by Lara Adrian
“Let de Wardeaux come!” shouted one man enthusiastically. “We will be ready!”
Sir Miles's response was slower in forming and decidedly less bold. “How many men do you reckon he will bring, Sir Cabal?”
“Your guess is as sound as mine. But they will surely be more and better skilled than what Hugh expects to find here at Fallonmour.”
The old captain swore an oath and lowered his voice to confer more privately. “Wardeaux Castle is but three days' ride from here and word spreads quickly. It will not take long for Hugh to hear that Fallonmour has no lord. In fact, I would expect that Arlo has already sent a message to him, rot his traitorous soul.”
Cabal nodded, appreciative of the old man's insight. “I discharged the seneschal this morning. He left Fallonmour some time ago, no doubt he rides for Wardeaux as we speak.”
“Jesu,” Sir Miles hissed. “If Hugh should set out immediately upon Arlo's arrival, it will mean we have less than a sennight to prepare to meet him, my lord.”
“We have to assume that will be the case.”
“But twice that time would not be long enough to take on an army of even equal size.” The knight shook his head morosely. “If we do not have time, then we will need more men.”
“Precisely my thinking,” Cabal replied, knowing their best advantage would be in numbers if not in skill.
Sir Miles frowned. “By the time we send out a herald to gather up lances for hire, de Wardeaux will like as not already be at our doorstep.”
Cabal conceded the point with a casual shrug. “We've no need to hire anyone,” he said. “I warrant Fallonmour has able-bodied men enough to form a respectably sized army.”
That statement drew confused glances from a few of the other knights. Sir Miles regarded Cabal as if he spoke in riddles. “But 'tis just as I told you, my lord. There are no more men than those you see assembled here.”
Cabal nodded and spoke to the group. “In Palestine our armies met with resistance from every person capable of wielding a weapon. No one was too innocent nor too low-born to raise arms in defense of their country and their faith.” At the collective look of confusion, Cabal further explained. “The Saracens united--warrior and common man alike--and to their credit, the Holy Sepulchre yet resides in Jerusalem.”
A long silence stretched out before one man ventured, “Are you suggesting we arm Fallonmour's peasants?”
“More than that. I am suggesting we train them in combat.”
“'Tis against God's law for a serf to raise arms against a nobleman,” one man warned.
“Then we will knight the ones who prove skillful.” Cabal watched the offended glances being exchanged between the fallow, one-time warriors, well aware of the animosity he was generating. He paused to let it simmer, then tossed a bit more fat into the fire. “Bring me any healthy man from his fields and I warrant I will make of him a soldier. Better, I would wager, than any one of you.”
The brash challenge garnered brooding scorn from the lot of knights, as Cabal fully expected. He wanted them angry. He needed every one of them bound and determined to prove him wrong, for their ire would prove a better motivator than anything else he could have said to them at that moment. Only Sir Miles seemed to understand what Cabal was doing. The old captain slanted him a knowing look then followed him to the periphery of the practice yard while the group of knights picked up their arms and commenced with a robust round of sparring exercises.
“Do you truly think your plan will work?” Sir Miles asked hopefully when he and Cabal were left to their own in the shade of the castle tower.
“I have no misconceptions that I can turn a field full of peasants into battle-ready knights in a few days,” Cabal admitted. “But I will train them as if I mean to do just that, and when Hugh comes, he will see an army guarding these walls.”
The graying knight let out a heavy sigh, but there was a glimmer of intrigue in his eyes. “'Tis a serious risk, and not one I would have ever dared, but I believe what you say is possible. I will support your plan in whatever way I can.”
Cabal looked down at the captain's outstretched hand, taken slightly aback by the gesture. He was unused to teamwork, much preferring to shoulder responsibility on his own. But something in the old man's conspiratorial gaze tugged at Cabal, and before he knew it, he had reached out to clasp Sir Miles's hand, acknowledging--and accepting--his offered collaboration. “Let's get started,” he said with a grin.
Chapter 6
Emmalyn's ears were yet ringing with the sounds of battle practice by the time supper was served that evening. All day long, the bailey below her chamber window had reverberated with the clash of weapons and the coarse shouts of men in training for war. She scowled just to think on it. Less than one day's time and already Sir Cabal had managed to shatter nearly every bit of peace that had once been such an integral part of life at Fallonmour.
In her present frame of mind, she could scarcely concentrate enough to hold a conversation with Father Bryce, Fallonmour's wheezy old clergyman. Seated to her left at the high table, the tonsured chaplain had been carrying on for some time now about his plans to hold a special mass on the morrow to honor Garrett and see that his soul was properly shriven. Despite her private misgivings, Emmalyn would not deny Garrett the service, but she could hardly be concerned with arranging the various memorial details when Fallonmour's future hung precariously in the balance.
When the father suggested that the keep's chapel remain open all day in order that the villagers and castle folk could come and pay their respects, Emmalyn nodded her agreement, though in truth her attention had strayed to the throng of people now pouring into the banquet hall to gather for the meal. At their center was Sir Cabal.
He followed the garrison inside, his face burnished from the sun and exertion, his dark hair roguishly wild about his shoulders. With a glance in Emmalyn's direction, he broke from the crowd of knights and strode toward the dais, his tall form towering head and shoulders over the other men who had once seemed so strong and capable to her. With confident, long-legged strides, he approached the high table. “Good eve, my lady.”
Emmalyn nodded coolly, hoping her brittle reception would dissuade him from lingering at the dais. The effect was wholly lost in the next instant when Father Bryce rose from his chair, clasping his hands together in warm greeting.
“Sir Cabal!” he exclaimed, as if welcoming a returning hero.
When the father had first arrived at table, he had been singing praises for the Crusader's honor, trying without success to convince Emmalyn that while God had taken her husband, He had sent Fallonmour a bold protector in his place. Emmalyn was more of the mind that they had been traded one devil for another, particularly now, facing the profane appeal of the dark warrior once again.
“I am most eager to hear about your experiences in the Holy Land,” Father Bryce said. Then, to Emmalyn's horror, he added, “Come you, my son, join us for the meal. You may have my chair.”
Before she could muster an excuse or voice a feasible protest, Sir Cabal accepted the chaplain's offer. He came up on the dais and seated himself beside Emmalyn, his big frame crowding her at the table, his arm nearly pressed against her shoulder. She scooted closer to Nurse at her right, but to her dismay there was no escape to be had. She could still feel the heat radiating from his body, could smell the muskiness of clean, male sweat and horses and leather. Though she fought it, her every fiber seemed attuned to his presence, entirely unable to ignore him.
Nor could Emmalyn ignore how easily the handsome Crusader had won the interest of every young woman in the hall. Once the pages had dispensed with the cleansing bowls and towels, the scullery maids began carrying out the food and drink, the comeliest ones wasting no time in rushing forth to serve the guest on the dais.
“Ale, milord?”
“Trout in cream sauce, my lord?”
The two maids nearly fell over each other in their haste to attend the arrogant knight, who lounged complacen
tly in his chair while the women filled his cup and trencher. The rest of the high table was attended efficiently by other servants and still Sir Cabal's admirers remained. Emmalyn eyed the giggling, flirtatious duo with disdain.
“Jane, Nell, see to the rest of your duties now. There are others in the hall yet waiting to be served.”
Nell was quick to bow and take her leave, but Jane lingered a moment longer, tossing her mane of red hair and casting a saucy look over her shoulder at Sir Cabal before languorously departing the dais. Beside her, Emmalyn could feel the weight of the knight's steady gaze, although she refused to look at him for fear he would see that her impatience with the maids actually had little to do with kitchen duties left unattended.
Father Bryce spared her from further consideration of that distressing fact. The priest gave a blessing for the meal, then immediately set about engaging Sir Cabal in conversation of his time on campaign, pressing for details about the harsh beauty of the Holy Land. The knight answered his many questions about religious sites and famed relics, but seemed more interested in his meal than in discussing his experiences abroad.
“I am told that the treasures of Acre's many temples boggle the mind,” Father Bryce said enthusiastically. “Is it true that the walls of the Saracen mosques are covered in pure gold?”
Sir Cabal took a drink of his ale and gave a bland shrug. “I would not know, Father. The city had been at the center of battle by the Saracen and Christian forces for nigh on two years when the English ships landed in Palestine. Most of the buildings had been looted bare by the Germans and the French. There wasn't much left of Acre when we arrived, even less by the time we departed.”
The priest sighed. “A shame, to be sure. But take some comfort in knowing that you fought for what was right and just, my son. If the city was demolished in the efforts to free the Holy Sepulchre for Christendom, then I reckon 'twas good as not demolished by God's own will.”
“How can you be so certain, Father?”
What little there was of the conversation halted abruptly at Emmalyn's quiet interjection. She felt Bertie's hand come to rest on her arm, a gentle warning to mind her tongue, but Emmalyn disregarded the caution. “How can we know what God wants?” she pressed. “How can the Church determine what is right in God's eyes? Are the Saracens and their beliefs any less honorable than the Christians?”
Father Bryce blinked at her from around the front of Sir Cabal, dumbfounded, and at an obvious loss for an answer.
“You do not approve of the Crusade, my lady?” Sir Cabal asked.
“I do not approve of war, my lord, holy or otherwise. To my way of thinking, there is little to admire in any cause that would laud the destruction of whole cities or sanctify the brutal slaying of innocent people.”
“For pity's sake, my lady! Have a care with your commentary,” gasped the chaplain, chuckling nervously. “Sir Cabal, I beg you endeavor to understand Lady Emmalyn's present state. With the war having claimed her husband, I fear she speaks from overmuch emotion on this subject. She means no offense, I'm certain. Pray, do not take insult.”
The hulking knight shrugged. “None taken at all,” he remarked glibly, his eyes still on Emmalyn as if to acknowledge that she offered him no such apology. “I am interested to hear more of the lady's opinions on the matter, however.” He leaned forward, cornering her in her seat as if to keep the conversation between the both of them. “You do not believe there is honor in defending the rights of the Christians who would journey to Palestine on religious pilgrimage, my lady?”
“Defending their rights?” Emmalyn repeated breathlessly, unable to bite back her rancor, despite knowing that she was inviting certain debate. “Is that how the Crusaders justified their actions?”
He paused a moment, considering. “We were there to justify nothing, my lady. We had a mission; we followed orders.”
“You make killing sound very simple, my lord.”
“Not simple perhaps, but absolute.”
Emmalyn weathered the prickle of wariness that washed over her at his light admission. The lethal calm of his gaze bespoke a startling efficiency. By contrast, her husband had ever been brash in his fervor for adventure and combat. Garrett's cruel boasts and bullying ways used to frighten Emmalyn terribly, but somehow Sir Cabal's continued aloofness for how he made his living was even more chilling to her. Something in his easy demeanor, his matter-of-fact tone, convinced her that he was far more dangerous than Garrett ever could have been.
And now the king's order had made this man her adversary.
When she said nothing in reply, could only stare mutely at him, he smiled, the wry curve of his lips seeming less friendly than it did sensual. “We all have certain...skills, my lady. If I make my job sound easy, do not think that to mean I particularly enjoy it. War is merely what I do best.”
“Then I suppose you believe there is no real harm done, so long as you do not take pleasure in the killing and destruction,” she said, his apathy affording her a small measure of courage.
One jet brow quirked on his broad forehead; his sly grin turned dazzling. “Do you think, madam, that Fallonmour can be held without armed conflict? Do you expect to bar Hugh de Wardeaux from your gates without a bit of damage or bloodshed?”
“Defending one's home is far different than conquering a whole people for the sake of greed or political gain,” she argued. “Wars are fought because men crave power. You say the Crusaders were upholding the rights of religious pilgrims, but how many Muslims were slaughtered in the name of Christianity, my lord? How many ancient relics were stolen or destroyed by the invading armies?” Emmalyn shook her head, laughing softly at the irony of it all. “How can any feeling person support a cause that would make heroes out of cold-blooded monsters such as that soulless villain, Blackheart?”
She could almost feel Sir Cabal tense beside her at the very mention of the infamous beast's name. The air around her seemed to crackle with the intensity of his silence as he stared at her, expressionless, save that his flinty eyes had narrowed and grown frigidly cold. “Blackheart, my lady?”
“Don't tell me that in all your time serving King Richard you have never heard of his most nefarious henchman, my lord. Why, Blackheart's reputation for evil deeds reached all the way back to England before our men had been gone their first year.”
“Lady Emmalyn is quite right,” Father Bryce chimed in around a mouthful of food. “Villagers from here to London have since been frightening their children into good behavior with threats that Blackheart will come and get them if they disobey.”
“'Tis rumored that he killed a nobleman when he was just a lad,” Bertie supplied, stabbing a piece of fish on the end of her poniard. “Sneaked into a heavily guarded castle in the dead of night and slayed the lord in his bed, just as cold as you please.”
Emmalyn noticed that Sir Cabal had grown reflective with the sudden turn in the conversation. She watched him lean back in his chair, idly tracing the rim of his cup, wondering if he had heard the same tales she had--or worse, borne witness to them himself. She shuddered to recall the gruesome accounts of Blackheart's lethal skill, stories brought back from Palestine and circulated like wildfire about the realm.
Men had written to their wives of seeing the awesome demon Crusader slay ten infidel warriors at a time, reporting of the brutal raids he led on Saracen villages...laying to waste everything in his path. They said he would not die, that he rode into each battle as if to mock death but always emerged from out of the blood and ash and rubble, unscathed. Blacker. Stronger.
Not even the gates and temples that towered over Palestine for thousands of years had been able to withstand the wrath of Blackheart's sword.
“Had you ever occasioned to encounter the man while on campaign, my son?”
The knight gave a casual shrug at the priest's query. “I know of him,” he answered, then brought his tankard of ale to his lips and drained it.
“Is he as evil as they say?” Bertie asked.
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Sir Cabal stared into his empty goblet, his humorless chuckle chasing a queer shiver of dread up the length of Emmalyn's spine. “I couldn't begin to guess on that matter,” he replied glibly. “Why? What brand of evil do people say this Blackheart is capable of?”
When Nurse began to recount one of the many purported tales of destruction, Emmalyn pushed her chair back from the table. “If you will all please excuse me, I believe I'll retire early this evening.” She rose to take her leave from the dais, sorry to have opened the door on such an unpleasant subject as the demon knight of Palestine. She had no intention of dignifying Blackheart's reputation or his misdeeds by listening to further discussion of them.
“Is everything all right, my dear?” asked the chaplain when she stepped away from the table.
Emmalyn nodded, deliberately avoiding the steady, watchful gaze of Sir Cabal. “I seem to have developed a bit of a headache, is all.”
Nurse reached out to catch her hand. “Shall I see you to your chamber, my lady?”
“No, stay if you like, Bertie. I'll be fine.”
She bade them all good eve and left the hall, thankful to be away from the press of Sir Cabal's body and the heavier presence of his brooding, potent regard.
Though she had certainly needed rest, once she had closed her chamber door and slipped into bed, Emmalyn found that sleep held no appeal. She was restless and confused, in need of something to occupy her mind. After several minutes of trying to relax without success, Emmalyn gave up the idea.
Pivoting on her mattress, she slid her bare feet into the warmth of her wool-felt slippers, then dressed in her chainse, a bed gown of soft white linen. Quietly, she quit her chamber and crept along the corridor and down the spiral stairs. Nearly to the base, she spied one of her maids, just returned from the garderobe and hurrying back toward the hall. The girl stopped when she noticed Emmalyn on the stairs.
