Diana Hall - Angel Of The Knight

Titus gripped Isolde’s hand, his fingers digging into her wrist. “You should have wed me when I offered.”

“And burn in hell for marrying my husband’s murderer?” She waited for the slap that would follow her retort. ’Twas not a long delay. Her cheek stung from the blow.

“My brother died from a hunting accident. I would think you would learn by now not to cross me.” He rubbed his knuckles against the red mark he’d produced.

Isolde wished she could spit in his face, but she didn’t have the strength. In a quiet voice, she requested, “Leave me to die.”

Titus’s face grew mottled with anger. “Then you die for nothing.”

“Nay, Titus, do not think so.” This time, Isolde used the pain, used the months of torment to summon a will beyond her own. “For with my death, Gwendolyn’s survival is assured. Kill her, and your wealth is lost. And know this—my death brings me strength. I will not lay in consecrated ground and thus will not rest. Draw my child’s blood, and I will seek you out, though I must travel from the bowels of hell to do so. Neither heaven nor hell will keep me from you.”

Titus stumbled away from her, his eyes wide, his jaw slack. She had penetrated his thick skin, for a man as evil as her brother-in-law must believe in an evil more dark than himself. Believe in that power and fear it.

Recovering, he jerked his head in Gwendolyn’s direction. “I may not be able to own the lands, but I’ll be the whelp’s guardian. I’ll grow rich off her.” He rose and moved to the unconscious form. He nudged the child with his toe and gave Isolde a lecherous stare. “She reminds me of you—same hair and eyes. She’ll provide me with entertainment longer than you did.” His laughter lingered in the room as he left.

Darianne and Cyrus rushed to the child. Gwendolyn wrapped her arms around the woman’s neck.

Isolde sucked in her breath and cursed Titus’s evil. Her limbs grew strangely numb, the life seeping from her. Only moments remained, but what of her child?

Cyrus knelt at her bedside. “Gwendolyn’s battered, but she’ll mend.” He rested his palm on the dagger in his belt. “Release me from my vow, Lady Isolde, and I’ll kill the hell-spawned devil.”

“Nay, Sir Cyrus.” Isolde had to speak before the pain made thought impossible. “Titus has too many men to be taken unaware. If you should die, who would look after my Gwendolyn?”

Darianne cradled the child as she knelt near her husband. Isolde reached out and caressed Gwendolyn’s black-and-blue cheek. Eight short years her daughter had lived, and few of them joyful. Would she remember the happier times, before Titus’s lust and greed had driven him to arrange William’s murder?

Time grew short and precious. “Darianne and Cyrus,” Isolde murmured, “I give you my child to protect as your own.” She fingered the soft straight hair and mumbled on. “Heaven has cursed her with my beauty. Spare her the ravishment my looks brought upon me. Do not let Titus destroy her.”

The couple intertwined their hands. “With our last breaths, we will protect her,” they vowed together. Tears streamed down Cyrus’s weathered face. Darianne kissed Gwendolyn’s temple.

A knife of pain sliced thorough Isolde. Her eyes opened wide in shock at the intense agony. Then she felt a disattachment from her body. A brilliant white light blinded her, and within it stood a tall, familiar figure, beckoning. William!

Light and young again, she rushed to her husband’s arms, but stopped just before being engulfed in their welcome embrace.

“William, what of our child?” How could she leave her daughter alone in the world?

“Come, my love, your time of suffering is over. Darianne and Cyrus will look after her.” William’s rich voice soothed her fears. “And we shall watch over her from above.”

Isolde closed the distance and embraced her husband.

Darianne gently closed her lady’s eyes and drew the moth-eaten blanket over her face. In death, the serene beauty of Isolde’s face reappeared from the ravages of pain.

Cyrus wiped his tears on the back of his sleeve. “I should kill that bastard now and be done with it.”

Darianne batted him with her arm and motioned for him to help her rise. Still holding Gwendolyn, she tottered to her feet. “Nay, his death is not so important as this child’s life. The next years will be hard. We must have our wits about us or we’ll all end up supping at death’s table.”

Cyrus looked at the sleeping child’s face. Marred with dark bruises, it still foretold a beauty to come that might even surpass her mother’s. “Our lady spoke true. Titus will want Gwendolyn as he desired Isolde. He’ll not care that the child is his niece. What can we do?”

Darianne clutched the girl closer to her bosom. What could she and her husband do against Titus’s evil? They were both past their prime, with only their wits as weapons. Titus kept her alive only because of her knowledge of healing herbs. Herbs! Aye, there was a chance, though a small one, that they could save the child from Titus’s evil touch.

She gave Gwendolyn to Cyrus and began to gather up some small twigs and leaves into bags. “Take the child to our rooms and then inform a servant to bring a pot of boiling water.”

“What are you about, woman?” Cyrus readjusted the child’s limp form in his arms.

“I mean to erase the gifts heaven sent this child.” Darianne pushed her husband out the door. Before she left, she turned back to the body of her lady, wrapped in a makeshift death shroud. “From this day on, Gwendolyn will cease to resemble you, my lady. I pray you will forgive me for what I’m about to do to your child.” She closed the door and whispered a prayer for the dead woman, the child, and for herself. The last few years had been torture; the years ahead would be worse.

England, 1154

“Hurry up, lass. He’s sure to wake soon.” Cyrus cast a baleful gaze toward the snoring drunk sprawled across the straw pallet on the floor. “Besotted before the midday meal.” He shook his head in despair. “’Twould not be so in your father’s time.”

“Almost done.” Gwendolyn dipped her quill into the inkwell and scrutinized the list in front of her. “I can change this one to a four. This three to an eight.” Tallying up the numbers in her head, she smiled. “The total’s the same. I’ve just rearranged the assets.”

The man on the floor muttered in his sleep and scratched his groin. He chomped his teeth and yawned. The smell of sour wine drifted toward her.

“Let us be gone from here.” Cyrus tugged at her sleeve. “’Twould not go well should the steward find us.”

“He’s not found us these many years, and at the rate he drinks, ’tis not likely he ever will.” Disgust and resignation echoed in her voice. The conditions at Cravenmoor never changed, never would until she could find a way to remove her uncle as lord.

She hopped down from the tall stool and wiped the ink from the tip of her quill. “I gave Sir Demark enough potion to ensure sleep long into the night. None will know of our involvement.”

Opening the door just enough to poke her head through, she scanned the corridor. No sign of guard or servant. Not that she expected one. Cravenmoor had settled into disrepair and ruin since her uncle had taken control. ’Twas all she could do not to fall into the same state. She had to hold on to a shred of hope, if not for herself, then for her people.

As much as she suffered from her uncle’s hand, they fared even worse. Worked from dawn to dusk, and barely allowed enough food to fill their children’s stomachs, her villeins lived a dismal existence. With Cyrus’s help, she managed to sneak food from Titus’s storehouse to feed the village, but credit for the gifts were given to Isolde’s ghost. Gwendolyn did not mind. To starving people, loyalty was a luxury. One word to her uncle about her pilfering, and a serf would have a full belly and she a far more brutal life than she now endured.