by Lara Adrian
After seeing that his pupil took a long, cleansing swim, Cabal brought Pete into the woods to train privately, and to practice his pivoting and offense skills among the tight ranks of the saplings in the forest. The two men worked at sparring all afternoon, and, before either of them had realized it, right on past the supper hour.
Finally, as the sun was beginning to set, Cabal sent Pete back to the village while he himself returned to the keep. He passed the entrance of the hall, noting that the great room had been cleared of the meal some time ago, the floor already swept in preparation for the castle folk to take their pallets for the night. Of a mind to do likewise, Cabal climbed the stairwell at the heart of the castle, pausing at the top of the first flight to let a maid by with her burden of blankets and bolsters. She gave him a shy smile as she passed, heading down to the Great Hall. Cabal turned to continue his ascent when a sound caught his ear.
From the direction of the women's solar at the end of the snaking corridor came the intermittent clatter of wooden spindles and the soft, muted voices of ladies conversing. Though part of him was drawn toward the scene, if only to see Emmalyn again, Cabal reined in the urge. He had gone too far in the orchard that morning; he had likely been too assuming, too harsh.
To seek the lady out now would only worsen her regard for him and further jeopardize his duty to the king. His first concern should be the protection of Fallonmour, an issue made all the more serious for the reports of village plundering. Bad enough that he and his sorry retinue of guards would have to face Hugh de Wardeaux in a short time; the presence of vagabond thieves was an added nuisance he did not need.
No more than he needed to be distracted by thoughts of bedding the lovely Lady Emmalyn.
And so, instead, Cabal bypassed the solar and took the stairwell up to his chamber, where he hoped to find a few hours of much-needed rest.
* * *
Emmalyn's foot tapped under her skirts, keeping anxious time with the steady spin of her winding distaff rod. She had spent the past hour or more in the candlelit solar with Nurse and two of the castle maids, the four women busily spinning the baskets of finished wool she had brought up from the village the day before. Handling the combed fleece and seeing the spindles grow fat with fine yarn usually gave Emmalyn great pleasure, but try as she might, this evening she found it difficult to keep her mind on the work. Thoughts of the time spent that morning alone with Sir Cabal kept flooding in. Unwilling memories of their orchard interlude made her listen with more interest than was seemly to the young maids' excited talk of the upcoming St. John's Eve celebration and the prospect of festival-time romance.
The young women talked of stolen kisses and midsummer magic, of finding true love under the cloak of darkness and indulging in wild unbridled dancing around the blaze of a village bonfire. Both of them speculated on how many babes would be born the following spring, and to whom. Even Bertie seemed to find the gossipy chatter irresistible.
“Tell me, girls,” the old nurse said with a twinkle in her eye, “which of the young village men do you hope to charm around the festival blazes come St. John's Eve?”
They both laughed as if they had already discussed that very thing. “Leave the village boys to someone else,” Bea giggled. “There's but one man I hope to find alone at the fireside this year.”
“Aye, but you can be sure that he won't be alone if I have anything to say about it!” laughed the other maid.
“Sir Cabal is more man than any around here,” chortled Bea. “Mayhap we should share him!”
Nurse and the two maids dissolved into lively banter that took little time to wear on Emmalyn's nerves. Finally, she could take the incessant chatter no longer and decided to continue her work on the morrow. With instructions to the maids to finish up and douse the candles when they were through, Emmalyn departed the solar and began the short winding trek upstairs. Halfway there, impulse seized her and she decided to check on Sir Cabal, if only to assure herself that he was in the keep and not terrorizing misfortunate peasants as he seemed so intent to do.
Each step seemed to take an eternity, giving Emmalyn plenty of time to question the wisdom of going to his chamber at so late an hour. But if she needed further reasons to justify seeking him out, she reckoned she had many. It would be well within her rights to inquire after his progress with her garrison that day, and as well to question his findings regarding the security of the keep. There would be no reason whatsoever for him to misconstrue her purpose in addressing him now.
Still, having reached the top of the stairwell at last, she paused. With nervous hands, she brushed the flecks of wool fibers from her kirtle, smoothing the deep blue skirts and feeling something of a fool, bedecked as she was in such rich attire. Not that she had worn the fine silk gown for his approval; she had simply tired of her drab homespun and thought a change was in order. And what she felt when Cabal did not attend the evening meal was not disappointment, surely, but rather mild curiosity. No more than a rightful interest in the welfare of what was still her demesne.
Nothing more than that.
Steeling herself with those flimsy convictions, Emmalyn pivoted left and walked down the corridor toward Cabal's chamber. His door was open just enough to let a thin column of candlelight slice through the darkness of the hallway. Emmalyn followed that flickering bit of golden warmth, her hands down at her sides, buried in the voluminous folds of her skirts, nervously fisting and flexing them the closer she drew to his room.
The toe of her embroidered slipper had just broken the shaft of light on the floor when she heard it...
A woman's soft laugh.
She recognized the throaty feminine purr without looking, yet something compelled her to peer into the room. She braved only a quick glance, no longer than a heartbeat, but it was enough to paint a vivid picture of the scene within.
Pretty flame-haired Jane, who had often been a favorite pastime of Garrett's, had now caught the eye of Sir Cabal. The handsome knight was seated on the edge of the bed, half undressed. His tanned broad chest was bare and gilded deep bronze in the candle glow, his dark head bowed in pleasure. Behind him, Jane was on her knees, her large breasts nearly spilling out of her unlaced bodice as she massaged his neck and shoulders with skilled wanton hands. In that instant, she had whispered something in Cabal's ear that made him chuckle, a low growl of amusement, which to Emmalyn's way of thinking, could only belie the wickedness of the maid's suggestion.
Disgusted with herself for bearing witness, and not wanting to consider what might next transpire in the dimly-lit chamber, Emmalyn backed away from the door in utter silence. She did not fault Jane for her wantonness; in fact, when Garrett had been the object of her interest, Emmalyn had been almost grateful for the maid's lusty inclinations. Now, however, she burned with indignation.
It should not matter to her how Cabal chose to spend his nights--or with whom--but strangely, she realized that somehow, it did matter. It mattered to her that this man who, with one glance of his steady silvery gaze, could make her feel beautiful and vital should so easily develop interest in another woman. It mattered that he had said he wanted her, that he would kiss her and then so quickly take one of her rough maids to his bed. It mattered that she had so hoped to discover that he was different than other men. Different than Garrett, better somehow. It mattered that she had almost been fool enough to believe it.
Almost.
Emmalyn fled upstairs to the solitude of her own chamber. There, in the chill and lonely darkness, she stripped out of her kirtle and shoved it back into her clothing chest. Angry, frustrated, and in utter disbelief to think that she could be the least bit jealous, she climbed into bed and stared up at the rafters, listening as a steady rain began to patter outside. She lay there in the miserable quiet for some long hours, cursing her foolish heart and praying that her appeal to remove Sir Cabal would reach the queen posthaste.
Chapter 10
It was just past sunrise when Cabal returned to the castle from an e
arly-morning search of the demesne. He and Sir Miles had taken a handful of the other knights out to comb the area for signs of the thieves, patrolling the fields and watching the woods and borders for evidence of trouble. They had found nothing to lead them to the brigands, but Cabal still considered the exercise a success, for it had taken him out of the keep well before Lady Emmalyn roused to break her fast.
In truth, he had called the pre-dawn retinue together as a means of avoiding her, even for a short time. His thoughts still clung to his disrupted encounter with her in the grove, and the fitful night's sleep he suffered last eve had done little for his mood. He shouted an order for the garrison to commence the day's practice, then dismounted and walked his destrier to the stables.
Thomas, the man who tended the keep's horses, arrived a moment later carrying two buckets of water in from the bailey well. “Good morrow, milord,” he called amiably, though his usual easy stride was hampered today by the lingering moisture in the air and the obvious ache of aging bones.
He shuffled into the stable, nearly losing his footing when his boot dislodged a loose stone from the earthen floor. Seeing him falter, Cabal threw his mount's saddle over the stall and loped to Thomas's side, taking up the elder man's burden.
“Thank ye, milord,” the stable master said, pressing a fist into the small of his back. “Ach, I was fine with the first few buckets, but these last two felt as though they weighed ten stone a piece.”
Cabal dismissed Thomas's gratitude with an impatient shrug, then dispensed the water to the horses that had yet to be tended. Meanwhile, the stable master ambled to the last stall and began brushing down a very pregnant bay mare.
“God's bones,” Cabal said, coming to stand next to the animal. “That poor beast looks near to bursting.”
Thomas frowned. “Aye, she does at that. But, pray, don't let milady hear ye say so. She's worried enough over Minerva and her overdue, royal foal.”
“Royal?”
The stable master nodded. “This foal has the blood of a royal stallion in him--a fine black Iberian. The dowager queen herself gifted milady with the breeding last summer when she and her traveling party came to stay at Fallonmour.”
Cabal's curiosity stirred. “They are acquainted, Lady Emmalyn and the queen?”
Thomas nodded. “Milady's grandmother was a maid in Queen Eleanor's court in Poitou,” he told him proudly. “Her Majesty has been known to tarry at Fallonmour on occasion when her business and travels bring her to the region.”
“Indeed?” Cabal remarked. “I was not aware that the lady was so well connected.”
“Aye, though would that she had not been,” Thomas muttered. “Then she might have been spared the attentions of men like Lord Garrett.”
Cabal pivoted his head to stare at him. “What know you of the matter, Thomas?”
“Ye will forgive me, Sir Cabal, if I speak against the man who was my master?” asked the old manservant. Cabal inclined his head in vague permission. “Lord Garrett never did have a care for anyone, save himself,” Thomas explained. “His father took part in one of the rebellions waged against King Henry by his barons some years ago. Fearing he would suffer for his father's poor politics, Lord Garrett conspired with his brother, Hugh, to turn their sire in as a traitor to the crown.”
“Jesu,” Cabal hissed, having never known the bond between father and son, yet unable to imagine such a villainous breach.
“Their treachery gained them scorn and met with only meager success,” Thomas continued. “In exchange for their father's head, Lord Garrett and Hugh were allowed to keep but two of his many holdings: Fallonmour and Wardeaux.”
“I take it Garrett expected to rebuild his demesne through his marriage to Lady Emmalyn?” Cabal suggested.
“Nay,” Thomas replied. “Milady's family was not wealthy. Her father held a small manor near Lincolnshire. Though he was a simple farmer, he was respected in noble circles, as was her well-bred mother. Lord Garrett had designs to wed an heiress, but the queen decided against the match. Instead, she offered him the hand of Lady Emmalyn, who was scarcely sixteen when her father lay on his deathbed, eager that she should marry before he was gone.”
“He had no wish to wed her?”
Thomas shook his head. “Nay, and I fear she bore the brunt of his anger for having been forced into the arrangement. Lord Garrett could be a cruel man, Sir Cabal, vicious in the things he would say. But not even he could spoil milady's kindness. Oh, she kept up a brave front for all of us, and thankfully, he spent a good deal of his time away. Still, 'twas no real secret the private hell she must have endured.”
Cabal swore under his breath, wishing for what had not been the first time that Garrett of Fallonmour had suffered more in his final moments. Would that he could conjure him back now, he would wrap his hands around the bastard's throat and slowly choke the despicable life right out of him.
“She said nothing of this to me,” Cabal grumbled, irritated with himself for being so brash with her since his arrival.
“Milady is a proud woman, Sir Cabal,” Thomas said quietly. “And I reckon I have likely said too much as it is. She would be sorely displeased to know that I have been discussing such personal matters with--”
The stable master broke off abruptly, and Cabal felt fairly confident that he had nearly just been called 'the enemy.'
“I mean only that I do not wish to dishonor milady further by relaying details of something she so clearly meant to keep private, Sir Cabal.”
He shrugged and gave Thomas an understanding nod. “No offense taken,” he told him.
The old manservant smiled, then set down the brush he had been using on the bay mare. “By your leave, milord? I've got to piss of a sudden, and if I don't use the bucket for the wool wash, I warrant the sheepherders' wives will call for my head.”
Idly, Cabal waved Thomas off, hardly noticing his departure. Instead, he reached out and stroked the mare's neck, moving farther into the stall and following the line of her strong back with his palm. The matron nickered, swishing her tail as Cabal skimmed his hand over the enormous bulge of her midsection. Beneath the thick, brown hide he could feel the steady beat of a new life and he swallowed an unexpected chuckle of awe.
From the low-slung entryway of the stable, soft footsteps padded forth, drawing his attention. “Is there any change this morn, Thom---Oh, 'tis you.”
Lady Emmalyn walked farther inside, halting next to her mare's stall. She scowled at Cabal as if his tending the bay were a violation of considerable degree. “Where is Thomas?”
“Gone for necessary matters,” Cabal replied, coming from within the berth to move toward her. “He should be back shortly.”
She gave him a scornful, disapproving look. “Then I shall return later.” As she pivoted to leave, the mare whinnied and began to shift in her stall. Lady Emmalyn hesitated, coming back to gentle the beast with her soft touch. “Is Minerva all right?” she asked Cabal.
“Her foal is growing restless, and anxious to greet his world,” he said, finding it impossible not to be somewhat charmed by the lady's obvious devotion to the animal. “Give me your hand,” he instructed.
She slanted him a dubious look, but he gave her no time to withdraw. Instead, he grasped Emmalyn's fingers and led her into the berth with him. Holding the confused gaze she directed up at him, Cabal pressed her palm to the outward rise of Minerva's distended belly, keeping it there, his hand placed lightly over the top of hers.
They felt the ripple of movement at the same time.
“Oh, my!” Emmalyn exclaimed.
Her swell of unbridled, girlish laughter made Cabal's insides squeeze peculiarly, made his body warm all over. He felt a smile reach up from inside him when she turned to look at him, her eyes wide with wonder. He did not remove his hand from atop hers, allowing himself the time to enjoy the moment, for enjoy it he did. Too damned much for his own peace of mind.
“There's another kick!” she said breathlessly, looking back to M
inerva when a second movement traveled under the glossy hide of the matron's midsection. “'Tis sure to be a strong, healthy babe, is it not, my lord?”
Cabal nodded, struck by the need for reassurance he heard so plainly in her voice. “I reckon it will be,” he said. “After all, he's got the blood of a royal champion running in his veins.” She turned her head to him then, frowning inquisitively. “Thomas told me something of your acquaintance with the queen, my lady.”
Her hand slid out from under his. “I do not appreciate your gossiping about me with my folk, Sir Cabal.”
She stepped away and left him standing there, putting added space between them by striding to where a bucket of red apples sat on the floor. Reaching into it, she took her time choosing the brightest one, as if to delay facing him.
Cabal came out behind her, leaning his shoulder against the supporting beam of the stall. Her wariness was evident in the rigid line of her back, in the utter quiet that had come over her. “I am not your enemy, my lady. You could have told me about Garrett. You could have told me how he treated you.”
She turned around without answering and came to stand before Minerva, refusing to look Cabal in the eye. “When last I checked, Sir Cabal, you had been sent here by the king as Fallonmour's guardian, not my confessor.”
“You still do not trust me,” he remarked, stung somehow, and astonished to realize that he should actually want her esteem.
In place of a polite denial, Emmalyn withdrew a dagger from its sheath on her leather girdle and cleaved the apple in two. She held a crisp wedge out to the horse and pivoted her head to level a scathing glare on Cabal. “I trust people for their deeds, my lord, not their words.”
In that instant, paying no mind to the beast's foraging muzzle, Emmalyn might have lost more than what was left of her apple if not for Cabal's swift action. He rushed forward to grasp her hand protectively in his own, pulling it away from the horse's snapping teeth. The dagger and pieces of fruit tumbled to the stable floor.
