by Lara Adrian
“No!” Emmalyn wrenched her arm out of the manservant's grasp. Her vehement outburst drew the attention of everyone gathered in the hall. Servants paused in their duties to cast furtive glances toward their lady's distress. Emmalyn steeled herself, struggling to appear confident while inside she was quaking at the thought of losing everything that mattered to her. “Fallonmour is my home now,” she informed Arlo tightly. “These folk are my family. No one will remove me so long as I have breath in my body. I will not leave.”
“That fact, my lady, remains to be seen.”
Emmalyn whirled toward the source of the deep rumbling voice and found the dark Crusader standing behind her, his big frame nearly filling the arched entryway of the hall. He pinned her motionless with a stern gaze, his tousled mane of black hair and thick-grown beard giving him the semblance of a wild beast--a feral hellhound materialized out of the shadows.
He had not looked to Emmalyn like any sort of royal messenger when he stood in her bailey, but even less so now, she acknowledged with a dawning sense of dread. Speechless with startlement, she didn't dare breathe as the knight advanced into the tomb-like silence of the Great Hall. She had not realized the sheer immensity of him until he came within a pebble's toss of her.
Shoulders that seemed the thickness of feast-day hams glided before her face, the bulkiest part of his mailed upper arm at a level with the tip of her nose. His chest looked to be solid as granite beneath his stained surcoat; no sign of indulgences in the trim waist either, its firm diameter cinched with a studded leather belt nigh the width of her hand. Those hard-hewn thighs, which had mastered Garrett's mount with such innate aplomb were now spread shoulder-width apart, his warrior's frame towering over her like a wall of unyielding stone.
“Whether or not you shall stay at Fallonmour will be determined by Richard, our lord and king. Not you, madam. Until he is able to decide the matter, your keep--and indeed, your person--have been ordered into my charge.”
He took a folded square of parchment that was secured beneath his belt and handed it to her. A square of parchment bearing the royal seal of Coeur de Lion. Fingers trembling, Emmalyn opened the letter and read the orders penned some months past in King Richard's elegant script....
The king regretted to inform her that Garrett had been slain in a struggle with a Saracen prisoner. His death meant that Fallonmour's tenancy belonged once more to the Crown; a new lord would be installed at the king's earliest convenience. As for her fate, she was to be wed again, to a man of Richard's choosing. Meanwhile, she was to consider the king's assigned guardian, Sir Cabal, her overlord and protector. She was to welcome him into Fallonmour and obey him in all matters, affording him the same respect she would the king himself.
Until the king could decide how to dispense with her home and her hand, Sir Cabal's will was to be her law.
Emmalyn looked up from the last line of the damning decree and found the knight's penetrating, steely gaze fixed on her. “Now, my lady, I believe you fully understand.”
Beside her, Arlo cleared his throat. “Permit me to introduce myself, sir. I am Arlo de Brois, seneschal here since Lord Garrett's departure.”
“So, you have been responsible for the management of this place?” asked the knight.
Arlo executed a humble bow. “Yes, my lord.”
Emmalyn scoffed at the seneschal's attempt to ingratiate the king's man, but she was too enraged with the arrogant knight herself to muster voice enough to dispute Arlo's false claims of responsibility for Fallonmour.
As if he cared no longer to be bothered with her, Sir Cabal turned his attention to issues of commerce and management. “I will need a full accounting of the fields and stores,” he told Arlo. “As well as the most recent count of the folk here in the castle and in the village. How many men have we in the garrison?”
“Er, a score and ten?” Arlo hedged. “Give or take a couple, my lord.”
“There are eighteen knights and half a dozen squires,” Emmalyn corrected tightly. If Sir Cabal wanted to know anything about Fallonmour, he would be the wiser to consult with her. But he spared her little more than a questioning glance before heading for the dais and his waiting meal.
“Gather your records and bring them to me here in the hall,” he instructed Arlo. “We will review them as I break my fast.”
Slanting a self-satisfied grin in Emmalyn's direction, Arlo scuttled out to retrieve Fallonmour's books. She sensed quiet movement commence once more in the hall as the servants turned their faces away, taking up their tasks in stunned silence, loath to look upon her in this moment of forfeit and shame.
Standing there alone in the center of the large room, Emmalyn burned with chagrin. In the blink of an eye, her life had been turned upside down. It was likely only a matter of time--a few weeks, months, mayhap a year--before the king would be released from his captivity and returned to England. And then, she would lose everything: her home, her friends and folk...her freedom. This last precious treasure, which she had only begun to taste in Garrett's absence, was already lost to her. She knew it from the sinking feeling in her heart as she watched King Richard's henchman stride across the wide, rush-strewn floor as if he owned the place.
Her keep and her person, now under his charge.
Filled with futile hatred for her circumstances, Emmalyn focused her anger on his broad, retreating back. Her voice arched with the heat of her ire. “Do you expect me to stand by idly as you and Arlo discuss my business?”
Sir Cabal paused to regard her over his shoulder. “Not at all, my lady.” A smile lifted the corner of his mouth, but the expression lacked even the slightest trace of kindness. “I would much prefer that you ready a tub of hot water for me in the solar while I confer with the seneschal. My bones are sorely tired from my travels and my back would welcome a good scrubbing.”
Chapter 3
The king's letter still clutched in her hand, Emmalyn paced the solar, verily more steamed than the buckets of boiling water being carried in by her maids and poured into the padded wooden bathing tub. What gall the man possessed, dismissing her as he had before her folk! If the king felt it necessary to send a guard to look after his interests at Fallonmour, Emmalyn did not suppose he could have chosen a more odious example of bullying male arrogance. And to think she must abide his presence for an indeterminate length of time, with the king imprisoned abroad.
She could hear the vague rumble of Sir Cabal's voice in the adjoining Great Hall, but she could not discern any of the conversation between him and Arlo. Let the arrogant knight feed on Arlo's incompetence and careless accountings, she decided. Temporary or otherwise, she had no intention of making his assimilation as Fallonmour's overlord any easier than was required of her. Emmalyn's hand tightened around the royal decree.
“Shall I scent the water, milady?” One of the maids had uncorked a vial of expensive clove oil, a luxury most often reserved for the lord of the manor and visiting nobility. The spicy-sweet fragrance wafted on the air and Emmalyn frowned, ready to deny Sir Cabal such considerations. At her hesitancy, the maid gave a little shrug and replaced the stopper.
“Wait, Nell,” Emmalyn said when the maid turned to leave. “On second thought, I reckon our guest could well do with some sweetening--if not in his disposition, then certainly in his odor.”
Stifling a laugh, the maid poured a dollop of the imported extract into the steaming bathwater then picked up an empty bucket and made to depart the solar. On her way out of the room, she was nearly trampled by Emmalyn's nurse. The big woman rushed forth to enfold Emmalyn in a motherly embrace.
“Oh, milady! I just heard the news about Garrett.”
Nurse, whose given name was Bertilda, had accompanied Emmalyn to Fallonmour upon her wedding to Garrett. Having served as her maidservant from the time Emmalyn was a babe, Bertie had been sent along to one day continue her role as attendant to Emmalyn's own children. But there had been no offspring born of her union with Garrett, a loss that Emmalyn felt keenly,
even to this day. Bertie was the only other person who understood the depth of that pain. The only person who knew what Emmalyn had endured as Garrett's wife.
“He is no longer your worry, milady,” Bertie soothed when the last of the maids had left the solar. “After today, we will waste no more thought on Garrett. Do you agree?”
Emmalyn nodded weakly, still feeling a twinge of guilt for her want to be freed of the bonds of her marriage. How futile that wanting had been, in light of the king's decree. It would not be long before she was matched to another husband--perhaps as wicked as Garrett. Perhaps worse.
Emmalyn drew out of Nurse's embrace and closed the chamber door. “I fear there is more, Bertie. King Richard has determined that I shall wed again, to a man of his choosing. Meanwhile, Fallonmour will be awarded to one of his vassals. The guard who delivered the news has been sent to hold the keep and ensure that I comply.”
Emmalyn quickly read the king's order, then met the nurse's sympathetic gaze. “Oh, milady,” Bertie cried. “This cannot be!”
“It is. 'Tis as real as the mannerless beast breaking his fast in my hall. While the king's man discusses Fallonmour's future with Arlo, I have been relegated to overseeing Sir Cabal's bath.”
Nurse clucked her disgust. “And for this news to come mere days after you are asked to contribute a ransom gift for the king's release--'tis an injustice!”
In her shock over the morning's unexpected events, Emmalyn had not given a thought to the special tax being collected from Fallonmour's coffers for delivery to London. All of England's noble houses had been levied handsomely to help meet the ransom price placed on King Richard's head, though there was little hope of reaching the exorbitant sum. It was said that Richard's captor, the German emperor, had demanded a ransom nearly twice as great as all the wealth in England. Emmalyn had been eager to do her part when the request for funds first arrived, but now she felt a pinch of regret in aiding the king's eventual release. His return would only hasten her misfortune.
Evidently Nurse's thoughts were on a similar track. “With the king imprisoned these past months on the Continent, milady, mayhap none of these orders will come to pass. Richard's ransom might never be met, and even if it is, who's to say if he will be released by his captors? He may well never return to England.”
“Pray he does, Bertie,” Emmalyn countered. “For if not Richard, then England will have to contend with his evil brother, and Prince John will surely have far worse plans for me and this place should he be made king.”
“You could appeal to the Church,” Bertie suggested. “Seek sanctuary there as a nun--many widows have done likewise. The Church would protect you, milady.”
“And what is to become of Fallonmour if I go?” As tempting as it was to think she might be able to avoid the misery of another marriage, Emmalyn shook her head. “I cannot leave, Bertie. This is my home now. I will not abandon it in fear.”
“Then what about going to your sister for help? I'm certain that Lady Josette and her husband would do whatever they could for you.”
“They would try, I know,” Emmalyn said. “But not even Josette and Stephan have friends high enough to thwart the king's rule. To seek their help in this would be to invite greater troubles, for them and for Fallonmour. This is my problem, Bertie. I must deal with it on my own.”
Nurse gave her a sobering look. “I reckon Hugh de Wardeaux will be none too pleased with the king's plan. How many times in these past three years did he appeal to the courts, seeking to lay claim to Fallonmour through his alliance with John?”
“Too many to count,” Emmalyn admitted. “And I do not expect that he will be content to wait around for King Richard to return before he attempts more of the same. Perhaps even by force.”
“Oh, 'tis so unfair!” Bertie lamented. “You have worked your fingers raw to ensure that Fallonmour thrived, caring for the land and the folk, far more than your husband ever did. Fallonmour should be yours, milady. You deserve to remain here.”
Emmalyn's heart warmed at her maid's devotion. “Pridefully, I feel likewise, Bertie. But do you think the king will care a whit what we think? Do you imagine his guard will care what I have done around here? To them, Fallonmour is just a prize. Something to be won or traded for another man's gain.”
Much the same as they saw her, Emmalyn reflected bitterly.
“If only there were someone you could go to for help,” Bertie said. “Someone with influence, who would hear you out and appreciate all that you have done for Fallonmour.”
Emmalyn smiled and laid a gentle hand on the nurse's arm. “Can you think of anyone who would support me, a mere woman, over one of the king's chosen vassals? 'Tis wishful thinking, at best.”
Although Emmalyn had heard of widows holding fiefs on their own in recent years, the instances were few and far between. None, certainly, of Fallonmour's wealth and size. No man would believe her capable of managing such a considerable holding; she saw that easily enough in Sir Cabal when he so readily assumed that Arlo had been responsible for Fallonmour's progress.
Only another woman would appreciate the work and care that she had poured into Fallonmour. Only another woman would understand her plight. And it would take the interest of a woman with great power to give Emmalyn even a glimmer of hope that there might be a way out of this most recent predicament.
Ideally, someone with proven influence over the king himself....
“Bertie,” Emmalyn said, an idea dawning. “Perhaps there is something we can do after all. Has the coffer with the royal ransom gift left Fallonmour yet?”
“No, milady. The steward was still collecting taxes for the gift this morn. Do you mean to rescind Fallonmour's ransom portion?”
Emmalyn shook her head. “Not at all. In fact, I will need the driver to make haste for London immediately. But first I must draft a letter to Queen Eleanor.”
“Of course,” whispered the old nurse, her face lighting with ebullient conspiracy. “The queen has ever been fond of you, milady.”
“Let the king's mother determine if I am deserving to hold Fallonmour on my own,” Emmalyn said, her hopes buoying with the idea. “And perhaps if we are fortunate, we can be rid of Sir Cabal within a fortnight.”
* * *
Cabal quit the Great Hall with a headache beginning to pound in his temples. His meeting with the seneschal had proven an exercise in frustration. Forgetting the fact that he simply did not like the man, Cabal had to wonder how Arlo had been able to so aptly manage Fallonmour when he could scarcely keep his own records organized. Every question Cabal posed had prompted a hasty shuffle through volumes of ledgers and papers, searching for--and most often not finding--acceptable answers. Cabal had finished his meal, eager to be away from the seneschal's self-aggrandizing prattle and now more than ever he longed to ease his bones in a hot, soothing bath.
Pausing outside the closed door of the adjoining solar, he heard the muffled sounds of women's voices within, their hushed, secretive tones smacking of collusion. He heard his name fairly hissed on the other side of the door and knew it had come from the lady herself. Managing her would prove a challenge to be sure, but it was a challenge, curiously, he found he was more than willing to meet.
Cabal grabbed the iron latch and entered the solar without bothering to knock. From the center of the room, two females whirled to meet him with shocked, guilty-looking expressions. Lady Emmalyn was the first to voice her effrontery.
“Have you no regard for privacy, sir, that you would barge into this chamber unannounced?”
“When last I recalled, madam, this chamber was being readied for my bath. I would take it now.”
She impaled him with an icy glare, raking over his travel-worn appearance in blatant disapproval. “Then by all means, do not let us keep you from it. I shall send one of the maids along to attend you.”
She and her rotund companion made to brush past him, united in their obvious contempt for him. Cabal understood their anger but he would leave th
em no time to conspire against him while he was sitting naked in a tub of water. “Actually, my lady, I would prefer that you stayed instead. There are a few things I would discuss with you.”
The older woman gasped in outrage, but Lady Emmalyn remained calm, slanting him a mutinous look. “Surely these matters can wait until you have finished with your bath, my lord. I have duties awaiting me elsewhere; I shall make myself available to you within the hour--”
“I would prefer to speak with you now, madam.”
“Sir Cabal,” the maid interjected, stepping between the two of them like a protective mother hen. “I hasten to remind you that milady has had a very trying day. To make her tend your bath is asking far too much of her hospitality, not to mention her sensibilities. For pity's sake, milord, she is a newly made widow!”
“A widow who has yet to shed the first tear,” Cabal replied, noting the superior tilt to the lady's chin and her blazingly clear, perfectly dry eyes. Inviting no further argument, he turned away from the women and began to unbuckle his sword belt. He placed his baldric and weapons alongside the tub, everything within easy grasp, a habit learned well from his years of battle training and war. A faldstool near the tub provided him a seat while he removed his boots, he well aware of the rebellion brewing near the door.
“If you please, my lady,” he prompted when she made no immediate move to comply. “I would bathe while the water remains warm.”
A whispered assurance sent the scowling maid trundling off down the corridor; then Lady Emmalyn faced him. “I'm sure you'll understand if I prefer to keep the door open.”
Cabal shrugged. “As you wish. I've no particular inclination toward modesty. Come, help me out of my armor.”
She could not quite harness the indignant sneer that tugged at her mouth, Cabal noticed with some measure of interest. Lady Emmalyn appeared to be a woman who wore her emotions in her every expression, and in her luminous green eyes. A fact that would serve him well in his future dealings with her.
