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
