by Lara Adrian
Silhouetted by the blaze of the setting sun, a guard on the tower barbican heralded her approach with a short call of his horn. He turned away before Emmalyn could send him a friendly wave of greeting. The castle seemed quiet somehow. Expectant. In fact, the whole world seemed to be holding its breath as the heavy gates swung wide, and the portcullis began its slow grind upward.
Something was wrong. She knew it as soon as she passed under the gatehouse and into the bailey. Leaving her no time to wonder, a troop of de Wardeaux guards rushed forth and dragged her from her mount. Emmalyn screamed as they captured her in a bruising prison of mail-covered arms. Her struggles were of little avail.
“Well, well, at last the lady returns,” Hugh said as he emerged from out of the tower keep. “Where is your guardian, Emmalyn?”
“Gone,” she said, thankful at least that Cabal's leaving her had spared him Hugh's evil intent.
But her heart faltered in that next instant, for high on the battlements, a guard on the watch shouted, “There's a rider on the south hill, my lord. 'Tis the Crusader.”
Hugh smiled thinly at Emmalyn. “Well, by all means, let's bid him welcome, shall we?”
Hauling Emmalyn out of view, Hugh ordered his guards to open the gates to Cabal. She heard the thunder of his destrier's hooves as he approached, riding at breakneck speed. Though she wanted to feel relief that he might have come for her after all, she could not allow him to walk into Hugh's trap. She shouted a warning, but it was too late.
Cabal rode under the gatehouse and was beset at once. The portcullis slammed shut at his back as an army of uniformed guards rushed forth to apprehend him. Thrusting Emmalyn aside for a bigger prize, the Wardeaux knights surrounded Cabal, their lances poised to kill.
“On your feet,” one of the men snarled, jabbing the lethal point of his weapon up near Cabal's face.
He did as instructed, dismounting and standing peacefully before the wary guards as if he intended to put up no struggle at all. Almost as if this attack came as no real surprise to him. Indeed, from the dispassionate expression on his face, it would seem as if he had somehow been anticipating that he would be set upon by Hugh in this manner.
Panicked where Cabal remained calm, Emmalyn rushed into the knot of armed guards, clawing at them as if she could tear away their advancing assault. “Stop at once! This man has done nothing wrong! I order you to release him!”
“Emmalyn, stay back.”
Cabal's cool command unsettled her almost as much as the bewildering situation that faced them now. “What is the meaning of this?” she shouted at Hugh. “Where is my garrison? I demand to know what is going on!”
“That is precisely what I would like to know,” he answered. “What is going on?” He motioned to someone in the crowd, the gesture bringing forth a begrimed, grinning vagabond who looked strangely familiar to Emmalyn. “Imagine my surprise when this man here came to see me at Wardeaux the other day, informing me that he had just brushed arms with my brother's murderer.”
“Murderer?” Some of the wind rushed out of Emmalyn's lungs. “I don't understand.”
“Neither did I, at first. My brother was killed on Crusade so far as I knew. That was the story we were delivered after all, was it not?”
“Yes. Garrett was killed on the last day of fighting in Palestine. The king's letter said as much.” Emmalyn glanced at Cabal, and felt a tremor of dread when he would not meet her gaze. “He died in a struggle with a Saracen prisoner...”
“That is what you were told, Emmalyn. However, my lady, this man was there in Palestine, too. Rannulf is well acquainted with this man, Cabal--this Blackheart. Rannulf was there, Emmalyn, in the very tent where he saw this man standing over my brother's dead body, a bloodied dagger in his hand.”
Though this image shocked her, Emmalyn shook it off. “Even were that true, it hardly proves Cabal's guilt. Indeed, it proves nothing at all.”
“That fact alone, perhaps not,” Hugh agreed. “But there is more to the story, isn't there, Blackheart?” When Cabal did not react to the goading in any way whatsoever, Hugh scowled and nodded to Rannulf. “Tell her what you told me.”
“I was there,” the filthy creature named Rannulf confirmed, his beady gaze sliding to Cabal. “'Twas after a battle outside Asouf. We were supping around the fire when Lord Garrett went to fetch one of the prisoners. She was making a fuss the whole way to his tent--”
“She?” Emmalyn asked, revulsion twisting a knot in her stomach.
Hugh gave an unconcerned shrug and indicated for Rannulf to continue. “Not long after Lord Garrett had taken the chit with him, Blackheart left the fire. He wasn't gone more than a quarter hour when I noticed the girl's screaming had stopped. I thought maybe I'd get me some of her, too, once Lord Garrett was through, so I headed to his tent. When I got there, I didn't see no girl, but there was Blackheart, standing over Lord Garrett's bloody body and looking cool as ye please.”
“I do not see how that points to Cabal's guilt,” Emmalyn interjected when Cabal said nothing in his own defense. “Perhaps the girl killed Garrett trying to protect herself. I certainly would not blame her in the least for her actions.”
Rannulf chuckled. “At first, I expected 'twas the girl what killed Lord Garrett, too. But then I got to thinking. There was no blood on the rope that kept her bound in the tent. It was cut clean in two. And the dagger that killed Lord Garrett--the dagger that Blackheart took care to wipe off when I found him--was dripping with blood. It didn't seem right to me that this girl would free herself then stop to kill Lord Garrett before running off.”
“Indeed, Blackheart. Why would she do something like that?” Hugh asked Cabal, his eyes hard and narrowed.
“Well, I turned that puzzle over in my mind from the day I left Palestine,” said Rannulf. “It didn't make a bit of sense until I saw Blackheart again, waving about a purse full of coin and garbed so fine I didn't recognize him on first glance. He acted like he didn't know me and that's when I was certain. I always knew he secretly lusted for what Lord Garrett had.”
“Evidently, enough to kill him for it,” Hugh added.
Emmalyn shook her head, despite the queer heaviness that was beginning to cloak her from within. “I don't believe that for a moment. Cabal was sent here on the king's command. He never wanted to be here.”
“The king may have sent him, but he certainly has managed to settle in,” Hugh said acidly. “Look at him, dressed in my brother's clothes, riding his mount...doubtless that's not all he's been riding since he's been here.”
Emmalyn's cheeks flamed, but she refused to cower under Hugh's cutting sarcasm. “Cabal never wanted to be here,” she averred, weathering the little tremor of regret she felt to realize how true that statement was. “Nor, I expect, does he wish to remain here now,” she added sadly.
She looked from Hugh's smug countenance to the vagrant at his side. Suddenly the dirty face staring back at her gained a firm ground in her mind. Rannulf was the beggar from Lincolnshire market square. The man who had asked her for coin and then solicited her name...so he could pray for her, he had said. Instead it looked as if he had used her to falsely betray Cabal to Hugh. But why?
She could not care less why, she decided in the next heartbeat. She did not need to know what the man's motives were, nor did she plan to let Hugh scheme his way into Fallonmour by bringing harm to Cabal.
“As lady of this manor, I demand that your men release Sir Cabal at once, Hugh. I want all of you off my lands--take this vile creature and his lies with you.”
“Have you failed to notice, my lady? Your garrison is gone. When they heard what this beast had done--indeed, what he might do to you if permitted to remain here--they were kind enough to let me and my guards in.”
Emmalyn swallowed hard. “What have you done to them?”
“You'll find the sorry lot tucked safely away in the armory stockade.” Hugh held up a large iron key like a prize. “I'm in command here, Emmalyn, not you.”
; “You're wrong, Hugh,” she challenged. “And I don't need my garrison. I have something even stronger than the sword.” Emmalyn reached into her saddle pouch and withdrew the royal proclamation. “I have a writ from the queen stating that Fallonmour is mine. You have no claim to it now, nor did you ever.”
Hugh stared across the bailey at the sealed document Emmalyn held in her hand. Then he chuckled. “Well, my lady, this does make for an interesting dilemma. The queen has given you a writ for Fallonmour, and I have obtained a pledge for the same from Prince John.”
“This castle and its holdings are held in trust for the king, not his scheming brother,” she replied. “John has no right to assign it to anyone so long as Richard lives. Only the queen, as regent to the throne, has the jurisdiction to grant properties on the king's behalf. John's pledge is invalid next to mine. I command you now to free Cabal and take your leave.”
Hugh laughed but the humor in his eyes was black as night itself. “Even if I were inclined to leave Fallonmour--which, I can assure you, I am not--I would not do so without first bringing this murderer to justice. No court in the land would deny me that right.” He jerked his head in command to his men. “Put him with the others in the stockade to await his punishment.”
“No!” Emmalyn shouted, rushing forward as one guard retrieved the key from Hugh and the rest of the knights closed ranks on Cabal. “You have proved nothing here today, Hugh! All you have is this drunkard's word. You will never convince me that Cabal is guilty of this crime and I will fight you to my last breath before I let you touch him!”
“My lady.” Cabal's voice was so devoid of expression that Emmalyn could scarcely command herself to face him. Her heart thudded heavily and labored in her breast, each beat bringing her closer to a dread that wanted to choke the very life from her. “Emmalyn,” he said gently, “what Rannulf said is true. I killed Garrett.”
Chapter 25
In that moment, Emmalyn's entire world--indeed, every particle of her being--froze. She hardly registered Hugh's smug snort of victory, could scarcely feel his knights pushing her aside as they moved in to grab Cabal. All she could see was Cabal's eyes, his expression of profound regret as he stared at her over his shoulder while the guards led him away from the bailey. “I'm sorry,” he told her quietly. “Emmalyn, I'm so sorry.”
“Well,” Hugh sneered from beside her, “I expect a confession voiced before a dozen men should be proof enough for anyone. Including the queen.”
Dazed, Emmalyn looked to him and saw that he held a folded square of parchment in his hand, the wax seal jolting her back to clear-mindedness like a slap to the face. Heaven help her, but he had the queen's writ! She had been so numb she did not even feel him steal it from her fingers.
Hugh's smile was pure evil as he tore the decree in half, then tore it again, and again and again. He released it with a chuckle, grinning as the tiny scraps floated down around her feet like confetti on the breeze. “Your having trusted that conniver so thoroughly just shows once more why women are indeed the weaker vessels.”
Hugh wagged a finger at one of his guards, motioning for him to come. The armed knight stood next to Emmalyn, ready to subdue her with force on Hugh's order. “Don't feel too badly for your foolishness in this, Emmalyn. All you need is a strong man to look after your interests. To that end, the prince and I have made some arrangements on your behalf. There is an aging earl in Wales who's got an urgent need for a new wife. He's lost his last three in childbirth, you see, and time is fleeting if he is to beget an heir. You've been consigned to wed him posthaste.”
“Never,” Emmalyn vowed. “Neither you nor the prince can force me to wed. The queen will never agree to this scheme.”
Hugh stroked his jaw, seeming utterly amused with himself. “If it has slipped your mind, Emmalyn, the queen is an old woman. Mere steps away from her grave, God willing. She can try to curb John's maneuvers but she cannot be all places at once. By the time she learns of your marriage, there will be nothing for her to do about it.”
Emmalyn glared her contempt, perfectly willing to defy both Hugh and Prince John if need be. “I won't go.”
“Go, you will, my lady, tomorrow morn. You'll be dispatched to Wales at first light to meet your groom. Right after you watch your murdering lover swing at the end of a noose for his crime.”
“No!” Emmalyn screamed, horrified at Hugh's edict. The instant she moved to strike at him, the guard seized her arms, pinning her in a bruising grasp. “Hugh, no! I beg you, do not! Please, do not go through with this!”
“'Tis too late for begging, Emmalyn. The matter is settled. My man will take you for the eve to your chamber, where you may make whatever preparations you must for your journey on the morrow. I have already set your maids to packing your belongings.”
“You won't get away with this, Hugh! Heaven help me, I won't let you get away with this!”
Hugh did not seem the least bit concerned. A jerk of his head sent his guard off at a lumbering pace, the big knight forcibly guiding Emmalyn out of the bailey. With each step, she felt her legs weakening beneath her, her heart squeezing at the thought of Cabal's death. Her stomach twisted in keen anguish when she realized that in a few short hours, she would be separated from him forever.
“Oh, and one more thing, Emmalyn,” Hugh called after her with a gleeful little chuckle. “If you thought Garrett a strict husband, prepare yourself, for after a week under your betrothed's punishing rod, I warrant you will come to view my brother as a bloody saint.”
The setting sun dipped below the curtain wall as she absorbed Hugh's grim prediction, the darkness of coming night descending over the bailey as surely as it was soon to settle over her future. Swallowing her fears, Emmalyn squared her shoulders and walked ahead of Hugh's guard, her head held high as she entered the castle.
Inside, the keep resounded with the boisterous clamoring of Hugh's army, the bulk of which, from all appearances, had converged on her hall like a swarm of locusts. As she and her escort neared the large banquet room on their way to the stairwell, Emmalyn counted upwards of two score men lounging at her tables, devouring great helpings of food and wine while the kitchen maids scurried about in a panic, serving the men and trying to avoid their groping hands and randy inclinations.
If Hugh's knights seemed bent on bullying and gluttony, it seemed they had also been given free reign for destruction of her things. They had torn down most of the heirloom tapestries Emmalyn had brought with her from her parents' manor and hung about the hall for decoration. Her white table linens had been shredded or stained with spilled wine, and the rushes that covered the floor were littered with food scraps, bones, and broken pottery.
In the midst of all this deliberate negligence sat Arlo. Garrett's seneschal leaned back in his chair at the dais, his booted feet propped up on the high table, a half-eaten shank of mutton in his fist. Nell, one of the young castle maids, had just poured him a tankard of wine and was about to leave the dais when Arlo dropped his food suddenly and reached out to snag her by the trailing length of her long blond hair. The petite maid cried out, struggling as Arlo hauled her toward him, laughing.
He must have sensed Emmalyn's outrage all the way from the corridor, for he stopped then and looked to her. “Ah, Lady Emmalyn,” he hailed cheerily. “Welcome back.”
The guard looming behind her gave Emmalyn a little push. Futile anger surged through every particle of her body as she was guided abovestairs to her chamber and shut inside. Bertie and the other maids gathered there fell upon Emmalyn the instant the door closed.
“Oh, milady!” Bertie cried, catching her in a fierce embrace. “We have been so worried! When Hugh arrived today with his soldiers, no one knew what to think!”
One of the other maids added, “They threw the men in the stockade and have been ordering us around like chattel ever since!”
“And why wouldn't they?” said another. “Fifty men armed to the teeth and the rest of us left with no choice but to do whatever
they say.”
“Aye, that's precisely de Wardeaux's style,” Bertie said. “He and his kin have always taken great pride in bullying those left defenseless against them.”
“Perhaps not so defenseless as he might like to think,” Jane said with a sly smile. When the ladies turned expectant eyes on her, she told them, “I saw the kitchen maids put enough sweet bay in the guards' food to turn a horse's stomach inside out. In a couple of hours I wager they'll all be too sick to do so much as stand up.”
Not even Emmalyn could stifle her gasp of astonishment over the prospect. To think that Hugh's brutish army might meet their match in a handful of simple maids who conspired to use the men's stomachs against them! She only hoped that Arlo's appetite would prove as plentiful as that of the other gluttons in the hall. It gave her considerable--if wicked--satisfaction to picture him suffering a night of gastric discomfort.
“Getting revenge on Hugh's guards might keep them from further tormenting us this eve,” Bertie interjected in a low voice, “but what about Lady Emmalyn? None of this alters the fact that she will be sent away in the morn. We must figure a way to stop Hugh from going through with this.”
“If only I hadn't let him get his hands on that royal decree,” Emmalyn said, shaking her head in regret. “I should have known Hugh would find a way to make trouble here. I should have asked the queen to send an escort with us from Lincolnshire.”
“There is no time to fret over such things, milady. We must figure a way to get you out of the castle and someplace safe. Hugh cannot be allowed to succeed in sending you off to wed that Welsh beast.”
“Before I worry about that, Bertie, I have to make sure that Cabal will not be harmed. Hugh plans to--” She broke off suddenly, her throat closing up, hardly able to say the awful words herself. “Hugh will hang him in the morn for Garrett's death unless I can stop him somehow.”
