LITMIR.BIZ

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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,

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