“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