“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 get me ears boxed for sure if I tarry.” A smile flashed across the boy’s lips as he flew from the room. Darianne almost caught his foot in the door when she rushed to seal the chamber.
“Falke’s as bad as Titus.” Gwendolyn jumped up and forced her arthritic foster mother to take a seat. “He killed his uncle for the land. Falke de Chretian could be one of my uncle’s bastards, they’re so much alike.”
“We don’t know that for sure.” Cyrus spread their blankets onto the straw pallet. “Remember, Falke stood up for you against Titus.”
“Was that because of an inner goodness or a wish to show up my uncle?” Gwendolyn played devil’s advocate. She could not forget the anger in Falke’s gaze. His pale blue eyes, so like the clear spring sky, had turned brittle and hard. Full of menace and danger. Like the gleam of a sharp-edge sword. Was that ire directed at Titus because of his treatment of her or from some past confrontation with her uncle?
“We can’t afford to make a mistake about my intended husband. Once he knows the truth, we’re at his mercy.” She pushed her hands deep into her pockets and paced the room.
“Then we wait. And pray.” Darianne spoke the obvious.
Gwendolyn hopped up on a trunk and, on tiptoe, peered out the window. The sun burned through a cloud-filled sky and the tower’s shadow stretched out long and thin on the ground. A group of knights passed below her and the sunlight highlighted the tall blond figure of Falke de Chretian. Wide shoulders moved with casual ease along the upper defense wall. A breeze danced through his long, unbound hair. The rich amber of his velvet tunic shone in the sunlight, and as he moved, the muscles in his arms and legs strained the material.
He walked past the infantrymen stationed on the wall. None of the men came to full attention. Falke passed without seeming to notice the insult given him.
So Lucas’s opinions were shared by the fighting men as well as the serfs. The boy had mentioned that a knight had opposed Falke. Sir Laron. A decision might be taken out of her hands if he ousted Falke from Mistedge. Would he be a better choice to unveil the truth to?
“I need more information.” Gwendolyn turned to her friends. “And I can’t get it here.”
“And how do you mean to get it?” Cyrus’s voice told her he already knew her answer.
“The usual way. When the nobles are their most talkative…after they’ve drunk their fill of wine and ale.”
“Nay, Gwendolyn, don’t put yourself through that today. There will be time enough tomorrow, when you’ve rested.”
“Time is exactly what we don’t have, Cyrus.” Gwendolyn turned and watched the guardsmen. Their animosity toward Falke blanketed the keep even more than the afternoon shadows. With a sigh, she muttered, “I’m afraid ’tis even shorter than we thought.”
Falke strolled along the defense wall and chose to ignore the black looks the guardsmen threw his way. Give them time and the gossip would die down.
Ozbern placed a restraining hand on Falke’s elbow, then pointed over his shoulder at the soldiers. “They hate you. Your vassals don’t trust you. Laron is no doubt plotting to depose you as lord, and you’re stuck marrying an imbecile.”
“Don’t call her that,” Falke barked, then softened his voice. “Whatever she is, I saw a spark of life in those eyes.”
Ozbern shook his dark curly head. “Whatever she is, or isn’t, do you intend to marry her?”
“God’s blood man, nay. I’m not my father. No one will make my decisions for me.”
The shorter knight let out a long, slow sigh. “Falke, whatever you do, will you think beyond yourself?”
Giving his friend a glib smile, Falke asked, “And what is more important than me?”
“Your uncle and aunt. Crispen’s last wishes. The people of this keep.” Ozbern gripped the stone wall and looked out over the meager peasant village huddled a few miles from the bailey walls. The pitiful huts wallowed in mud, along with the livestock in the small bare pasture. A stench even more imposing than that from the Cravenmoor nobility wafted in the air.
“’Tis not much, I grant you that, but don’t throw away this opportunity in a vain attempt to prove you’re not an honorable man.”
“I’m not.” Deep anger drove straight through Falke’s heart. He tensed his jaw and snarled. “My father taught me well that empty code of chivalry, what it was to be governed by what others think of you. For that hollow code he threw away the love of his life.” Taking a cleansing breath, he looked over the castle wall at the squalid village. “Honor is nothing but a shackle around a man’s soul. I rode to Crispen’s side in battle because he was my friend and my heart told me to do so, not because of some false sense of duty. And despite my actions, Crispen died.”
Disgust sharpened his tone and hardened his face. “And in a farce of nobility, along with King Henry’s strong urgings, my uncle made me his son’s replacement. Merin couldn’t abide me. To him, I was nothing more than a ne’er-do-well who lives off his uncanny luck.”
Ozbern shook his dark head. “’Twas no angel’s kiss that made your sword arm strong, but hours of practice. Nor did any seraphim plot your battle strategy. Despite all your bravado to the opposite, Falke de Chretian, you’re a good man. You deserve this keep. And by heavens, in spite of you, I intend to see you keep it.”
Falke gave Ozbern a rueful smile. “I’m not sure whether to call you friend or foe.”
“Friend. Believe me, only a friend would put up with your attitude.” Ozbern shared a laugh with his leader. “Now, we need a strategy to expedite you from marriage to the lady Wren.”
Falke rubbed his face with his hand and racked his mind for a plan, any plan. Afternoon heat beat down on the wide expanse of his back and he felt like the weight of the huge celestial body rested on his shoulders. Aunt Celestine was adamant about him upholding the contract.
Six years as a mercenary for King Henry had left him and his men bone weary. Falke desperately wanted a place to call his own. But he wasn’t ready to forfeit his freedom to gain his dream. Somehow he had to find an acceptable way to halt or at least postpone his wedding.
“Of course!” He slapped his friend on the back. “I can’t believe how simple the solution is.”
“What have you devised now, my crafty friend?” Ozbern nearly staggered from the blow.
Falke hummed under his breath. “I just need to approach my aunt in the proper contrite mood and I will buy myself at least a year.”
“How?”
“I believe ’tis customary for a period of mourning to pass in honor of the death of a loved one. Also, after today’s shocking revelations about my betrothed, I think ’twould be perfectly understandable for Aunt Celestine to retire to a nearby convent for her mourning.