LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

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

Скачать книгу