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
