only lead to more slaps and taunts. She buried her cry by squeezing her hands into tight fists. Cyrus patted her upper arm and guided her toward the stairs.

“Phew! Don’t you ever wash her?” Ferris sniffed the air with disgust. “Even if she is as fat as a sow, she needn’t smell like one.” He pushed them aside and headed down the steps.

Gwendolyn peered from between the strands of knotted hair. “What can Titus wish with me?”

Cyrus shook his head and scratched his beard. “Probably just planning sport at your expense. Mind, do as I’ve taught you. Keep your head down. ’Tis hard to mask the spark of life in those brilliant eyes. Keep your tongue quiet and carry yourself as Darianne instructed. Have faith, my child.”

“Aye, a bit of playacting and faith ’tis all that stands betwixt Titus and I.” She slumped her shoulders and hunched her back. To cover her eyes, she combed more hair over her face with her fingers. The transformation complete, she motioned for her knight to usher her downstairs. As she walked, one foot dragged over the rough planks of the floor. Occasionally, her foot snagged on the rushes and she had to lean on Cyrus for support.

Breathing hard, Gwendolyn made her way to stand in front of Titus in the great hall. Her uncle continued to gulp his ale. Drink dribbled down his greased beard. He wiped his chin with his hand and then flung the moisture away. Drops splattered her face. She shoved her hands deep into the slits of her kirtle and swallowed all her emotions.

Titus patted his stomach and belched loudly. “God in heaven, Ferris, it took you long enough to find her.”

His son remained quiet, but the tight line of his jaw showed his anger.

“Mayhap he was out searching for his angel again,” a nearby knight called as he drained his wine goblet.

The room grew silent. At a lift of Titus’s finger, Ferris’s blade rested at the blundering knight’s throat. Pressing the knife as well as his point, Ferris growled, “I think you talk too much, Hercule. Isolde lays moldering in her grave, not walking the lands of Cravenmoor.”

“Aye, Ferris. I talk too much,” the knight agreed with an eager but stilted nod. Ferris removed his blade; the knight rubbed his neck and swallowed several times as if to verify that his throat still worked.

Titus’s gaze flickered upward to where the sunlight haloed Isolde’s effigy. A tick attacked his left eye and a flicker of fear crossed over his face. The one chink in Titus’s evil came from Isolde’s threat. Gwendolyn whispered a prayer of gratitude for her mother’s gift.

The village talk of a wandering night angel, a silvery figure that appeared by night, ofttimes had instilled in Titus the only terror Gwendolyn had ever really seen in the man. Titus might not fear retribution in this world, but retribution from the hereafter scared him to the marrow of his bones.

“Why search for angels when we have such a lovely one here?” Titus’s gaze lowered, centering on Gwendolyn. A chill racked the wicked man’s body, as if an icicle ran through his soul.

The room took a collective breath. The knights and their women gave her rancorous looks and jeering smiles. Like Romans at the lion dens, they waited to see the cruel sport made of her.

Her uncle tossed a ham bone at her feet. From under the trestle tables, hunting hounds jumped at the morsel. Snarls and snapping teeth lashed out as the animals vied for the bone. Standing taller that she, the wolfhounds buffeted her from side to side. Their square-jawed heads collided with her knee. Daggerlike teeth sank into her calf.

Laughter and taunts clanged in Gwendolyn’s ears. Cyrus kicked at the pack, putting himself between her and the fighting beasts. The leader gripped the bone in his long yellow teeth, then slunk off, followed by his pack. Gwendolyn lifted her hem and gave thanks that the wounds did not run deep.

“God, but she’s stupid,” a woman declared, then drained her cup of wine.

“Aye, and ugly enough to make a cow look beautiful.” A knight nuzzled the woman’s ear. “Hair as soft as nettles. A shape to mirror a pregnant sow. ’Tis no wonder the girl’s the only virgin left in Cravenmoor. None of us are that desperate to bed a wench.”

“But all of that is soon to change, my dear niece.” Titus rounded the table and towered over her. Evil glittered in his eyes and warned Gwendolyn that misfortune would soon befall her.

“My friends, let us raise our goblets to the fair Gwendolyn on her coming marriage.” His hand whipped out and grabbed her by the hair. With a sharp tug, he forced her face upward. Another tug, and her lips parted from the pain.

“Drink, fair maiden.” He swept a cup from the table and poured the strong wine into her mouth. Hot fire swept down her throat as she tried to both swallow and spit out the brew. She started to choke from the forced drink and her uncle’s words.

Marriage! Was deliverance soon at hand, or an even crueler master? A crystal of pure hope burned in her soul and she suffered the abuse by focusing on that light.

“To Gwendolyn.” The nobles lifted their goblets high in the air and toasted her in mock salute.

Laughter at her expense echoed off the dreary stone walls. Titus released her, pushing her head toward the flea-infested rushes.

Gwendolyn scooted across the floor. Outrage and anger boiled in her heart and threatened to erupt, but her foster parents’ schooling helped her hide the turmoil. Keep all within. Do not show the pain. To distract herself, she stared at the rip in the seam of her shoe. Her fingernails dug into the palms of her hands. She could not afford to let Titus know of the person that existed beneath the dull outer shell she presented.

Her uncle, weak from laughter, waved his hand impatiently for another tankard of ale. A bone-thin page ran to fulfill the command.

“So, Niece, how do you feel to know of your coming nuptials to Lord Merin’s heir?” Titus chuckled under his breath.

“Milord?” Cyrus approached with hesitant steps. “Lord Merin’s son died some years ago.”

“Aye, and ’tis his good fortune he did, or else he’d suffer the fate of marriage to the cow.” Titus grabbed the fresh tankard and downed a hefty swallow. “Lord Merin has adopted a new heir and decided to bind the man to the agreement made between himself and his lifelong friend, Sir William. For the new heir to inherit, he must marry my lovely niece.”

A groan sounded in the hall. Gwendolyn heard the condolences to her unknown betrothed. “The poor man. What bad luck.”

Titus withdrew a wrinkled parchment from the bag on his belt. “Lord Merin demands I deliver the lady Gwendolyn to his northern keep of Mistedge before Easter or his troops will come to take her by force.”

“He threatens war for her!” Ferris pointed his reedy finger at her. Surprise animated his face, erasing the usual sneer.

“The man hasn’t set sight on her since she was two. Lord Merin’ll turn her away at the door.”

“Then why not let him come to us?” Ferris suggested.

“Because if I carry out Lord Merin’s request in good faith, only to be refuted, I’d have to be compensated for my travel. Then again, the contract has been signed and delivered to the king. Lord Merin would have to compensate my poor niece for her broken heart and embarrassment at being so publicly humiliated.”

Her uncle’s laughter tore at the last threads of self-control Gwendolyn possessed. Her desire for revenge caused her muscles to ache for action. Her fingers curled, begging for the chance to scratch out Titus’s eyes. Hidden beneath her kirtle, a dagger tempted her to finally end the years of torment, and impulse caused her to slide her hand toward it.

Cyrus saw her movement. His gray-white brows crinkled as he shook his head to warn her off. She returned her hand to her pocket.

Ferris gave his father a thin smile. “Pray, who is the unfortunate man destined for Gwendolyn’s hand?”

Titus slapped his thigh. “I know you’ll find much pleasure in the knowledge that my niece’s betrothed is Falke de Chretian.”

Ferris’s smile tightened to a snarl and his voice dripped with hatred. “So the rogue’s luck has finally run out.” He shoved aside his gaudily dressed mistress and marched to Gwendolyn’s side. His eyes scrutinized her. “Still, Chretian is known for his uncanny luck.”

“Not this time, which is why this tastes so sweet. Chretian will pay well not to wed Gwendolyn.” Titus’s gaze again lifted to the image of Isolde. A brilliant shaft of light shone on the white-blond hair, and the statue’s eyes seem to sparkle with life.

Titus’s voice lowered and Gwendolyn strained to hear him. “She has no power beyond Cravenmoor land.” A cloud passed, casting a shadow over the statue. The spell broken, Titus waved to Cyrus. “Take her away and pack up what belongings she has. We leave tomorrow.”

The old knight bowed low, so only Gwendolyn saw the white line of anger across his lips. “Aye, milord. I’ll prepare her stallion tonight and—”

“She’s not riding that stallion. He stays here.” The glimmer of another torture glinted in Titus’s green eyes.

The steady thump of Gwendolyn’s heart stopped. Not take Greatheart? Without her to care for her father’s charger, he’d die of neglect. Somehow she had to convince Titus to allow her to take him. Show no concern, her inner voice cautioned Titus is only trying to torment you more. Think! Outsmart him!

“I…ride…white…mule, like real lady?” She labored over each word and spoke in a childlike voice. Through the strands of hair, Gwendolyn watched her uncle’s reaction.

“By Hades, I wouldn’t waste a horse on the likes of you,” Titus shouted back.

“But she’s got to have an animal, milord. The trip would take too long if she’s to walk the whole way. And ’tis a long and taxing journey—hard on man and beast.” Cyrus gave her a quick wink. He had caught the direction of her plan and fallen in step.

“Aye, that it is.” Titus yawned, the drink and heavy meal beginning to slow him down. “Take the old stallion. No one but she can ride him anyway. If the animal dies en route, ’twill be no loss to me.”

Gwendolyn’s heart resumed a steady beat. She wanted to rejoice, hug Cyrus and rush out to Great-heart.

“Now get her the hell out of here. I’m tired.” Titus dismissed them and grabbed the wrist of the woman nearest to him. Her eyes glazed with drink, she followed him up the stairs to the main bedchamber.

“Let’s go,” Cyrus whispered in Gwendolyn’s ear.

Ideas and speculation raced in her head as she followed Cyrus down the stairs to the first-floor pantry. How was Falke de Chretian connected with Titus and Ferris?

“Gwendolyn?” Darianne hobbled from the tiny cell she called her chamber.

“Here.” Gwendolyn hurried to assist the elderly woman to a stool. “Are your joints aching again today? Did you drink the tea I made for you?”

“Hush, child. Someone may hear you,” Darianne cautioned, looking about the room.

“Do not worry. The serfs are off sleeping or drinking. Why work when the filth is tolerated? Why serve palatable meals when the food is strewn across the floor? We’ll be alone until ’tis time to break our evening fast on the scraps from my uncle’s table.”

Cyrus brought over a cup of hot water and Gwendolyn dug about in her pockets until she found the right leaves. She steeped several dark, aromatic stems in the cup and pressed it to the pained woman’s lips.

“It seems I’m to be married,” Gwendolyn stated in a dry voice. “Lord Merin has a new heir and wishes to honor the contract he made with my father.” Again a surge of hope washed over her. For so long, not even a beam of light had made its way into the darkness of her life at Cravenmoor. Disappointment threatened to snap the thin shaft of longing in her heart. She was afraid to believe, afraid to dream.

“Thanks be to God.” Darianne took a long sip of the hot liquid and rocked back and forth. “At last you’re to be saved.”

“Titus is sure the man will pay handsomely to be released from the contract. ’Tis the only reason he’s letting me go.”

“But if we tell this knight the truth…” Darianne’s gnarled and twisted fingers brushed the tangled curtain of hair from Gwendolyn’s face. “If we show the man the truth, he’d not refuse a union.”

“And what if he’s akin to Titus? If I tell this man that I do have my wits about me, that my dowry is rich, that I am not what I seem—and he tells my uncle—I am doomed.”

“She’s got a point, Wife.” Cyrus rested on a keg of ale. The strong yeast smell permeated the wood and the pantry area. “We must gauge what kind of man Chretian is. ’Tis plain Ferris and Titus have dealt with him before, and by their reaction, I would reckon the outcome was not in their favor. No offense, Gwen, but the thought that Chretian had to marry you brought them pleasure.”

“Aye. But what does that tells us? Any man who would deal with my uncle cannot be reputable.”

“But any man that bests them can’t be all bad.” Cyrus crossed his arms and asked, “So what’s it to be?”

“We go. We listen.” Gwendolyn pulled a handful of dried marigold flowers from a pocket to prepare a decoction for Cyrus’s joints. Placing the withered petals into a pot of boiling water, Gwendolyn formulated a plan as she worked.

“If Falke de Chretian is honorable, I’ll tell him everything. If not, I’ll keep up the disguise and wait for another chance.” She tried to keep the fear from her voice. How many more chances would there be? This was the first real opportunity she’d had in ten years to escape the horrors Titus heaped on her.

“What of Titus’s steward?” Darianne asked. “How long can you be away before our other little game is found out?”

“Come harvest I must be home to fix the numbers, or I must wed. That gives me nigh on seven months. I foresee no problem, for either Lord Merin’s heir will send me straight home or he’ll honor the contract. I should be safe either way.”

“I pray you’re right, child.” Darianne’s voice wavered with emotion.

Gwendolyn prayed also, under her breath. She looked around the dank, unkempt kitchen, and faint memories haunted her. Long ago this room had held happy, busy servants, the walls had sparkled with cleanliness. Her mother had…The rest eluded her. Each time Gwendolyn tried to picture her life before Titus, the image blurred more and more. Was she forgetting, or was desperation clouding even the pictures in her mind?

“Our luck is changing, love,” Darianne sang as she began to gather their meager belongings.

“But for the worse or the better?” Gwendolyn couldn’t help asking under her breath. Would her betrothal be her salvation or destruction?

Chapter Two

“I tell you he murdered him.” Outrage rang in the knight’s voice as he crashed his fist onto the trestle table.

Falke watched the reaction of each of the seated lords. Suspicion darkened their eyes. These men were to be his vassals, but now sat in judgment of him. Falke directed his comments to the panel. “I have witnesses, Laron. Uncle Merin’s horse stumbled on the path. He hit his head on a rock.”

Laron spat on the floor. “Witnesses! Two of your own men.” Facing the assembled noblemen, he summed up his case. “All of you heard their argument. Just before the hunt, Lord Merin threatened to disinherit Chretian unless he wed the daughter of William Duberque.”

“’Twas not an argument, Brother, just a conversation.” Tall and willowy, Lady Ivette rose from her stool. Her fine linen kirtle hugged her hips, and as she walked toward Falke, the tiny links of her girdle tinkled like bells. She touched his arm with her fingers and turned her dark eyes back to her sibling. “The accident occurred as Sir Falke stated. I was there and saw it all.”

As she turned to the tribunal, her voice wavered. “’Tis a crime the manner in which my brother throws accusations at Sir Falke. I know Laron believed our uncle would name him as heir. But King Henry approved of Sir Falke.”

“Only because Falke was lucky enough to take a blow meant for Henry and thereby gain the royal favor,” Laron sneered.

“Aye,” Falke agreed, “luck placed me on the battlefield with our king. Pray, what kept you safe within the walls of Mistedge while men died to protect their king?”

“You accuse me of cowardice?” Laron’s hand rested on the pommel of his sword.

Falke snickered at the knight’s implied threat. Standing, he crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow, daring Laron to attack.

“Fellow knights.” A scarred warrior stood and glared at Laron and Falke. “We are here to solve the death of our lord, not cause yet more.”

Laron chewed the side of his mouth and sat down, pouting.

The older knight then addressed the panel. “Lord Merin’s widow insists Chretian is innocent, and Lady Ivette supports the alibi. We’ve naught more to do but bury our lord and see that his last wishes are carried out.”

Disgruntled ayes closed the proceedings, but Falke could feel the nobles’ animosity. He brushed an imaginary speck from his amber velvet tunic and returned to his seat. Winking at his second-in-command, positioned next to him, Falke gave a cheery smile. “I told you, Ozbern, there was naught to worry over. Justice prevails.”

“You and your eternal luck. Just how eager do you think Lady Ivette would have been to support your story if she didn’t have hopes of being the new lady of Mistedge?”

“Which is why I cultivated her friendship when first I arrived. She bats an eye and the most seasoned warrior melts at her beauty.” Falke tilted his head in the direction of the lady in question.

“But you’re in an awkward position.” His friend raised his dark brows. “How do you appease your uncle’s vassals and keep Lady Ivette dangling? The lords insist you fulfill Merin’s contract of marriage.”

Falke chuckled. “In due time. At present, I must properly thank my staunch supporter.” He rose to his feet in one fluid motion. Looking down on most of the men in the room, he gave a regal nod to those that most opposed him. He sauntered across the room to where Lady Ivette waited with her maid. Her delicate face, framed by a cream-colored wimple, bore not a pox scar or irregularity. If Helen of Troy launched a thousand ships, a thousand more would set sail for Ivette.

“I wish to thank you for your words.” Falke gave her a gallant bow and his most charming smile.

Welcome flashed in her blue-black eyes. “Nay, do not thank me. ’Twas only the truth.” Ivette waved away her maid. “I hope you do not hold my brother’s behavior against me.”

“I am thankful you do not share Laron’s opinion of me.”

She smiled and slowly ran her tongue along her teeth to her lip. “There are many things I would share with you.”

He slanted one brow. “Really? Pray, can you elaborate? I would be most interested.”

A titter of laughter answered his question. “Aye, I would show you…someday. For now, let us walk in the garden and leave the staring eyes of these men.”

“Gladly.” Falke took her arm, then led her past the glaring eyes of his vassals. The heat of their anger beat against his back as he walked out into the fresh air.

Leaving the winter scents of old rushes and smoke-lit rooms, Falke inhaled the perfume of the newly arrived spring. New shoots eagerly reached for the morning sunshine. Stark trees and shrubs showed an array of tiny leaves. A lone bird chirped from the whitewashed trellis, its song a hymn to the season.

“What an ugly little bird,” Ivette clucked. “All brown and drab. What a dreary existence it must have.”

“’Tis a wren. A delightful song, is it not?” The bird’s melancholy notes caused his heart to flutter. His second sense, which some called luck, clicked inside his head. The little bird cocked its head and stared at Falke intently, then began its song over again.

“Delightful? Nay, ’tis a rather sorrowful melody. Mayhaps it knows its lack of beauty and laments its fate.” Ivette snapped shut her fan and laughed.

Her voice halted the bird’s serenade and it retreated to a maple tree. The song did not resume, but Falke’s instincts remained charged with energy.

He watched the bird hop along a branch and perch its bit of weight on a thin twig. “Its lack of splendor is only more apparent because of the beauty before me.”

The flattery melted Ivette’s pout. She gazed at him through the dark fringe of her eyelashes. “Sir Falke, you are too kind.”

“Kindness has nothing to do with my words. ’Tis not gratitude I seek, lady.” He cradled her cheek in his hand.

“Then perhaps you should be more aggressive in your search, Lord Falke.” She emphasized his title and thereby his rights as her liege.

All gentleness left his caress and he pulled her to him. Eagerly, she sought his lips and molded her body to his. The nubs of her breasts rubbed against his chest, inflaming his lust. He held a practiced seductress in his arms. With full knowledge of her intentions, he cupped one full globe, his finger massaging the hard tip.

“Sir Falke.” A breathless page ran down the cobblestone path. “They’re here.”

Releasing Ivette, Falke vented his frustration at the lad. “God’s blood, make sense of yourself. Who is here?”

Red faced, the page stumbled to a stop and gulped deep breaths into his wiry rib cage. “Cravenmoor. Sir Falke, your bride has arrived.”

Ivette sucked in her breath and a quiet pall settled on the garden. Cravenmoor here already? Crafty old Merin must have sent for the girl as soon as Falke accepted his offer of inheritance.

“Milord, they’re entering the castle gate now.” The lad shifted from one foot to the other, obviously impatient to see the queue of guests.

“I suppose I should be there to greet them.” The page raced off before Falke could even finish. Taking Ivette’s hand, he strolled toward the castle, his mind churning with ideas on how to handle the Cravenmoor dilemma.

For some reason the melody of the little bird wouldn’t dislodge from his mind. A speck of a shadow flew off into the sparse green of the woods beyond the garden just as Falke climbed the forebuilding stairs.

The men and women of Mistedge already huddled in tight groups, awaiting the arrivals. Ozbern came to Falke’s side, shrugged his shoulders and nodded toward the mayhem entering the inner bailey.

The procession dragged through the barbican gate in a cloud of noise and dust. Sir Titus, seated on a hide-scarred palfrey, shouted curses at the servants. His crop slashed across the back of a bearer. “Drop that trunk and I’ll open your back with fifty lashes.”

Falke watched the display of cruelty and noted to his friend, “Titus hasn’t mellowed with age.”

Ozbern nodded and wagged his finger toward where Ivette stood with a cluster of ladies. She ripped the lace from her handkerchief as the women gossiped. Tiny shreds of thread floated to the ground like snowflakes. “’Tis plain Ivette is worried. Am I correct in assuming you knew not of this arrival?” Ozbern queried.

“Aye, Merin must have been certain I’d agree to the arrangement.” Falke scratched his chin. “Or he thought ’twould be harder for me to deny the girl if she stood before me.”

“Perhaps this girl will not be as sordid as her guardian.”

“Growing up in a household ruled by Titus?” Falke crossed his arms and widened his stance. Revulsion tensed his muscles. “That man is the vilest human being I know. My aunt is certain he arranged his brother’s death and the widow’s. Just the fact that his niece is still alive tells me something.”

“Titus is known as a lecher. Any man would be a fool to leave his daughter alone with him.” Grimness settled in lines around Ozbern’s mouth. “’Tis said Isolde, her mother, was the fairest woman of the realm.”

“If Isolde’s daughter has any looks about her, you can be sure Titus has already tasted her wares. She’s probably as twisted as he is. Mark me, my friend, I’ll not wed away my freedom just to honor a dead uncle’s wish. Mistedge is mine, marriage or no. Henry has decreed me heir.”

“Aye, so he has.” Ozbern cocked his head toward the assembled lords. “But should these vassals plan rebellion, with King Henry busy setting London to rights, your throat could be cut and a new lord in place before Henry has time to act in your behalf. A sliced gullet or marriage?” He rubbed his neck tentatively. “Of the two, I suggest the wedding. At least you would be able to enjoy a fine feast.”

“As always, my friend, you add a bit of sunshine to my dreary day.” Falke slapped Ozbern on the back. As the party cleared the inner bailey gate, Falke sighed. ’Twas time to greet his guests.

Horses and servants huddled around Titus, hesitant to move before he gave the signal to dismount. When the dust settled, Falke addressed his guests. “Lord Titus, welcome to my home.” He paused to allow the meaning of the words to sink in.

Titus’s beady eyes searched the crowd for Lord Merin, then he smiled. The wide grin of chipped and crooked teeth reminded Falke of neglected tombstones. “So, Merin’s dead already. Didn’t waste much time, did you?”

“My uncle died from a hunting accident.” Falke kept his eye on the cagey older man, but he searched the group for the girl. He saw no young maiden in the assembly, only a few knights and camp followers with the servants.

“Hunting accident? I know a bit about those myself. ” Titus gave a hearty laugh. “’Twas the same that happened to my poor brother. Now I’m lord of Cravenmoor because of it. ’Tis strange how fate unwinds…ain’t it?”

“Lord Titus, we are all in mourning for my husband.” Falke’s aunt spoke with displeasure as she joined him. “Now, where is Isolde’s daughter, Lady Gwendolyn?”

Titus’s mouth curled into a sneer. “So, Lady Celestine, I didn’t think you dirtied yourself with the likes of me.”

“That will be enough, Titus.” Falke stepped in front of his aunt, protecting her from the foul man. Ozbern rested his hand on his sword hilt, his thumb massaging the emerald in the pommel. Tension rippled through the inner bailey. The men of Mistedge stood ready to defend their lady’s honor.

A dark-haired Cravenmoor knight sidled up to Titus. “Shut up, you old fool, before you get us all killed. We’re outnumbered ten to one. You’ll get your say.”

“Wise advice, Ferris.” Falke looked back at the older man. “I suggest you take your son’s words to heart.”

The snarl on Titus’s lips changed to a secretive smile. “My apologies.” His crop flew out and sliced across Ferris’s cheek. A thin line of blood seeped from the high cheekbone. “And you would do well to know your place, bastard.”

Ferris’s face turned white with rage, making the wound even more pronounced. His jaw clenched and a blue-white vein pounded in his neck.

Titus motioned a ragged boy forward. He carried a mahogany stool with an embroidered top. The boy positioned the ottoman on the ground, then guided the grossly overweight knight’s foot to the pad.

Curiosity drove Falke closer. His aunt and the crowd of noblemen followed him. Titus swaggered forward, a gleam of pleasure in his small, swinelike eyes. The hair on the back of Falke’s neck prickled. The old codger had nothing but ill wishes for Mistedge, and anything that brought happiness to him could not be good for the keep or Falke.

“I can see you’re eager to meet your bride.” Titus waved his hand impatiently. “Cyrus, fetch her.”

A gray-haired man approached. Although past his prime and dressed in cast-off clothes, he walked with dignity and strength. Behind him, a charger followed. Aged with gray, the warhorse moved with the same regal assurance as the elderly servant. A small form perched on the back of the beast. Lady Celstine gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. A fist of shock slammed into Falke’s gut.

Titus kept his gaze on Falke and ordered, “Come, Niece. Climb down and let your betrothed get a good look.”

The girl wrapped her arms around the horse’s throat, leaned forward and slid to the ground. She kept one hand on the horse and with the other leaned on Cyrus’s arm. It took her several minutes to balance on her own feet.

Falke had never seen anything so pathetic. Matted with tangles and knots, her mud-brown hair bushed out wildly and covered her face. An earth-colored kirtle, patched with bits of rags, strained to cover the girl’s ample girth. A dirty toe stuck out from a hole in her leather slipper.

Titus’s chilling cackle brought Falke back to reality. His aunt’s fingernails sank into his arm and he felt her tremble. In a hoarse whisper, Lady Celestine said, “By the saints, she wasn’t like this as a child.” Then loudly, she demanded, “What did you do to her?”

“Me?” Titus raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I did nothing. Many a towheaded child’s hair has darkened with the years. And sadly, after her mother’s death, in the throes of bereavement the child threw herself against a stone wall. Now she’s an imbecile, an idiot. Suffers fits and such. There’s a body, but no soul.” Every word was uttered with undisguised relish and stabbed at his aunt’s strained resolve.

“Enough, Titus.” Falke refused to allow the base knight to hurt his aunt further. He motioned an attending lady forward. “Take Lady Celestine to her chamber.”

“Falke, believe me, she was a beautiful child.” His aunt’s voice faltered, and tears came freely. “So like Isolde.” Her attendant led her away and into the protection of the castle.

Titus clicked his tongue as he gave his niece a fatherly gaze. “Such a dreadful accident.”

“Like her father’s death?” Falke let the tone of his voice resound with recrimination.

“Like your uncle’s death?” Titus threw back the innuendo. The silence the statement drew from the crowd made him crow louder. He grabbed hold of his niece’s shoulder and pulled her forward. “Come, Gwendolyn, let the crowd see your pretty face.”

The girl dug in her heels and fought Titus’s touch. The stallion stretched his bony head forward, bared yellow-stained teeth and clamped down on Titus’s hand.

“Damn you, demon of hell.” Titus’s roar of curses and pain caused the ladies present to blush. Cravenmoor knights and villeins clustered around in a vain attempt to free their lord. Using his other hand, Titus clobbered the animal’s head. Still the horse held on. Not until the gray-haired servant gave a brisk command did the stallion free his prisoner.

The crowd parted suddenly with another of Titus’s curses. “Let the devil take the animal. He’ll not taste my blood again.” Cradling his injured hand, Titus whipped a long thin dagger from the folds of his mantle. “’Twill give me pleasure to slit the devil’s throat. Grab the reins so the beast can’t move.”

Ferris jerked the leather strips from Cyrus. The deadly sharp blade was raised high in the air. Falke raced forward, ready to protect any warrior, man or animal, that drew Titus’s blood.

“Nay!” As the blade descended, the docile girl lunged at her uncle’s arm, deflecting the blade. It swooshed harmlessly in the air.

Titus’s ham-sized fist swung at her, but she had expected the blow and rolled away. Knights that should have served and protected her actually kicked at her as she scrambled beneath the feet of her charger. Falke noticed that none of the men dared to venture within striking distance of the stallion’s wartrained hooves.

Titus bellowed, “You’ll not escape this beating.”

“Aye, she will.” Falke positioned himself between the horse and the furious knight. Serving as a shield and protector, Falke ordered, “Ozbern, take our guests inside and have someone look at Lord Titus’s injury.”

“Get out the way, Chretian. That whelp is getting a whipping, then she’ll watch me feed that horse of hers to the dogs.” Titus wrapped a dirty cloth around his mangled hand and took one step toward Falke.

The sound of twenty blades leaving their scabbards stopped the old man’s advance. Falke’s trusted regiment of men widened their stance. A few knights and lords of Mistedge aligned themselves with Falke’s men. The majority waited with Laron, offering no aid.

“Fine.” Titus backed off. “Have your show of chivalry.” He peered around Falke at the girl still under the stallion. “Don’t think he’ll protect you, girl, not when it counts. I’ll have my day with you yet.”

Ozbern gave a cavalier wave of his hand toward the castle door and did a fair imitation of Falke’s sarcastic smile. Titus snorted, then marched toward the castle. His men followed, their gazes staying on the line of armed Mistedge soldiers.

“Milord.” The elder man’s voice from behind him startled Falke, his perfect French betraying his birth and nobility. “I and my lady thank you for your intervention on her behalf.”

“No thanks are necessary. You are a knight?”

“Was.” The aged man nodded to the girl, and she crawled from the protection of the horse’s feet. “I served Lord William and Lady Isolde. Now I and my wife, Darianne, serve their child, Gwendolyn.”

Falke started to address the girl but stammered to a stop midsentence. She stood staring at the back of her uncle. For the first time, Falke could see her face uncloaked by hair. And what he saw took his breath away. Her eyes, large and wide, shone with the fires of consuming hate. Titus was wrong about the girl—a soul did reside deep inside her. Only a soul could hate so completely.

“My wife is riding in the cart and will be along soon. Pray, Lord Falke, is there a place where we and the child could chamber? Somewhere out of the way, where no one will bother us?”

The knight’s questions tugged Falke’s attention from his bride. “She can sleep in the women’s dormitory.” His gaze flickered back toward the girl, but she had once again hidden her face behind the wild tangle of hair.

“We do better on our own. A high tower room or a cell in the pantry.”

“Those are for servants, not noblemen.”

“’Tis what we’re used to. The more out of the way the better. Away from staring eyes and hurtful phrases.”

“A high tower room then, Sir…” Falke waited, unsure how to address the knight turned maidservant.

“Just Cyrus, Lord Falke. I and the girl will put the stallion in the barn and wait for my wife. If you’d be so good to have a boy show us our room, I’d be most grateful.”

“As you will.” Falke studied the two as they led the charger to the stable, then rejoined the Mistedge nobles, the back of his neck tingling with expectation. For what, he could not say.

“’Tis a perfect match.” Laron clapped Falke on the back. “I assume you’ll be having the ceremony immediately.”

“Laron, stop your jesting.” Ivette waved her shredded handkerchief under her turned-up nose. “The whole crowd from Cravenmoor smell like a sty. I can imagine what that creature must have smelled like.” A sly smile came to Ivette’s full mouth. “She reminds me of that little bird we saw in the garden. Ugly, fat and brown. What was it, Falke—a wren?” Then a soft laugh tumbled from Ivette’s lips. “Why, ’tis not Lady Gwen, she’s fat, little, drab Lady Wren.”

Collective laughter floated over the group. Amused men and women congratulated Ivette on her witty remark. The haunting memory of the bird’s song returned to Falke’s mind.

A bird singing in the garden. But not just any bird—a wren. A bird ofttimes associated with strange happenings. Did the visitation only signal the coming spring or more? Why were his instincts stinging like raw nerves?

He watched the last of the Cravenmoor procession enter the crenulated castle walls. A dust-covered woman separated herself from the line and joined Cyrus and Lady Gwendolyn at the door of stable. The three embraced, and Falke wondered again about the creature who was his intended. Lady Wren? The name did fit her—small, brown and unassuming. And sad. Along with the hate, her sapphire eyes had registered sorrow and longing.

“Falke, are you coming?” Ivette looked up at him with eyes that promised a warm bed filled with pleasure.

“Of course.” Falke entered the castle, but his thoughts remained with the three near the stable. There was time enough to delve into the many questions he had. For now, flirting with Ivette would be a pleasant diversion.

Chapter Three

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.

Chapter Four

Robert 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.

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