Angel of the Knight by Hall Diana

Author:Hall, Diana [Hall, Diana]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2014-04-15T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Ten

After a week in the village, Falke had grown accustomed to the sweat sting in his eyes, but not the indignity he suffered. He pushed the heavy wooden paddle about in the iron kettle, his mind festering with self-righteous anger. Hot sudsy water sloshed over the sides, soaking his leather breeches and his bare chest. Lumps of rags and blankets slowly agitated in the soapy water. Laundry! The lord of Mistedge was reduced to washerwoman.

“Milord, those be clean enough now.” Blodwyn shelved a willow basket on her hip. “Lift ’em ’ere and I’ll hang ’em on the line to dry.” The square-jawed woman gave him an appraising stare. “There’s more to be fetched by the tent.”

Taking orders from a serf. If Laron and the knights within the keep saw him thus engaged, after their bout of laughter, they’d be more than happy to replace Falke as lord. Biting his tongue, he used the paddle to lift out the heavy, sopping blankets. He plopped the load into Blodywn’s basket, then set off for the tent, still nursing his bruised pride.

His self-righteous anger slowly cooled as he marched toward the sick ward. All around him the ill lay on pallets, tended by what were left of the healthy villagers. A week seemed like a lifetime to Falke now. Death greeted the village daily. The old and the young were the favored guests. And now beneath the tent, Robert lay next to Ozbern, both stricken with the plague.

“Lady Wren, we’ve five more soldiers ill.” A village woman nearly cried as she gave the news.

“Crowd these beds together.” Rising to her feet next to a patient, Lady Wren pointed to an area already nearly carpeted with pallets. The news of more ill did not break her composure. Unruffled, she issued a series of orders. “We will need more tea brewed. And fresh water.”

Without question or complaint, her requests were carried out by a group of gray-faced serfs, themselves on the brink of fever or just recovered. Falke wished his own vassals would attend his orders as these serfs did Lady Wren’s.

“And tell the laundress we have need of more linen,” Lady Wren added.

“The laundress…is here,” Falke snorted.

“L-Lord Falke,” she stammered. Her eyes, barely visible through her hair, met his, then quickly dropped. “I—I did not notice you. You have no shirt on.”

“’Tis in the laundry,” he replied. Did not notice him, my eye. If there was one thing Falke had learned this past week, aside from not washing the bright reds with the whites, ’twas that Lady Wren was totally aware of all that transpired in the village. She was no simpleton. In fact, she dispatched workers with the precision of a battle commander. Women to brew the medicinal tea. Men to fetch and carry supplies. Children to fold and change linens. Falke to do laundry.

Bent on removing himself from the degrading work, he gave her a charismatic bow. Falke half grimaced, half smiled in an attempt to woo the lady to his thinking.

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