Lady of Valor

by Lara Adrian

  “Did he now?”

  Wat nodded. “'Twas a magic lion that disappeared right out of its cage!”

  “Really,” Nurse drawled, slanting Cabal a dubious look. “Well, mayhap Sir Cabal will regale us all with his tale about this disappearing, magical lion as we sit around the bonfire tonight, do you suppose?”

  Wat turned to look up at Cabal with wide, adoring eyes. “Will you, my lord?”

  “Mayhap,” he answered with a mild shrug.

  The boy beamed, seemingly oblivious of the knight's reluctance. “I can't wait to show Lady Emmalyn!” he told Nurse excitedly. “Has she already left for the festival?”

  “No, Wat. I'm afraid she won't be going,” Bertie said on a sigh. “Milady is tired this eve and resting in her chambers. However, I'm certain she would love to see your prize in the morn.”

  Wat pouted, shoulders sagging. His obvious disappointment tugged at Emmalyn's heart, as did the notion that Cabal had given the boy such a sweet and surprising token of regard.

  “No need to be so glum, child. You do have me!” Bertie grabbed up Wat's small hand. “Now, come along. These old legs of mine are itching to dance!”

  “Sir Cabal!” Wat called over his shoulder as Bertie set off with him at a jaunty pace. “My lord, come with us, please!”

  As if he sensed her watching them, Cabal looked up to where Emmalyn stood at the window. The casement shadows and the gloom of the chamber surely concealed her from view, but she felt the weight of his keen regard like a warm, coaxing caress. She backed away, deeper into the darkness, afraid to trust what she saw in his soulful, silver eyes.

  Wat called to him again, and, with a final lingering glance at the tower keep, Cabal loped off to join the boy and Nurse. Together, the trio crossed the wide bailey, Bertie and Cabal on either side of Wat while he skipped along between them. Somewhat wistfully, Emmalyn watched them go, feeling lonely before they had even disappeared through the gates and out of her view.

  More than anything, in that moment she wanted to be a part of the gaiety. She wanted to see for herself Bertie dancing about the bonfires with Wat. She wanted to hear firsthand about Cabal's adventures with exotic creatures in exotic lands. But she knew he would be different knowing she was there. He would be on guard, mayhap even push her away like he had in the orchard. She did not think she could bear his rejection again. If only there was a means for her to become invisible, like the magical lion Cabal purported to have seen.

  And then she realized there was a way.

  Excitedly, Emmalyn quit the solar and hastened upstairs to her chamber. She rummaged through her clothing chest until she found the item she sought and slipped it over her bliaut. The long summer mantle was dark as night itself and covered her from neck to foot in voluminous folds; her face and hair would be well concealed within the deep hood. Cloaked in her own brand of midsummer magic, Emmalyn waited for darkness to descend outside, then she left the castle and headed down to the village.

  Chapter 17

  The sights and sounds of festival set Emmalyn's heart racing as she tread down the path that led from the castle to the village below. The guards on post at the keep had offered her escort, but she refused them with assurances that the walk was not so very long and the fires would light the way for her. If she had worried that an armed attendant might draw attention to her arrival, she realized soon enough that she need not have bothered with that particular concern. There was far too much activity going on about the village and plains for anyone to take notice of a cloaked figure come to join the countless other folk in attendance at the feast day celebration.

  Bonfires glowed from the center of the village, and on nearly every surrounding rise, the flames crackled and undulated as they leaped high into the blackness of the night sky. Music and singing filled the air, along with the laughter of dancers spinning circles around the many crowded blazes. A group of young boys broke from the perimeter of one of the fires, each of them brandishing a burning torch. They ran past Emmalyn as if she wasn't there, yelling at the tops of their lungs as they set off on a mission to drive away mischievous dragons that might be tempted to poison village wells during the revelry.

  As the boys zigzagged hither and yon with their brands, Emmalyn was able to discern the dark silhouettes of couples heading into the woods together. Some did not even trifle to conceal themselves in the thicket; their passions consumed them so much, they embraced and kissed wherever they happened to be standing--in the fields and pathways, or pressed against village outbuildings.

  Safely obscured in the shadows, Emmalyn walked along the fringes of the gathering, drawn toward the aromas of roasting venison and freshly baked bread. She got a portion of both from the men tending the cook fires, then sat down on a thick log that was being used as a makeshift bench. At her left, two little girls were playing with their food and giggling over the antics of the village boys and other fanciful nonsense. Emmalyn munched idly, so engrossed in her meal and eavesdropping that she almost didn't notice the tall, broad-shouldered man who took up the empty space at her other side.

  “How many times has that old nurse dragged ye out to dance with her this eve, Sir Cabal?” someone asked from across the circle of folk partaking of the viands.

  “Too many to count. I vow she means to make an old man of me before the night is out.”

  His velvety voice rumbling directly beside her sent a shiver of awareness skating up Emmalyn's spine. She shrank deeper into her cloak, eating in silence while Cabal gnawed on a mutton shank and conversed easily with the people.

  Watching their rapt faces as they all vied for his attention, it struck Emmalyn how easily they had come to adore and depend on Cabal in the short time he had been there. This gruff warrior, who professed his disinterest for farm and folk so vehemently, was a part of Fallonmour now, whether he liked it or not. They would miss him. Indeed, so would she.

  Emmalyn felt a sudden prick of guilt, knowing that soon she would travel to Lincolnshire and meet with the queen to discuss the tenancy of Fallonmour and Cabal's removal. Strange that what had once seemed like the very thing she wanted most for herself and for Fallonmour was now beginning to feel more like a deep betrayal: insidious and under-handed. But how ridiculous that she should feel thus when he seemed so anxious to be delivered of her, Emmalyn reasoned, shaking her head as if to physically deny the thought before she allowed it to linger for another moment in her mind.

  “Ah, you see?” Cabal startled her as he placed his hand at her back and addressed his growing audience, evidently unaware that it was she seated beside him. “Here is one maid who does not want to listen to a tiresome soldier's story this eve.”

  “But Sir Cabal, you promised!” Wat complained as he entered the area and plopped down at the knight's feet. “We want to hear 'bout the lion!”

  A roar of approval traveled the crowd and brought more folk to the fireside. It was not often that country people got to hear firsthand accounts of the wild, dangerous beasts lurking beyond their island home. Within moments the area was surrounded by a sea of eager faces, among them common folk, knights, Sir Miles, Bertie, and even Father Bryce. Children seemed to materialize from out of everywhere, weaving their way between adults standing shoulder-to-shoulder to get places up front, nearest they could to Cabal.

  He chuckled as the ranks tightened around the fireside. “Can't a man eat his supper in peace?” he groused.

  “If I had to sing for my sup,” the reeve's wife said on a laugh as she laid down her lute, “then you, sir knight, can pay for yours with a tale of derring-do.”

  Assenting shouts went up from those gathered. Wat beamed at Cabal as if the knight were a treasure that belonged to him alone. “Tell us 'bout the lion, my lord,” he pleaded, holding out the carving Cabal had made for him.

  “Another time, lad.”

  He tried to resume eating, but the crowd's interest had piqued beyond escaping. “Did ye slay the beast on Crusade, Sir Cabal? Ye must tell us the tale, milord!”r />
  “'Twas a magic lion, and Sir Cabal touched it with his bare hands!” Wat exclaimed, his eager interjection causing the children, and many of the adults as well, to gasp in wonder.

  Cabal cleared his throat. “Well,” he said, setting aside his meal, “I cannot attest that the lion was enchanted, but I reckon there was magic in the air, for 'twas on this very eve one year ago that the giant cat strayed quite calmly into our camp.”

  Emmalyn listened, breathless and beguiled like the rest of the folk, while Cabal told how the company of English soldiers had netted the lion, imprisoning him in one of the caged carts used for transporting prisoners and hostages of the Cross.

  “The king was due back at our camp that next morn, and the men thought it a fitting tribute to gift Coeur de Lion with a royal captive of his own. The king of beasts for the king of England, they said.”

  Emmalyn could hear the bite of sarcasm edging Cabal's voice, but for their part, the folk seemed oblivious, most of them whispering lauds for King Richard's reputed bravery and murmuring their approval of the prize. They were all too caught up in the tale to notice the subtle tightening of Cabal's jaw or the distant look that had crept into his eyes.

  “Was he a vicious creature, Sir Cabal?” one of the knights asked eagerly. “A ferocious man-eater?”

  “I expect he was, in his time. But as regal as this beast might have been, he was old and tired. No doubt that was the only reason we were able to capture him like we did,” Cabal said. “We kept him caged in the center of the camp while we took our evening meal around the cook fire. All that time, the lion just sat there, watching us, his noble head erect, his eyes intense and glowing iridescent in the firelight.

  “Some hours later, when we were all full of wine and growing bored with each other's company, one of the men got up, deciding he wanted to hear the great beast roar. He went to the cage and drew his sword, dragging it along the bars and jabbing it within to goad the lion into striking out.”

  “Did it work, my lord?” Wat asked on a gasp. “Did he strike at the man?”

  “No, he did not,” Cabal answered thoughtfully. “The lion moved out of the way of the blade, retreating to the corners of its cell, but the soldier would not cease provoking him. Before long, more men joined the first, all of them shouting and banging their swords on the cage. Through it all, the beast remained quiet. Passive.

  “He was bleeding from a cut on his flank, panting and anxious, but he did not strike out.” Cabal's voice had grown reflective, almost haunted. “He could have easily killed any one of those men; they were all getting careless and too close to the bars to be safe, but the lion did not seem interested in shedding their blood, not even to spare his own.”

  One of the men scoffed from the perimeter of the gathering. “Not much of a man-killer after all, was he 'lord?”

  Cabal shook his head. “There could be no disputing his dignity, but the beast's fighting days were long over. When he provided no sport, the men soon grew tired of the game. Someone suggested they let the king have the honor of slaying the beast himself when he arrived at the camp the next morn and the others quickly agreed. 'Twas the consensus that the lion's head would make a better prize than would the sorry creature itself.”

  Her stomach coiled with sympathy and dread, Emmalyn wanted to ask if that was truly what had come to pass, if King Richard was actually given the beast to kill in cold blood. In the next heartbeat, someone else voiced the question for her.

  “Ah, I reckon that is where the magic comes in,” Cabal replied. “For while the camp slept that night, something remarkable and unexplained took place. That next morning we awoke to find the cage locked but empty. The lion had vanished without a single trace.”

  A flurry of questions came from the crowd. “Were there no tracks left outside, Sir Cabal? And what about the cage? Had he smashed his way out through the bars?”

  “There were no paw prints to be found,” Cabal answered. “The cage was wholly intact and the gaoler's keys were yet strung about his neck, same as they had been when he fell asleep that night.”

  A murmur of awe traveled through the group. Then someone asked, “Was the king angry that his gift had gotten away?”

  Cabal chuckled. “When he heard the tale of the lion's easy capture and then its subsequent disappearance from within a locked cage, the king laughed. He thought it a jest. Either that, he said, or a mass illusion, which he blamed on the desert heat and too much potent Saracen wine.” Cabal scanned the circle of listeners, an enigmatic, playful glimmer creeping into his eyes. Then he shrugged. “Who is to say, in truth? Perhaps that's all it was after all.”

  “Oh,” chorused many in the crowd, clearly suspecting they had been duped into believing a yarn. Some started to walk away, joking and laughing good-naturedly about having played the fool for Cabal and his tall tale.

  After the crowd had dispersed, Wat gazed up, frowning on the verge of disappointment. “Do you believe there was a lion, Sir Cabal? Was he real?”

  “Do you believe he was real?” Cabal countered gently.

  Wat looked down at the carved lion in his hands, turning it about and tracing the etched mane with his fingertip. “Aye,” he answered after some consideration. “I do think he was real, an' I believe he was magical, too.”

  Cabal ruffled the lad's hair. “Then I reckon that's all that matters.”

  Smiling, his eyes full of admiration, Wat nodded. Some of the boys from the village called out to him then, asking him to come with them to find the St. John's fern. He jumped to his feet and ran after them, leaving Cabal and Emmalyn nearly alone at the fire. Only a handful of stragglers remained, and they seemed more interested in second helpings of food than they did in Cabal and the petite, cloaked figure at his side.

  “I believe that lion was real, too,” Emmalyn said softly, moved by his story and compelled to bridge the gap of silence that had separated them the past few days. “I believe it was real, but I don't believe the beast was enchanted. I think you were the magic behind its escape, my lord.”

  His dark brows knit into a frown, Cabal leaned toward her, peering intensely as if he meant to see inside her hood. “Emmalyn?” he whispered harshly, but she could hear the warm note of surprise in his voice. “God's blood, woman, have you been sitting here the whole time? Where is your escort?”

  Emmalyn shrugged, pleased despite good reason to have him speaking to her again, even if only to scold her. “I had no need of an escort,” she told him. “I am disguised in this cloak; so far as anyone here is concerned, I am merely one of the folk. No different than any other woman in attendance this eve.”

  He cursed under his breath. “'Tis my worry exactly. Has it escaped your notice how filled the woods and shadowed corners are with couplings this eve? What is to stop any one of these drunken swains from mistaking you for a willing peasant girl and scooping you up to have his way with you?” He shook his head, clearly exasperated. “You should not be out here alone.”

  “I'm not alone anymore,” she said, smiling shakily.

  A group of men brought out another cask of wine, rolling it past them to replace the last. When the swelling crowd began to press in for more drink, Cabal grasped Emmalyn's hand and led her away from the boisterous, inebriated throng. They walked together along the outskirts of the gathering, pausing near the bonfire where a circle of folk danced merrily around the blaze.

  With music, laughter, and the warm glow of firelight surrounding them, Emmalyn glanced at Cabal. “Why did you let them think your story about the lion was merely a jest, my lord? Why did you not tell them 'twas you who spared the lion and gave him his freedom?”

  “You seem very certain that was how it happened,” he said glibly, almost mockingly.

  “I am certain. 'Twas you who freed him.”

  He stared at her for a long moment, neither admitting nor denying it, then returned his attention to the dancers. Emmalyn did likewise, her eye immediately drawn to Pete, the cottar from the village, li
nked arm-in-arm and laughing with pretty young Lucy, the reeve's unwed daughter. The pair were quite obviously enamored of each other, their hearts entwined as surely as their gazes. Here was one more example of Cabal's compassion, Emmalyn thought fondly, Pete and Lucy's matching being another kindness for which the dark knight at her side would take no credit.

  The longer she was coming to know him, the more Cabal seemed two distinct people to her: the hardened warrior, with his cold logic and steely sense of duty, and the enigmatic guarded man beneath the chain mail. The man he seemed to keep hidden away from everyone, so intent on denying his existence to her...denying it even to himself. It was that man she had missed keenly these past few days, the man she had been able to see only in fleeting glimpses, as she had the night Minerva's foals were born and then again this evening, entertaining her folk with tales of daring and adventure.

  It was that man she was coming to care for deeply.

  “I have been wanting to thank you for your help the other day with Hugh,” she said softly, searching for common ground, a way to clear the air between them. “What you have done with Fallonmour's garrison is remarkable.”

  She had not expected him to scoff. Nor did she expect the sudden, hard set of his jaw, the unforgiving twist of his mouth. “I did nothing,” he said crisply. “What you saw was much the same thing Hugh did: a mirage. Don't make the mistake of believing an illusion, Emmalyn.”

  “I believe in you,” she whispered, pained to hear the bite of self-mockery in his voice. “You are not an illusion.”

  “No?” he shot back harshly. “I thought we covered this matter in some detail the other day, my lady.”

  He walked past her, heading away from the bonfire's warming light and into the shadowy fringes of the gathering. Emmalyn turned and followed, uncertain that he would want her, yet determined that he not retreat alone into the darkness of whatever continued to haunt him.

  “Why do you prefer to believe you are a bad person, Cabal? Why can you not admit that if you have demons--if you have done things you regret--there is still much that is good inside you?” He paused, but would not face her. “I have seen your compassion, my lord. I have felt it. I know you care. I know you are capable of goodness and mercy, as with the lion you encountered on campaign. So why do you continually seek to deny it?”