toward the expansive room. “All those who could do the lady harm are accounted for.” A wisp of a smile tugged at Falke’s lips as he slanted a glance toward the shadowy alcove just to his left.
Ozbern leaned across the board and whispered, “’Tis good to see you enjoy this duty.”
“’Tis naught but self-preservation,” Falke insisted.
“But ’tis an honorable decision nonetheless.” Ozbern smiled as he moved his queen.
“Do not read more than is there. I have no honor, wish no honor. I do and say as I please to get what I want.” Falke swore as he spied a bit of skin. A big toe, in fact. Light wavered through the high window behind him and lit on the corner of the alcove, illuminating a worn leather slipper with a toe protruding from the tip. Lady Wren.
Wrapped in a mantle of charcoal gray, her bulk melted into the lengthening shadows. If Falke squinted and scrutinized the varying shades of gray and black, he could just make out her form standing motionless, eavesdropping on the conversations in the great hall.
She’s good. Very, very good . The lady played the same game as Falke, but substituted herself as an imbecile for Falke’s chosen drunk. Either way put tongues and men off guard. “Checkmate, Ozbern.” He played his knight, cornering the white king between his bishop and rook.
“Again.” Ozbern slumped back in his chair. “I suppose we should help Robert and Harris.”
“Aye, I suppose we should.” His voice just a trifle louder than necessary, Falke advised, “Send Robert upstairs to her chamber. Harris to the chapel. You take the halls.” With his men so dispatched, Lady Wren would be able to make her daily pilgrimage to the stables without bumping into any of them.
“And you?”
Settling back and gaining an unobstructed view ofthe alcove, Falke smiled. “I will savor my victory.” The shadows shifted. The toe vanished. Lady Wren disappeared in the darkness.
Ozbern muttered complaints as he strode off to do his leader’s bidding. Falke waited a few minutes, just long enough of a head start so the girl would not know he followed her. She was too fleet of foot for him to give her much of a head start. He strolled toward the garderobe, then ducked down the adjacent hall to shadow the girl.
He had wrestled with informing his men of her lack of handicap, but had decided to keep mum. The more people that knew of her secret, the more likely ’twould to be revealed. The girl needed as many tricks as possible to elude Titus. Cyrus and his wife, Darianne, had instructed her well. None save Falke knew of her deception.
If not for the night in the stable, Falke would never have guessed the girl possessed such stealth. Nor would he have been watchful for her quiet moves. For nearly a fortnight, he had been mindful of her silent presence among the shadows. When the hall rang with music, the nobles sipped fine wine and the servants busied with finishing up the day’s tasks, Lady Wren cloaked herself in mourning colors and spied.
As long as her would-be assassins remained in Falke’s sight, he allowed her to roam. He would give her what freedom he could as long as she remained at Mistedge. But with reason. He had followed or beat her to the stables each day.
Dampness seeped through the walls of the curved passageway, chilling his skin. Fur-soft moss clung to the stone. Thankfully, the floor rushes were winter old and had long ago had the snap crushed from them. Soundlessly, he made his way through the hall and down a set of stairs to the first floor.
Clatter from the kitchen broke the silence. Falke stilled, then inched closer. The fire snapped and popped as grease and water spattered onto the embers. Servants laughed and spoke in harsh English accents as they consumed the last vestiges of the nobles’ meal.
Poised at the kitchen door, Lady Wren waited, her entire body swathed in a dark mantle. With the kitchen crew engrossed in merriment, she scampered past and slipped out the
Ozbern leaned across the board and whispered, “’Tis good to see you enjoy this duty.”
“’Tis naught but self-preservation,” Falke insisted.
“But ’tis an honorable decision nonetheless.” Ozbern smiled as he moved his queen.
“Do not read more than is there. I have no honor, wish no honor. I do and say as I please to get what I want.” Falke swore as he spied a bit of skin. A big toe, in fact. Light wavered through the high window behind him and lit on the corner of the alcove, illuminating a worn leather slipper with a toe protruding from the tip. Lady Wren.
Wrapped in a mantle of charcoal gray, her bulk melted into the lengthening shadows. If Falke squinted and scrutinized the varying shades of gray and black, he could just make out her form standing motionless, eavesdropping on the conversations in the great hall.
She’s good. Very, very good . The lady played the same game as Falke, but substituted herself as an imbecile for Falke’s chosen drunk. Either way put tongues and men off guard. “Checkmate, Ozbern.” He played his knight, cornering the white king between his bishop and rook.
“Again.” Ozbern slumped back in his chair. “I suppose we should help Robert and Harris.”
“Aye, I suppose we should.” His voice just a trifle louder than necessary, Falke advised, “Send Robert upstairs to her chamber. Harris to the chapel. You take the halls.” With his men so dispatched, Lady Wren would be able to make her daily pilgrimage to the stables without bumping into any of them.
“And you?”
Settling back and gaining an unobstructed view ofthe alcove, Falke smiled. “I will savor my victory.” The shadows shifted. The toe vanished. Lady Wren disappeared in the darkness.
Ozbern muttered complaints as he strode off to do his leader’s bidding. Falke waited a few minutes, just long enough of a head start so the girl would not know he followed her. She was too fleet of foot for him to give her much of a head start. He strolled toward the garderobe, then ducked down the adjacent hall to shadow the girl.
He had wrestled with informing his men of her lack of handicap, but had decided to keep mum. The more people that knew of her secret, the more likely ’twould to be revealed. The girl needed as many tricks as possible to elude Titus. Cyrus and his wife, Darianne, had instructed her well. None save Falke knew of her deception.
If not for the night in the stable, Falke would never have guessed the girl possessed such stealth. Nor would he have been watchful for her quiet moves. For nearly a fortnight, he had been mindful of her silent presence among the shadows. When the hall rang with music, the nobles sipped fine wine and the servants busied with finishing up the day’s tasks, Lady Wren cloaked herself in mourning colors and spied.
As long as her would-be assassins remained in Falke’s sight, he allowed her to roam. He would give her what freedom he could as long as she remained at Mistedge. But with reason. He had followed or beat her to the stables each day.
Dampness seeped through the walls of the curved passageway, chilling his skin. Fur-soft moss clung to the stone. Thankfully, the floor rushes were winter old and had long ago had the snap crushed from them. Soundlessly, he made his way through the hall and down a set of stairs to the first floor.
Clatter from the kitchen broke the silence. Falke stilled, then inched closer. The fire snapped and popped as grease and water spattered onto the embers. Servants laughed and spoke in harsh English accents as they consumed the last vestiges of the nobles’ meal.
Poised at the kitchen door, Lady Wren waited, her entire body swathed in a dark mantle. With the kitchen crew engrossed in merriment, she scampered past and slipped out the
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