by Lara Adrian
“So, it would seem that the king's judgment was sound in this particular matter at least, was it not?” the queen replied dryly.
“It was, Your Majesty. But I never meant to question or imply--”
“'Tis all right, my dear. A crown and scepter does not absolve a person from making mistakes. I myself made one some years ago. A mistake in judgment that sentenced a sweet young girl to a marriage with a treacherous, wicked scoundrel.”
Was she speaking of Garrett? Emmalyn tried not to gape at the queen, but she could not keep the surprise and confusion from her face. Had the queen regretted her decision to match her with Garrett? Emmalyn had not expected Her Majesty to have given the matter a second thought.
For a long while, Queen Eleanor said nothing at all. Then she held up her hand to halt the line of guests and turned to converse with Emmalyn in confidential tones. “You have never asked me for anything, my dear, not even when you could have. But now you request my involvement in a matter that may well pit my son against me. Granted, if he should disagree with my meddling, it will not be the first time we clash. Nor likely the last.”
Emmalyn saw frank devotion in the queen's eyes, an appreciation for her strong son that softened the keen gaze of a woman long used to being in control in a man's world.
“While I would be tempted to help you based on my fond regard for your grandmother, as well as a desire to make right a mistake that cost you much unhappiness, I'm sure you would agree that neither affection nor regret are enough to warrant granting you a fief such as Fallonmour.”
“Of course not, Your Majesty.” Emmalyn nodded soberly. “I understand.”
“Looking after an estate is no easy feat, my dear. 'Tis a task made all the more challenging for a woman--particularly a woman alone. Aside from tireless devotion, it also takes a special brand of wit, integrity, and sheer brazenness: all qualities I have seen amply demonstrated in you.” Stunned, Emmalyn looked up. “Oh, yes, my dear. I expect you are quite capable. In fact, you rather remind me of me.”
The queen's mouth arched subtly over her own mild jest. Emmalyn, on the other hand, was astonished beyond words or humor. She stared at the queen, agape. “Your Majesty, I do not know what to say.”
Queen Eleanor motioned for one of her servants. “Fetch the royal counsel and tell him to draft a writ granting Lady Emmalyn full tenancy of the northern holding called Fallonmour.” She glanced at Emmalyn thoughtfully, then added, “Provide as well that she be removed of the obligation of remarriage, and be free to remain widowed until such time as she should decide to wed again.”
The attendant bowed, then hastened off to carry out the queen's command.
“B-but, Your Majesty, I had only mentioned my concerns for Fallonmour in my letter. I did not expect...”
“I know you didn't, my dear. You have earned Fallonmour. This last favor I do simply because I want to.”
Emmalyn curtsied low, placing a reverent kiss on the queen's cool, thin-skinned hand. “Thank you, Your Majesty. I am moved, and so very grateful for your kindness and consideration.”
Eleanor seemed uncomfortable with the impulsive show of affection. She withdrew her hand and sat up a little straighter in her chair, but Emmalyn saw the warm curve of her mouth. “I will see that you are delivered the signed decree later this evening, my dear. Now, let us get through this reception and on to sup before we both swoon from hunger. Perhaps you will introduce me to Sir Cabal before we dine.”
Emmalyn could scarcely contain her excitement. She resumed her position beside the queen, beaming with happiness and flooded with relief. Her heart soared with the knowledge that she and Cabal were now free to be together. More than anything, she wanted to race out of the room and tell him the news.
In truth, Cabal had been foremost on her mind since their encounter that morning; despite her current elation, she was still reeling from her discovery of the origin of his name, praying she could puzzle out a way that he might never find out. How devastated he would be to learn the depth of his father's cruelty. She had let him leave in confusion over her abruptness to dismiss him, but at the time, she had not known what else to do. Now she cursed herself for finding that book, cursed herself for letting him take it with him when he left her chamber.
How she longed to be home with him at Fallonmour, tucked away in their private corner of the world. All that stood between her and that goal now was a few hours more at Beaucourt. Hours that should go all the swifter for the queen's magnanimous decision.
Waiting for the last guest to depart the solar seemed to take forever, but finally it was time to assemble for the feast in the Great Hall. Josette, her husband, and Emmalyn escorted the queen into the large banquet room, taking their places at the high table, Eleanor seated between the two sisters. As the guests vied for optimum positions below the dais, Emmalyn scanned the crowded hall, searching for Cabal among the throng.
“Do you see your guardsman yet, my dear?” inquired the queen.
Emmalyn started to shake her head but then she spied him near the entryway, his dark hair and broad shoulders towering over the rest of the folk pouring inside. Just seeing him again set her heart racing in her bosom, made her eager to be near him. “There he is now, Your Majesty.”
When Emmalyn might have popped out of her seat to wave him forward, Queen Eleanor slanted her a quelling glance. With the most casual nod, she motioned one of her waiting minions to her side. “Fetch the knight known as Sir Cabal and bid him come to the front of the hall. We would have him dine below the dais this evening.”
The servant wended his way through the scores of people, hailing Cabal as he got close to the entryway where the knight stood. Emmalyn watched with a slight sense of confusion as the look on Cabal's face faded from one of casual disinterest to something dark and unsettling. His footsteps seemed heavier than usual, his gait somehow unsteady when he fell in behind the queen's attendant and made his way toward the front of the hall.
Proud of him in this moment and hoping that her pleasant regard would set him at ease, Emmalyn smiled at him as he approached. He did not reciprocate. Staring at her as if he meant to pierce her with his steely gaze, he trod up to the dais. An awkward moment passed in silence while Emmalyn--and indeed, everyone seated already at the high table and pretending to be elsewise occupied--waited for him to bow before the queen.
Cabal's back remained erect, his broody gaze rooted on Emmalyn and burning with unreadable meaning. She laughed nervously and endeavored to introduce him, inclining her head as a cue for him to act with the proper respect. “Your Majesty, 'tis my great honor to present Fallonmour's esteemed defender, Sir Cabal.”
His lips curved sardonically at Emmalyn's polite introduction, but he gave his full attention to the queen then, bowing as aptly as any had thus far that night. “A pleasure to meet you, Your Majesty,” he murmured, the edges of his speech oddly blurred to Emmalyn's fine-tuned ear. She scented wine on his breath and realized in wild alarm that he had been drinking.
The queen was peering at him through slightly narrowed, assessing eyes, her expression studious, as if she might have recognized him from somewhere before. “I understand you served my son, the king, in the war against Saladin.”
He gave an idle nod. “I did.”
“Your faith and honor are to be commended, sir.” Queen Eleanor bestowed on him a smile that would have charmed legions of soldiers, yet Cabal remained impassive. “Did you know that I myself took up the cross for my king? My ladies and I traveled to Jerusalem during the second of the Church's wars with the infidels. 'Twas many, many years ago, when I lived in France, but I still remember as though 'twere just yesterday the very instant we disembarked and I laid eyes on that veritable sea of desert sand. And as well,” Eleanor added gently, “I recall how grateful I was to be home again.”
“Indeed, Your Majesty.”
Irked with Cabal's current reckless state and his seeming lack of appreciation for the queen's endeavor to engage him in pleasant
conversation, Emmalyn eagerly broke in. “Not only did Sir Cabal serve King Richard on Crusade, Your Majesty, but he was also acquainted at one time with your husband, King Henry.”
“Really,” the queen inquired, her slender brows quirking in interest. “I thought there was something familiar about your face, Sir Cabal. Were your family members of the court, then? Perhaps I might know of your parents.”
Cabal's startling bark of laughter was a mere shade away from insult. “No...I do not think so, Your Majesty. My mother had met the king only briefly before, and my father...well, my father was unknown to me. I'm afraid that Lady Emmalyn, in her enthusiasm, has made it seem more than it was--”
“The king arranged for Cabal to come to London when he was orphaned as a young boy,” Emmalyn supplied, trying not to let his mordant, red-eyed countenance disturb her as she strived to patch his flagrant breach in decorum. “'Twas at King Henry's own direction that Cabal was enlisted as a guard in the royal garrison, Your Majesty.”
“How interesting,” the queen remarked, her cunning gaze now fixed on Cabal's face in calculated appraisal. “'Tis no small feat to have won my lord husband's favor in such a way. He was not known for his benevolence, particularly to those outside his circle. At times, not even to those within.”
Eleanor was likely referring to her ten-year imprisonment, her internment--and subsequent release--ordered by Henry himself. It had been harsh punishment for the mother of his children, whom he accused of poisoning his sons against him. Emmalyn felt sorry for the queen for having that blemish among the memories of such an exalted life, but perhaps worse was the common knowledge of her husband's many affairs while Eleanor was removed. King Henry's purported by-blows were scattered across England and deep into the Continent.
On the heels of that thought and for the first time, Emmalyn paused to consider the noble qualities of Cabal's features: his broad forehead and piercing gray eyes, his sharp cheekbones and patrician nose, his firm-set, square jaw. She considered this bastard knight's proud carriage and regal bearing.
And now, she wondered....
“Fascinating to make your acquaintance, Sir Cabal,” the queen said, breaking into Emmalyn's thoughts. “We have reserved a place of honor for you there at the front table. My manservant will show you to your seat for the meal.”
Cabal executed a courtly bow, shooting a flat stare in Emmalyn's direction before following the queen's minion to the trestle table foremost below the dais. He had been seated facing directly across from Emmalyn, where he continued to stare darkly up at her--almost accusingly, she thought--as the feast commenced. He blatantly ignored the attempts his table mates made to introduce themselves, preferring instead, it seemed, to further pollute himself with wine.
Emmalyn cringed when he called a serving page over to fill his cup then snatched the entire flagon away from the lad and kept it for himself. She prayed the queen had not taken notice of his surly behavior with her, and wondered why he would risk such continued recklessness when he knew how much this night could mean to them. Deciding to make the best of the distressing situation, Emmalyn strived to keep her mood light, trying to participate in the conversations at the high table and see that the queen was equally diverted.
Josette was a tremendous help in that endeavor, chattering brightly throughout the first three courses about one pleasantry or another, carrying the queen from topic to topic with consummate social adeptness. For once, Emmalyn was thankful for her sister's faultless charm. Emmalyn herself would have been no use; her attention kept drifting to Cabal, the seeming stranger seated before her. He stared hard into his tankard, shoulders sagging under the weight of whatever was pressing him into such broodiness, looking for all the world like this was the very last place he wanted to be. Like he was trapped.
Emmalyn was suddenly reminded of the story he told at Fallonmour's midsummer festival, about the old lion he had captured and caged on campaign. She recalled how Cabal had said the beast was tired and worn, yet fully capable of striking down any one of the men who goaded him from outside the cage, if he so wished.
Cabal had that very look about him now.
Vaguely, unable to take her eyes off Cabal, Emmalyn listened to the conversations buzzing about the dais: To her right Josette's tinkling laughter rang like a dozen tiny bells, and to Emmalyn's left, seated some three chairs down from her at the high table, one of the visiting barons droned on about the sorry state of his demesne and how the peasants were getting beyond themselves with all their recent talk of rights and demands for fair treatment by the noble classes.
“I tell you, the serfs must be watched closely and controlled,” the baron said in a low voice. “They are no better than animals, the lot of them. They would breed like vermin if we allowed it.”
“Let them,” one of the other men commented on a rich chuckle. “All the more able bodies to one day work your fields, Lord Spencer.”
From there, the men's exchange soon dissolved into a light discussion of the Lincolnshire market and the various new imports to be found this season, Lord Spencer bemoaning the steady increase in prices for all things shipped from abroad. This evidently reminded another lord of a story he had heard about a villein gone to market for the first time. With a great deal of humor, the nobleman recounted how the peasant had entered the trade square leading a pack of donkeys, offending all with his commoner's stench and filthy appearance.
“This vile creature wandered by several shops,” the young lord said jovially, “but when he happened upon the perfumer's stall, why, he fainted on the spot.”
“Fainted?” someone repeated. “Doubtless the miscreant was diseased in some manner.”
Several people at the high table offered further suggestions of what might have caused the peasant to swoon, but the nobleman telling the tale only gave a little chuckle and continued. “No one could puzzle out what had caused this man to react so queerly. That is, until a lad of about five summers--holding his nose for the stench rising off the prostrate peasant--suggested that the unaccustomed, pleasing smell of the merchant's perfumes might have shocked the villein senseless.”
“For pity's sake,” one of the ladies exclaimed, aghast.
“Evidently the boy was correct,” the young lord concluded, to the tittering amusement of all who listened at the high table. “The townsfolk brought the peasant back to his wits by holding a shovel full of manure under his nose, then promptly sent him on his way.”
An answering wave of jocularity swept the dais, the light mood echoed by the many, swelling conversations and general enjoyment of the others seated in the hall. By contrast, Emmalyn and Cabal were each enveloped in a certain apprehensive silence, neither of them participating in the mealtime talk, both so clearly anxious for the night to end.
Emmalyn might not have even noticed that the high table had been cleared and readied for another course, had the guests seated around her not gasped their pleasure at the most recent delicacy presented to them. A large assortment of fruit tarts and honey cakes covered a gleaming silver tray, the varied colors and blended, citrus-sweet aromas setting even Emmalyn's mouth to watering.
“Fig tarts, Your Majesty,” Josette announced as she gestured to the sampling of exotic fruit confections spread out before the queen. “As well as glazed oranges, quince cakes, and spiced pomegranates--all for your pleasure this evening.”
“Such a lovely temptation, my dear. I believe I may have to sample one of each,” Eleanor declared to her hostess's obvious delight.
Once the queen had taken her choice of the desserts, the tray was then carried to each person at the high table. When it got to Lord Spencer, the irritating baron three places down, he reached out and greedily shoveled a handful of the richest-looking treats onto his trencher.
“I vowed I'd never eat another fig after I returned home from Palestine,” he remarked, chuckling around a mouthful of the imported fruit. “I had a serving woman in Jerusalem who put the accursed things in every dish she prepared fo
r me. I tell you, I nearly thought I would perish I got so sick of eating them.”
“You were on Crusade, then, Lord Spencer?” someone inquired.
“Aye, indeed I was. I spent two years in Palestine, pledged in service to God and my king.” The baron's voice had taken on a self-important timbre, clearly meant to impress all within earshot. “'Twas a proud time for England, and a glorious adventure for all who rode on behalf of Christendom.”
A muffled but derisive snort came from the direction of Cabal's table. Emmalyn glanced to him in warning, eternally thankful when one of the young lords spoke at nearly the same moment, inquiring after the baron's recollections of the Holy City. “Were the streets really paved with gold as I have heard, my lord?”
Lord Spencer chuckled. “I had heard much the same tales, lad, however, the only gold I saw was secreted within the many heathen temples. Nevertheless, I found Jerusalem to be a lovely city, indeed. I daresay 'twould have been a thoroughly enjoyable pilgrimage if not for the terrible heat and the crowds of beggars filling nearly every alleyway and public courtyard.”
“Mayhap they would not have been so beggarly, had the crusaders not burned every grain store and field in their path.”
At Cabal's muttered comment, Emmalyn held her breath, hoping that she was the only one at the high table who had noticed the brash remark. A silent prayer sent heavenward that the night would pass without further incident shattered an instant later when Lord Spencer asked, “Am I to assume that you were there as well, sir?”
“I was.” Cabal's answer was a caustic growl as he rose from his seat at the trestle table. “I fought in Palestine nigh on three years, but I am trying to think what place you speak of that it could differ so from the Jerusalem I knew.”
Emmalyn saw the hard lines of anger creep into his features, knew his smile was tight with malice. “Cabal, no,” she whispered under her breath as he drained his cup and clumsily set it down on the table.
