Diana Hall - Angel Of The Knight

“’Tis clear.” She motioned for Cyrus to follow her. Merging with the gloom of the castle’s dark areas, Gwendolyn slipped out the door and raced to the stairs. The elderly knight joined her, the creak of his knees cutting the quiet of the upper tower.

“I’ll boil you some lineament for your legs,” she whispered. A small reward for Cyrus’s years of devotion and love. Gwendolyn prayed she could someday repay the knight and his wife for their selfless loyalty to her and her secret.

The old man shrugged his shoulders and nodded. “’Tis too old I am for this duplicity.”

“Nonsense, you get around well for a man of more than half a century,” she chided, but a meddlesome doubt tickled her conscience. Ten years was a long time to keep up a charade. The mental anxiety wore her thin at times; Darianne and Cyrus must be exhausted. She and her adopted family walked a tightrope. One false step, and all three would be brought down.

Noise from the noon meal drifted from the great hall to the landing. Everyone should be downstairs by now. The busy servants would present the joints of meat and fowl, while the nobility of Cravenmoor consumed the food in front of the near-starving staff.

With light steps, Gwendolyn scampered down the stairs and jumped the last three steps to the gallery. The rotting wood complained. Again she waited and listened. The curses and unsavory jests from the tables below became clearer. Her uncle’s jeering laughter made the hair along her neck tingle.

Cyrus reached her side, his breath coming in loud puffs. “Sooner or later, Titus is bound to discover you’ve been altering the books. And when he does…” His aged palms came together as in prayer.

Gwendolyn knew her plight, but was at a loss to end it. She sought the one sight in Cravenmoor that gave her solace: the effigy of her mother.

Wormholes ate at the mahogany banister. A bench, broken in a drunken brawl, littered the gallery hall. The floor rushes reeked of animal and human excrement. Intricate wall designs had decorated the great hall years ago, but now were faint tracings. Only one item remained of Cravenmoor’s splendor, and Gwendolyn crossed to it.

A life-size effigy of her mother stood sentry on the gallery, gazing down at the great hall and all the assembled men and women. Gwendolyn did not know whether Titus feared or revered the image, but he insisted the effigy be flawless. Regularly, a new wash of platinum paint highlighted the hair, and artists renewed the sapphire shade on the eyes.

Carved for her father, the statue flaunted tradition by showing a true likeness of Isolde. No wimple framed her mother’s face; instead her long hair tumbled to her waist. A sapphire kirtle with knotted sleeves draped the image, displaying the curve of her breasts, the narrow width of her waist and the gentle swell of her hips. The hardwood statue enabled Gwendolyn to remember her mother’s beauty, and offered an opportunity to spy on her uncle’s entourage. Hiding behind the base, she listened to the mayhem below.

Peering down, she spotted Titus at the high dais. He stuffed his mouth with roasted meat with one hand, while slipping the other down the blouse of the serving wench. The young girl trembled as she tried to refill an empty goblet. Drops of dark wine spilled across the stained linen tablecloth and spattered her uncle’s tunic.

“Idiot.” He released the wench and batted her away like a bothersome insect.

Gwendolyn leaned against the smooth wooden effigy, drawing courage from her mother’s image. As she closed her eyes, she felt her aged protector’s strong hand on her shoulder. “Dear Cyrus,” she murmured, releasing a long slow sigh. “If not for you and Darianne, that would have been my fate long ago. Titus keeps me alive now as an amusement and because of my mother’s death vow. Greed is Titus’s king and treachery his most beloved mistress. Should he discover the true profit my lands bring, I would have no hope of ever escaping. He would keep me prisoner till my death.”

“Aye, the man’s got no soul. And thus he fears your mother’s death vow.”

“But those words will not protect me forever.”

“Nay, but there have been many sightings of Isolde’s ghost.” Cyrus gave her a wink. “Trust that when King Henry hears of your plight, all will be put to rights.”

“King Henry?” She snorted. “He’s still trying to restore order in the civilized parts of England. ’Twill be some time before his judges and his influence reach us here in Cravenmoor.” The stairs creaked, and Gwendolyn hushed. She peeked from behind her sanctuary.

Ferris, the worst of her uncle’s bastard sons, stood at the far end of the galley. His dark eyes searched the hall below, then settled on her. The handsome lines of his face twisted into a familiar sneer.

Gwendolyn let the tangled mass of her dark hair cover most of her face. The hatred, the fear, the disgust churned away inside her soul, but she kept a vacant stare in her eyes as she lolled her head to the side.

Ferris approached and tapped her with the point of his sword. “What do you spy on, fat cow?” He stared down his long thin nose at Cyrus. “Why is she not waiting on her betters?”

“’Twas another fit, milord. I brought her upstairs so she’d not disturb your meal.” Cyrus pulled on her arm and led her from the hiding place. Gwendolyn kept her eyes downcast and her hands pushed deep in the folds of her gown. The coarse material snagged on her hangnails.

“Get the sow downstairs. Titus wants her.” Ferris slapped her leg with the flat side of his sword and waited, his black eyes exploring her face for a reaction.

The sting from the sword burned. A show of pain would only lead to more slaps and taunts. She buried her cry by squeezing her hands into tight fists. Cyrus patted her upper arm and guided her toward the stairs.

“Phew! Don’t you ever wash her?” Ferris sniffed the air with disgust. “Even if she is as fat as a sow, she needn’t smell like one.” He pushed them aside and headed down the steps.

Gwendolyn peered from between the strands of knotted hair. “What can Titus wish with me?”

Cyrus shook his head and scratched his beard. “Probably just planning sport at your expense. Mind, do as I’ve taught you. Keep your head down. ’Tis hard to mask the spark of life in those brilliant eyes. Keep your tongue quiet and carry yourself as Darianne instructed. Have faith, my child.”

“Aye, a bit of playacting and faith ’tis all that stands betwixt Titus and I.” She slumped her shoulders and hunched her back. To cover her eyes, she combed more hair over her face with her fingers. The transformation complete, she motioned for her knight to usher her downstairs. As she walked, one foot dragged over the rough planks of the floor. Occasionally, her foot snagged on the rushes and she had to lean on Cyrus for support.

Breathing hard, Gwendolyn made her way to stand in front of Titus in the great hall. Her uncle continued to gulp his ale. Drink dribbled down his greased beard. He wiped his chin with his hand and then flung the moisture away. Drops splattered her face. She shoved her hands deep into the slits of her kirtle and swallowed all her emotions.

Titus patted his stomach and belched loudly. “God in heaven, Ferris, it took you long enough to find her.”

His son remained quiet, but the tight line of his jaw showed his anger.

“Mayhap he was out searching for his angel again,” a nearby knight called as he drained his wine goblet.

The room grew silent. At a lift of Titus’s finger, Ferris’s blade rested at the blundering knight’s throat. Pressing the knife as well as his point, Ferris growled, “I think you talk too much, Hercule. Isolde lays moldering in her grave, not walking the lands of Cravenmoor.”