by Lara Adrian
Frowning in confusion, Pete followed Cabal's gesture, glancing to where Lucinda stood on tip-toe, peeking over her father's shoulder, her pretty lower lip caught between her teeth, her eyes fixed on Pete and bright with optimistic anticipation. When she saw Pete look her way, she flushed shyly and gave him a wobbly smile. “Saints preserve me,” he whispered fervently. “'Tis Lucy!”
Cabal feigned a measure of bland disinterest. “Is it? Well, it seems to me that she has noticed you after all. A shame her first impression had to be that of a bullied peasant lad knocked face-down in the dust. Mores the pity, should it also be her last.”
“It won't be,” Pete averred. “I'll show you, milord. I can do this.”
“Don't show me, lad. Show her.” Cabal then gestured to the crowd of onlookers. “Show all of them.”
Pete nodded, and within moments, the courtyard filled with the sounds of competitive combat: the rhythmic clank of steel on steel, the gasps and lauds of the spectators, and, soon enough, the huffing and panting of Pete's overweight, over-confident opponent. Taggart spent himself early, making wide sweeps of his blade and trying to keep up with Pete's agile feet as the latter danced around the circle of the courtyard.
Like the piglet he had chased about the morning before, Pete kept Taggart ever on the move, hopping from side to side and intermittently jabbing his blade with the speed that seemed to come so naturally to him. Pete kept his eyes trained on Taggart's gaze, anticipating his every action and countering it with surprising effectiveness.
Cabal was almost certain Pete had the match well in hand when he saw the lad lunge and stumble. Taggart wasted no time in seizing the opportunity. Drawing his arms high, he cleaved the air in a wild downward arc. Pete twisted where he had fallen, having just enough space to turn his sword flat to deflect the ensuing blow. But the heavy Norman steel proved too much.
Taggart's weapon sparked against Pete's Saracen blade, jolting the curved sword cleanly out of his grasp. A collective gasp washed over the crowd of onlookers. Taggart's chuckle echoed with malicious satisfaction. He shot a smug glance over his shoulder to Cabal. “Do ye remember what we said, Crusader?” he taunted.
Cabal swore under his breath, a hair's breadth from dashing in to take Pete's place against Taggart. To do so would spell the young man's supreme humiliation, but as well, it might be the only way to spare him from a public skewering.
“We said to the finish!” shouted Taggart, brandishing his weapon high above his head.
An instant later, his feet shot out from under him and with a great oof, the big knight crashed to the ground. A heap of dust rose to conceal the sparring circle, plunging the entire bailey into stunned, watchful silence. Cabal himself had hardly been aware of what hit Taggart until he saw Pete scramble up from where he had rolled, knocking Taggart off balance. He vaulted to his feet and retrieved his weapon. In a trice, he was standing over the other man, blade poised for the kill at Taggart's throat.
Cabal's half-chuckled, disbelieving oath was swallowed up in the next instant by the spectators' thunderous roar of approval. The bailey rang with victory shouts and a wild gale of applause.
“To the finish,” Taggart grumbled from where he lay pinioned beneath Pete's sword. The peasant took a step back, relaxing his stance and bringing his blade down to his side. “Damnation,” Taggart fumed, his voice rising. “We said to the finish, peasant! Now, finish it!”
Instead, Pete reached down and held out his hand--an offer of peace. Taggart glared at him as if the young man had just thrown mud in his eye. With a huff of outrage, the big knight got to his feet, ignoring the gesture. He grabbed up his lost weapon and slammed it into its sheath, then spat onto the ground and stormed out of the ring.
The crowd parted to let him pass, then they closed in on their new hero, applauding Pete's skill. But Pete seemed oblivious of their praise. He dashed to Cabal's side, breathless, his eyes bright with pride.
“I did it! Can you credit it, milord? I actually did it!”
“You did a fine job, Pete,” Cabal told him, slapping him on the shoulder. “But I can't credit why you would want to jabber on about it to me when you could be wooing the fair Lucinda. She's been waiting very patiently for you to notice her, I suspect.”
Pete looked over his shoulder in her direction then grinned back at Cabal. “You knew she was there all along, didn't you, milord? You made me fight Taggart today because you wanted her to see me do it.”
Cabal shook his head in denial and gave a mild shrug.
“Aye,” Pete insisted. “You did this for me.”
“No. You did it all yourself.”
Pete was evidently unwilling to let his appreciation go unsaid. He grasped Cabal's hand. “Milord, thank you. I am indebted.”
“God's bones, begone with you already,” Cabal said with mock gruffness. “A lady that fetching isn't likely to wait all day for a homely scruff like you--be you the day's proud victor, or nay.”
With a beaming smile, Pete sheathed his sword then loped across the bailey. Congratulations were called to him as he went; even the reeve gave a kindly nod of acknowledgment for Pete's victory. Though Martin did not look overly pleased to see his daughter eyeing Pete's purposeful gait with such shy, feminine regard, he seemed too engrossed in his conversation with Sir Miles to interfere. A moment later, the two men approached Cabal.
“There has been another thieving in the village,” Sir Miles informed him. “A short while ago, a group of brigands broke into the mill. Old Jack, the village miller, was dragged into the field and beaten something terrible. He did manage to see which direction of the forest the thieves fled.”
“Then why are we dallying here, men?” Cabal said to the group of them. “'Tis time we root these vermin out.”
Stalking across the bailey with Sir Miles and the reeve in his wake, Cabal shouted for a handful of guards to bear arms and saddle up. Eagerly, half of the small garrison complied, falling in behind Cabal. On his way to the stables, he approached the spot where Pete stood charming a smile from both Lucinda and her babe. “Come, Pete,” he said as he passed. “You've got business to attend now. Lucinda will wait for your return.”
She nodded her assurance, and as Pete dashed off on his mentor's heels, she called after him, “Be careful!”
Cabal found Taggart, alone, brooding in the shade of the stables and nursing his wounds with a skin of wine. The big knight looked up as the men sauntered toward the outbuilding, the group of them alive with the excitement of a possible confrontation after so long a period of inactivity. While the others filed in to retrieve their mounts, Cabal paused at the doorway. “You'd be a benefit to me down there, as well, Taggart.”
He did not wait for the knight's reply, but he was well pleased to see that when the party had assembled in the courtyard, mounted up and ready to ride, Taggart was indeed among them. His besting evidently put aside for the moment, Taggart wore a look of eager anticipation, the same as the others.
“To the woods, men!” Cabal shouted, and led the group out of the gates at a thunderous gallop.
* * *
Emmalyn's rash, emotional outburst in the stable some hours before had haunted her for the remainder of the morning and long past noontide. The truth was, she still burned when she thought of Cabal with Jane. Seeing how easily he was winning over the rest of her folk only made her anger harder to control. To say nothing of her fears.
Risking her heart was one thing, but her first duty was to her folk and to the welfare of Fallonmour. She could not afford to let her own desires and foolish emotions cloud her focus with regard to her responsibilities.
In an effort to keep her thoughts schooled around that notion, she busied herself with tasks about the castle and in the gardens, supervising the sweeping of the rushes, and, at present, collecting herbs alongside Nurse for the evening's supper. Anything to avoid thinking about what a fool she had made of herself with Cabal.
She had made a point of keeping Jane in sight most of th
e day as well, occupying her with various duties and trying not to take overmuch glee in her decision to send the young maid out with the urine buckets to volunteer her aid to the shepherds' wives in the washing of the wool for market.
“'Twas hardly Christian to take such petty revenge against her, let alone delight in it,” she told Bertie when the old nurse started to titter over the idea. However, whether it was becoming Christian behavior or nay, before long, both women were engulfed in delicious laughter.
Emmalyn was the first to collect herself. “I reckon we've enough fennel and rosemary in this basket to season three hams,” she told Bertie. “Will you take it up to Cook for me? I think I'll linger a moment and see about the roses. I've been meaning to bring some in for a few days now; 'twould be a pity to let them spoil on the briar.”
Bertie said nothing to remind Emmalyn of how long it had been since she had taken interest in her flower garden, but the knowledge was there in the elder woman's eyes: a soft expression and a gentle nod that said she understood. For her own reasons, Emmalyn needed a bit of time alone. Only after she could no longer hear the soft rustle of Bertie's skirts or the heavy pad of her feet on the walkway did Emmalyn rise and begin the short trek to the fragrant enclosure that had at one time given her such great joy.
Now, and for too long, the garden had been home to painful memories, sad reminders of a young bride's hopes for a small piece of happiness...and the precious gift she had lost. It seemed somehow important to Emmalyn now, that in light of Garrett's death--more, as a testament to her hope for her future--that she take steps to reclaim this piece of her broken heart.
Entering the manicured alcove, Emmalyn passed by the neat beds of varied, colorful flowers as if in a trance. She paid no mind to the small fish pool, nor the bench nearby, formed of packed earth and covered in plush, thickly grown grass. Not even the fruit trees, filled with singing birds, distracted her from venturing toward the most forsaken corner of the garden.
There, like a grim sentinel, it stood: a glorious briar of bloodred roses, planted to celebrate the pending birth of a babe that never had the chance to draw its first breath. Now it was little more than a pretty grave marker, a tribute made all the more poignant for its defiant strength in spite of prolonged neglect. Guilt pricked Emmalyn's eyes as she approached, and by the time she dropped to her knees in the soft moss bed that blanketed the corner, she was weeping.
“I'm sorry I couldn't protect you,” she whispered brokenly, “I'm so sorry.”
Letting her tears fall freely, Emmalyn pulled the dead leaves from within the twining branches and plucked the weeds from around the base of the briar. As she wept, a soft breeze traversed the garden, sifting through the shade trees and climbing vines, carrying with it the mingled scents of fragrant greenery and lush, summer blooms. The gentle air was a soothing balm to Emmalyn in her solitude, a coaxing caress that assured her it was all right to feel, that there was no shame in hurting.
Her pain seeping out of her, Emmalyn scarcely heard the rustle some short space behind her. She bit her lip, listening, but heard nothing. Still, she could not dismiss the sensation that she was no longer alone in the garden. The fine hairs on the back of her neck confirmed the notion, prickling a warning.
“Is someone there?” Dashing the tears from her cheeks, Emmalyn swiveled her head to look over her shoulder. “Bertie, is that you? Jane?”
When no one answered after a long moment, Emmalyn came to her feet and brushed the dirt and twigs from her skirts. Perhaps it had been just the breeze playing tricks with her ears, she decided. Listening closely to her surroundings nonetheless, she withdrew her dagger and set about collecting an assortment of flowers to bring into the keep. Then she heard a noise once more, this time a definite footstep several paces behind her. She whirled around, dagger in hand, prepared to defend herself.
Stepping forward, she scanned the area. There were no signs of danger or intruders in the empty space that greeted her, but at her feet she discovered something queer, indeed. On the ground lay a scattering of daisy tops, arranged in a pattern that formed a crude heart. Looking at the sweet, child-like design, Emmalyn's fright of the moment before rushed out of her on a breath of surprise...and wonder.
“Who--” A movement caught by the corner of her eye cut short her questioning whisper. Behind a bush near the entrance of the gardens stood the waif from the orchard. “Oh! 'Tis you,” Emmalyn said, sheathing her blade and advancing subtly lest she scare him away. “You're so very quiet, I'm afraid I didn't see you there.”
Whether it was her familiarity that drew him from the thicket or if he was instead avoiding being trapped there, the boy slowly came out. The poor child was in desperate need of care and feeding, his appearance having worsened from the first time she had seen him. He looked hungry and long overdue for a bath, his face and clothes covered in filth and grime. Her heart ached to take care of him.
“Did you leave those pretty flowers for me?”
At first she did not think he was going to respond, but then he nodded. His guarded, inquisitive brown gaze did not leave her face for a moment as he emerged fully and came to stand before the garden gate, his every lean muscle poised for instantaneous flight.
“Thank you,” Emmalyn said, taking another step forward and trying to reassure him with a smile. “I like them very much.”
He moved back slightly, then stopped, cocking his head as he peered hard at her. From his questioning expression, Emmalyn realized she must look a fright with her tear-stained face and puffy eyes. “Y-you...crying?” he stammered, startling her with the sound of his voice, revealed at last.
“You can speak,” she gasped, and before she realized what she was doing, she took a step toward him. Like a grazing deer caught by the hayward, the boy leaped over the gate to safety. He stood on the other side, clutching the wooden barrier now put between them.
This close, Emmalyn could see that he had been beaten again; his bruises were fresher than those he had worn when she saw him last, and what she had assumed was dirt caked at the corner of his mouth was in fact dried blood. Seeing him again, Emmalyn was not sure which was the stronger urge: her need to comfort this neglected soul, or her want to mete like punishment on whoever was responsible for his current condition. “Please don't be frightened. I would never do anything to hurt you. I promise.”
He did not look entirely trustful of that fact, but neither did he move when she took another step forward and reached out her hand. “Come with me to the castle,” she coaxed. “If you're hungry, I've got ham inside, and unless I miss my guess, I smell a sweet honey cake baking in the kitchens. I'm sure I could convince the cook to let you have a piece while it's warm. Would you like that?”
His eyes brightened and he started to nod, but then, as if suddenly thinking better of it, he shrank away from the gate and took two hasty steps backward.
“Don't go,” Emmalyn said. “You don't have to go back there.”
With one final, lingering glance, the boy turned on his heel and bolted out of sight.
Chapter 12
Fallonmour's knights filed into the Great Hall for supper that evening, riding a wave of boisterous, masculine bravado. The commotion surrounding their arrival drew Emmalyn's attention away from her talk with Bertie at the high table, and her eyes fell instantly on Cabal. He strode along at the crest of the bustling swell of guards, appearing for all the world like a just-returned conquering hero. Emmalyn frowned. His black hair was windblown and tousled, his chiseled cheeks ruddy and shadowed with a day's growth of stubble. One of the men said something to him that made him laugh--an unchecked, baritone rumble of amusement--and Emmalyn was stunned to realize that she had never heard anything quite so appealing.
She struggled to remain unaffected by the grace in his confident swagger as he led the knights across the rush-strewn floor. She pretended not to notice the way his muscles coiled and flexed with each step he took, or how, for wholly different reasons, his very presence in the room
commanded the attention of both man and woman alike. An uncontrollable, surreptitious glance about the hall proved that Jane was not yet arrived for the evening meal. Equally uncontrollable, if not more distressing to Emmalyn's way of thinking, was the satisfaction that bit of knowledge brought.
She watched over the rim of her goblet without drinking as Cabal made his way to the dais. He looked up at her, evidently sensing her regard, and something almost tangible passed between them in that moment: a jolt of awareness, a beat of invitation. A promise of pleasures as yet untold.
Flushing with the very notion, Emmalyn disentangled her gaze from his as the handsome Crusader abandoned his throng of eager disciples and now came striding across the length of the hall to stand before her. “Good even, my lady. Nurse.”
Though he greeted them both with equal courtesy, his smile centered on Emmalyn alone. He seated himself beside her as if he belonged there, leaning back in the chair and accepting a cup of wine from the page serving the dais. He smelled of wood smoke and leather and time spent out of doors, and it was all Emmalyn could do not to lean closer and breathe him in. She drank what was left of her wine, wondering if it would be possible to pass the entire meal without speaking to him.
She nearly succeeded in doing just that, for even though they shared the same trencher, they ate in silence throughout the first course of roasted ham, and long into the second, a lighter fare of fish stew and boiled vegetables. It was not until the pages came to clear for the third course, an assortment of cheeses and fruits, that Sir Cabal broke the quiet. “I would have wagered my eyeteeth that Cook had a honey cake in the oven this afternoon.” He shrugged and gave her an easy smile. “Mayhap 'twas merely wishful thinking.”
Emmalyn stared at him. “No, it wasn't. That is, he did. I had Cook set the cake aside for me. On the morrow, I'm going to take it down to the...village.” A partial truth, that. She did not think he would approve of her plan to bring it to the woods in the hopes of finding the boy again, and for some reason, she was loath to invite his scorn. “If you like, I could send someone to fetch a piece for you,” she suggested.
