Lady of Valor

by Lara Adrian

  Wat's dirty little face brightened instantly. Without waiting for agreement or even sparing Cabal so much as a glance to gauge his thoughts on the matter, Emmalyn stepped into her stirrup and mounted her palfrey. “Let's go, then,” she said to the two knights, and with a shake of her reins, she led the party out of the orchard and back to the keep as if in her mind, Cabal no longer existed.

  Chapter 15

  Two days later, Emmalyn was still reeling from her unexpected and disturbing confrontation with Cabal in the orchard. She had managed to say nary a word to him since, purposely avoiding his dark presence whenever possible and lamenting the fact that she could not simply wish him away from Fallonmour entirely. She had received some promise on that score: a letter had arrived yesterday morn from her sister in Lincolnshire. Knowing the trade fair would bring Emmalyn to town for market, Josette had invited her to stay for a few days and visit.

  Emmalyn could scarcely believe her good fortune when she read that Josette would be hosting a grand feast at which Queen Eleanor was expected to be in attendance. In the day since the letter had arrived, Emmalyn had read that same passage over at least a dozen times to assure herself it was real. She would gain an audience with the queen after all, whether or not her appeal regarding Fallonmour's status had reached London yet. And there was nothing Cabal could do to stop her.

  To occupy her mind with other things, she had taken little Wat under her wing. Now the lad was hardly recognizable as the sullen, mistrusting waif Emmalyn had first encountered. Multiple scrubbings, a haircut, and fresh clothing helped contribute to his transformation, but Emmalyn suspected that more than any physical considerations, it was his easy absorption into castle life that brought him from his initial state of withdrawal. Once she had seen that his neglected belly was filled, and that he had gotten a couple nights of much needed sleep in the hall with the rest of the folk, Emmalyn had taken the boy aside and given him a duty to tend to.

  “In and around a castle, everyone has responsibilities,” she told him now as she walked with him to the stables. “You could train as a page, but my hands are full enough with those I already have. What I don't have is someone to help Thomas with the new foals.”

  Wat's brown eyes brightened; it was no mistake that Emmalyn had chosen this position for him. She had seen how awed and excited the boy was when he first saw Minerva and her twins, and she had already discussed with Thomas the possibility of his taking Wat in as his assistant. Unable to contain his excitement, Wat scampered into the stables several paces ahead of Emmalyn and dashed to Minerva's stall.

  “Easy, son,” Thomas warned when the sudden rush of activity upset the horses.

  Wat settled immediately and apologized, standing at Minnie's berth in complete wonder as Emmalyn drew up behind him. The chestnut foal stood on spindly legs, nursing ardently at her mother's teat, while her glossy jet brother walked over to investigate his visitors. The black colt sniffed at Wat's outstretched hand, then paused regally to let the boy and Emmalyn stroke him, as if he knew he was a creature born to be admired.

  “They are doing very well, milady,” Thomas said. “I did not think the filly would survive, but she is hale and getting stronger every day. The time is coming that you should name the both of them, I reckon.”

  “Yes,” Emmalyn agreed, her heart gladdening with the news that Minerva's family was healthy and thriving. Fulfilling, too, was the knowledge that she had been able to help young Wat. The boy looked up at her, beaming, so happy in his new surroundings. “How would you like to name the foals, Wat?”

  “Me?” He blinked at her, stunned, as if he had just been handed a crown and scepter. “Do you mean it, my lady?”

  She nodded and he threw his arms around her in a fervent embrace. But she was nearly forgotten a scant instant later, Wat turning his attention toward the weighty responsibility he had just been granted. He began testing worthy names for the black first, excitedly whispering and then discarding them in rapid succession.

  “That ought to keep him out of trouble for a while,” Thomas murmured wryly.

  Emmalyn smiled, sharing his humor, but their gaiety was short-lived. From outside, high atop the castle tower, came the wailing blast of a horn: a guard on the morning watch, heralding the arrival of visitors. Before Emmalyn reached the stable door to inquire after who had come, one of her men-at-arms appeared at the threshold.

  “There's a riding party on the approach to the castle, milady.”

  With those words, a dark and swelling unease rose in her breast, squeezing her lungs as it engulfed and swallowed up her joy of the moment before. “Do they bear colors?”

  The guardsman nodded. “A black boar rampant on a gold field, milady.”

  “Hugh.”

  Her fears confirmed, Emmalyn's breath rushed out of her on a shaky sigh. She could take no comfort in the grim face that greeted her an instant later, either. Dressed in mail from his morning's exercise, Cabal strode past the group of them at the doorway, entering the stables with sober purpose.

  Emmalyn turned, ignoring her unease and following after him as he stalked to his destrier and began to saddle it. “Hugh is here?” she asked nervously.

  “He is, my lady.”

  She was not sure what caused the greater swell of panic in her throat: de Wardeaux's dreaded arrival, or Cabal's continuing cool detachment toward her. Girding herself for both, she demanded, “What do you mean to do?”

  Cabal faced her at last, walking his battle-readied destrier out of the stall. “I mean to hold this property for the king and send Hugh on his way.”

  Emmalyn watched him lead the stallion out of the stable, trepidation gnawing at her to think that he was going out there alone. She did not want to worry for Cabal, but she could not quell the tremor of concern that gripped her when she thought of him facing off with Hugh. “Help me saddle my horse, Thomas,” she ordered once Cabal had stepped into the courtyard and out of earshot.

  “But, milady--”

  “Do it, Thomas. And please, we must hurry.”

  They worked in haste to outfit the gray palfrey, and within moments, Emmalyn was riding out into the courtyard, toward the closing portcullis of Fallonmour's massive gates.

  “Wait!” she called to the guards in the gatehouse as she approached. They looked down at her in confusion but held the grate up for her to pass.

  Sir Cabal was less accommodating. “Jesu! What are you doing, Emmalyn?” he bellowed when she brought her mount to a halt beside his on the other side of the wall. “Get back inside!”

  She shook her head. “This is my battle as much as it is yours. I have every right to face Hugh alongside you.”

  “Have you gone mad, woman? You're in danger out here!”

  “No more than you, my lord,” she answered resolutely, squaring her shoulders. “I am staying.”

  Though it was cool in the shadow of Fallonmour's soaring curtain wall, Emmalyn knew the shiver that coursed through her had nothing at all to do with the chill morning air. Grasping her mount's reins with fingers made damp from anxiety, she looked out to the group of armed riders now assembling at the crest of the south hill.

  They were a company of nearly a dozen men on war-horses, garbed in long surcoats the striking gold of de Wardeaux's crest. Sunlight glinted off their fine chain mail armor and their polished steel helms as they cantered into position and formed a line. At the center of this row of guards, between two pennon-bearing knights and riding a massive white charger, was Hugh himself.

  Emmalyn swallowed past a knot of cold unease. “He's come with armed men.”

  The fact that Cabal said nothing, and as well, that his face showed no trace of surprise, told Emmalyn that he had expected this. She supposed she had been anticipating much the same, although it did not make her any more prepared to confront the situation now. Looking at the row of assembled guardsmen, ready to attack Fallonmour on Hugh's command, Emmalyn felt anything but bold.

  She could do nothing but watch, and wait,
as Hugh called an order to his company of soldiers and they brought their lances to upright position, the gleaming, deadly tips pointing skyward. Then he and another man broke from the crowd and cantered forward, down the hill, and then up the sloping motte toward the castle. As her brother-by-marriage neared, Emmalyn's nervousness turned to mounting fear. “What if Hugh orders a forced entry?”

  “He won't.”

  “But how can you be certain?” she asked, an edge of panic in her voice now.

  “Stay calm, Emmalyn,” Cabal warned. “You do not want him to scent your apprehension. If Hugh has any sense, he will not risk a confrontation when he is so plainly outnumbered.”

  “Outnumbered?” Emmalyn echoed in a tight whisper. “I count fifteen soldiers behind him and all of them look armed to the teeth. Fallonmour has but some two score knights; the thought of a few extra men will pose no great concern to Hugh and his trained army.”

  Cabal leaned toward her then. “Look behind you, my lady, to the walls.”

  Emmalyn pivoted in her saddle and glanced up to the ramparts of Fallonmour's towering curtain wall. There, perched high above them, stood a line of thirty men-at-arms--mayhap more, too many for her to discern their precise number. Each of them was armed with either crossbow or lance, and every man stood alert and poised for action. “But how--”

  “Turn back to the fore, Emmalyn, and mask your surprise. Hugh is watching us closely as he comes.”

  The Wardeaux standard, a black boar rampant on a gold field, emblazoned the large, flat-topped shield and snapping silk pennon of Hugh's armed escort. His stamp of position and authority was made clear by his every uniformed guardsman, but as if he meant to leave no room for doubt, Hugh himself was outfitted in a black surcoat that bore his heraldic emblem affixed to the chest. It was a bold display of status, one usually reserved for the pomp and parade of the tournaments...or war.

  By contrast, in her drab wool gown and leather boots, Emmalyn felt shabby and common, which, she was certain had been Hugh's intention in arriving so richly appointed. Beside her, Cabal's horse stirred, and Emmalyn glanced at its stoic rider. If he took note of Hugh's militaristic bravura, Cabal seemed wholly unimpressed. His eyes were flinty and narrowed, calculating; his face was an emotionless mask. He rested his right hand on the pommel of his sword, while his left gripped the black's reins.

  Though garbed in a tunic of unpolished chain mail and somber hose, sullied in places from the morning's practice, Cabal's utter lack of vanity only made him look all the more fearsome. This was the king's most capable warrior at Emmalyn's side; he could be mistaken for nothing less. Determined to stand proud beside him, she lifted her chin and straightened in her saddle, prepared to face Hugh unflinchingly, no matter if she trembled within and without.

  Hugh had aged since Emmalyn last saw him. His dark hair, trimmed to an impeccably fashionable length, was now silvered at the temples where it had once been a glorious mane of flawless dark brown. His beard showed similar signs of untimely aging, the neatly combed whiskers speckled gray beyond his years. Hugh's blue eyes had never been youthful, nor were they now, slivered and hard with suspicion as he slowed his mount to an arrogant trot and drew up before Emmalyn and Cabal.

  “Greetings, my sister,” he fairly hissed, an arrogant twist to his mouth. Hugh had never addressed her in such a familiar way while Garrett was alive, and Emmalyn knew it was now meant more as a reminder that since they were kin in the eyes of the law, in all ways that mattered, her rights fell second to his. “I would offer you a kiss of condolence, but it appears you've wasted little time in mourning my dear, departed brother.”

  Emmalyn steeled herself, trying not to let Hugh's scathing sarcasm provoke her. Nor would she allow him to intimidate her. “Somehow, I doubt the purpose of your journey has aught to do with sympathy,” she said. “Be it for your brother, or me.”

  “No, lady,” Hugh admitted easily. “I did not come out of sympathy. But I did come out of concern. Concern for what was my brother's and what now is mine.”

  “Not yours, de Wardeaux,” Cabal interjected in a low growl. “Fallonmour belongs to the king, Richard of England.”

  Hugh slanted him a derisive, assessing look. “You must be the Crusader turned guard dog that Arlo mentioned. When he came to me with the report of my brother's death--and indeed, the more troublesome news of Fallonmour's pending dispensation by the crown--I confess, I accused him of exaggeration.” Hugh's gaze swept the battlements then, a pointed assertion that Fallonmour's defensive measures had not gone unnoticed. “Unless you mean to tell me you have assembled here outside the gates to provide me with a personal welcome within, it would seem that Arlo's claims were true, after all.”

  “You'll find no welcome here, de Wardeaux. Take your men and be gone.”

  Hugh chuckled. “Just like that, you think I will abandon my claim on this place?”

  “The king commands that you do,” Cabal replied. “Your claim on Fallonmour is void.”

  “Have you not heard, sirrah? Your king is imprisoned,” Hugh challenged glibly. “'Tis his command that is void. I mean to have what is mine.”

  “Do you threaten treason, de Wardeaux?”

  “No threats; I am merely telling you the way it is. The only thing that has kept me from outright seizing Fallonmour before was the fact that my brother was yet alive. Now that he is not, I have no intention of surrendering my claim on this holding--particularly not to the pawn of a powerless king.” Hugh's focus shifted to Emmalyn then, a cutting glare of contempt. “It will take far more than a piece of paper to make me step aside.”

  Next to her, Emmalyn saw the nearly imperceptible movement of Cabal's hand, tightening around his sword. His voice was lethally calm. “I am fully prepared to meet you with force, de Wardeaux.”

  “Are you, cur? Are you then also prepared to meet Prince John with force? Because I warn you, to challenge me in this is to challenge him.”

  “Hugh, please,” Emmalyn interjected, knowing that what he said was likely true, and loath to see the situation escalate. “Do not turn this into a battle. You will only hurt Fallonmour in the end. You will only hurt the folk if you try to take the place by force.”

  Hugh's malicious glance slid to her. “Would that you had thought of that before you allowed this guard of Richard's to insult me with his presence. You should have come to me, Emmalyn. I would have helped you.” He smiled thinly. “I might still. All it would take is a word from you now. I reckon you could persuade your garrison to side with me today and the matter can be settled quickly.”

  She knew what he was suggesting, of course. Side with him, and between his guards and hers, Hugh would see Cabal ejected on the spot...or worse. Emmalyn hesitated, expecting Cabal to challenge the affront, to say something in his own defense. At the very least, she expected him to try to influence her against Hugh's intimation of alliance. But he remained silent, stoic and unmoving, refusing to so much as look at her, as if his fate at that moment rested on her shoulders alone.

  Perhaps after what he said to her in the orchard--after pushing her away like he had--Cabal thought she would be glad to accept Hugh's offer now. Glancing at his hard expression, she wondered if he might have wanted her to do just that!

  “What say you, Emmalyn?” Hugh prompted. “'Tis not a difficult decision, after all. Do you side with me in this, or do you invite my wrath on Fallonmour?”

  A tiny voice reminded her that whether she admitted Hugh within the gates today in the hopes of avoiding bloodshed, or later sought the queen's help in maintaining Fallonmour on her own, she was in fact defying her king's command. To say nothing of betraying Cabal. But she would not do it like this. To trust Hugh now was to reach for the hand of the devil himself.

  Forcing herself to hold his chilling gaze, Emmalyn said, “I believe you heard Sir Cabal well enough, Hugh. You will find no welcome here today. Nor ever, so long as I am lady of this manor.”

  His answering chortle was more a sharp bark of disbelief, but
his eyes blazed with naked fury. “Garrett never did have much flattering to say about you, Emmalyn--least of all the strength of your wit. Now I see he was right.”

  Emmalyn ignored the barb, though it stung just the same. “You know my position in this, Hugh. Now I will thank you to remove yourself from these lands.”

  “You'll what?” Hugh started to laugh in earnest, looking to his armed companion in mocking humor. The knight beside him joined in chuckling amusement, but his eyes flicked upward to the soldiers poised to beset them at the first indication. “You expect I will leave simply because you request it?”

  “The lady asked you to leave,” Cabal interjected, permitting his restless mount to advance a pace. “I suggest you do.”

  “Rather protective of the grasping little wench, aren't you, man? Arrived here less than a week ago and already sniffing around her skirts, I suspect.”

  Hugh's horse sidled, bringing him a bit too close to Emmalyn for her comfort, but she hardly had a chance to fret. Cabal moved in a blur, bringing his mount up beside Hugh as he drew a dagger from his baldric. Hugh's guard reached for his sword, too late.

  “Come no closer,” Cabal warned the knight, the sharp tip of his knife pressing into the tender skin of Hugh's cheek. The soldier glared, but it was a futile threat; he would make no untoward move while his lord was at the killing end of an enemy blade. “The both of you will make haste to leave in peace. Now.”

  Hugh's defeated nod was long in coming, and scarcely perceptible. When Cabal slowly withdrew his attack, Emmalyn saw that a bright red line had begun to trickle down Hugh's face and into the edge of his neat beard. He reached up and wiped at the blood, glaring in outrage as he withdrew his hand and his gaze lit on his stained fingers. It was more an insult than injury, but Hugh bore murder in his eyes, all of it directed at Cabal. “I will not forget this day. You have just made yourself an enemy, knave.”