Lady of Valor

by Lara Adrian

  Chapter 27

  Something strange was happening inside the castle. For more than the past quarter hour, Cabal had been listening to what sounded like some countless dozens of men stumbling out into the bailey, their muffled pained groans and racking coughs carrying through the sole window of the armory. Finally, the swelling ruckus proved enough to make the stockade guards look up from their second portions of stew.

  The larger of the duo set aside his bowl, pausing to wash down another greedy mouthful with a swig of ale. “Keep your eye on them,” he told the one Cabal had attacked earlier. “I'm going to find out what all that noise is about.”

  The guard left behind glared at Cabal from his seat a safe distance across the room. He belched then, a terrible, deep rumble that made him lean forward slightly, clutching his stomach. He was still hunched over and grimacing when the other knight came racing back inside. “They've poisoned us! Don't eat another bite! The damned wenches have poisoned the stew!”

  “Oh, Jesu!” the second man cried, toppling his stool as he vaulted to his feet in a panic. “Where's the well? I need water!”

  His companion pushed him back. “Nay! I'll fetch you water right after I get some for me. You stay here--someone's got to man the post or Hugh will have both our heads!”

  “Then you stay!” the knight shouted as he shoved his way out the door. “I'm not about to sit here and die for de Wardeaux!”

  That said, the both of them fled the building. Sir Miles and the others had since crowded around the front of the cell with Cabal, watching and listening in total astonishment. “Do you think 'tis true?” Miles asked. “Do you reckon the women are hatching some sort of plan?”

  Cabal shook his head. “For Lady Emmalyn's sake, I certainly hope not. 'Tis madness to risk it.”

  He put his shoulder into the iron grid in frustration, cursing when the grate hardly shook under the impact. As if the others had similar thoughts, the rest joined in, twelve bodies slamming against the bars in unison, all of them determined to break their way out of the prison. Thrice they had hit the iron wall; thrice to no avail. No one said the situation was hopeless, but Cabal could see the futility of it reflecting in every pair of eyes that looked to him for leadership.

  “Someone's coming,” Miles said, calling attention to the sound of hasty footsteps padding alongside the outbuilding.

  “Bertie!” shouted half the garrison in one elated voice when she entered in a rush.

  “What the devil is going on out there?” Cabal demanded as the big nurse loped up to the bars. “What have you done to the guards?”

  “No time to explain now, milord.” She withdrew a large iron key from the sleeve of her bliaut and in few short moments, the lock fell away and the cell door creaked open.

  “Hugh had that key. How did you get it?”

  “Jane's been keeping him busy abovestairs in the castle,” she said with a grin. “He won't notice the key is missing for some time yet, I reckon.”

  While Fallonmour's garrison poured out into the armory, following Cabal's direction to grab weapons from the stalls, he pulled Bertie aside. “Where is Emmalyn? Is she all right?”

  “She's gone. But don't fret, milord--she'll be fine. Father Bryce had Sir James escort her to the abbey at Wexley about an hour ago. She'll be safe there with the bishop. Now you must see to your own safety. Take the postern gate and go, before de Wardeaux realizes what's happening out here.”

  “Leave?” Cabal shook his head. “Not so long as he remains.”

  “But milord, you must go! 'Twas all milady could think of when last I saw her: your well-being. She would want to know that you are safe and out of Hugh's clutches.”

  “No, Bertie. I'm not going anywhere. Not until I'm certain Fallonmour will be Emmalyn's for good.”

  Ignoring the nurse's further protests, Cabal headed off toward the keep to root out Hugh. As he crossed the bailey, he noted that his men were already rushing the guards posted on the wall-walk, shooting some down with their crossbows and scrambling up to battle the ones that yet stood ready to fight. The inner courtyard was littered with dozens of Hugh's incapacitated knights, most of them retching into the grass or running to find relief from their ailing stomachs. More of the same sight greeted him as he passed the Great Hall on his way to the stairwell.

  Hugh had not given Fallonmour's folk--or its women--enough credit, he thought with wry satisfaction. Nor had he ever shown Fallonmour's lady her due respect. Cabal meant to teach the blackguard that very lesson, and without further delay. He pulled a sword from the scabbard of a semi-conscious Wardeaux guard, then with a roar, raced up the stairs two at a time.

  “De Wardeaux!” he bellowed as he reached the second floor. With the sword gripped tightly in his left hand, Cabal stalked down the corridor toward the sounds of Hugh's voice, pitched high in startled confusion.

  There was a flurry of commotion and curses coming from within one of the chambers before Jane was brutally shoved out into the corridor, half-dressed. Running past Cabal to make her escape, she advised, “He's alone, but armed. Be careful!”

  Cabal found Hugh standing in the center of the chamber, broadsword in hand, wearing just his braies and looking none too amused with the compromising interruption. “So, you managed to escape the gaol with naught but a scrape on the arm, did you? Evidently the slut must have aided someone in stealing my key.” He shrugged, smiling thinly. “I'll kill her for that. But first, Blackheart, 'twill be my pleasure to see you dead.”

  Cabal stepped inside and Hugh charged, cleaving his blade through the air and connecting with Cabal's. Unaccustomed to the left-handed hold, Cabal's arm jolted with the impact, the shock rattling all the way down to his fingers and nearly losing him the weapon. He gripped it tighter and brought the blade up, deflecting Hugh's sword with a skyward thrust of his arm. Hugh stumbled back a pace, then came at him again, snarling his rage.

  Twice more their blades clashed as both men circled the center of the chamber, waiting for an opportunity, each man striking when it belonged to him. Intermittently, Hugh shouted for his guards, looking incensed and confounded when no one reported to his aid. He lunged forward, throwing his body weight into his strike as his sword crashed down on Cabal's.

  The force proved too much. Cabal was driven to one knee by the blow, his blade wrenched cleanly from his left hand. It hit the floor and Hugh chuckled, moving in for the kill. As he stepped forward, his bare foot came to rest atop the tunic he had evidently shed during his time with Jane. Cabal seized the edge of the silk shirt and yanked the fabric out from under him, sending Hugh down like a felled tree.

  Cabal got to his feet and stood over him, the deadly blade poised at the center of Hugh's bared chest. Every muscle in his body twitched in anticipation of his skewering the bastard right there on the floor. He thought about everything Garrett had put Emmalyn through, all the cruelties Hugh was prepared to subject her to, and he wanted nothing more than to see this brother speeding on his way to hell to rot with the other.

  But let it be at someone else's hand.

  Cabal was through killing. He knew it for certain now, staring down at the terrified expression of Hugh de Wardeaux, a man who surely deserved to die. He deserved to die, but his death was not worth the price. Blackheart was dead, and Cabal would not let his loathing for Garrett's brother resurrect him.

  “Get up.” Hugh stared wildly at the retreating blade as Cabal backed off, giving him space to come to his feet. He tried to reach for his clothing, but Cabal jabbed the blade closer to him in warning. “Get out.”

  “You should kill me, Blackheart, for I mean to have my guards kill you the moment you set foot belowstairs.”

  “Get out,” Cabal repeated, and urged Hugh toward the door, following behind him, the sword at his back. He walked Hugh down the spiraling stairwell, intent to eject him bodily from Fallonmour.

  “You'll have Prince John's wrath to contend with for this affront, Blackheart.”

  “And you will hav
e the queen's.”

  A nudge to Hugh's shoulder kept him moving, through the heart of the keep where Fallonmour's maids gaped in astonishment at the sight of the powerful Baron de Wardeaux so disgraced. Some could not hold back their delight, making tittering jests about the baron's state of attire--or lack thereof--as he passed.

  But those same giggling maids drew their breath in sheer fright when, a moment later, Arlo emerged from within the Great Hall. He stood in the corridor, blocking the path to the keep's exit, a loaded crossbow in his hands. “Release him, or die, cur.”

  Now it was Hugh's turn to laugh. He started to sidle away, but Cabal pressed his sword against Hugh's tender back, one hand on his shoulder as if to force him onto the blade. “You heard him, Blackheart. Release me, or you die.”

  “Either way I die, isn't that your meaning, Hugh?”

  “Do as Arlo says and perhaps I can be persuaded to be lenient with you,” Hugh bargained, a bead of sweat trickling down his spine.

  Cabal held fast. “Your kind doesn't know the meaning of the word.”

  “Let him go!” Arlo shouted, an edge of hysteria in his voice. “You have no choice, Blackheart. You have lost.”

  What happened next would surely be talked about at Fallonmour for generations to come. Emerging from out of the shadows like some ancient female warrior, Bertie stepped into the narrow corridor. Without a word, the big nurse pulled back her arm and let fly a punch that knocked Arlo off his feet and sent him sprawling against the opposite wall in an unconscious heap.

  Bertie shook out her hand, her smirk nigh as wide as the English Channel. “I reckon I have been wanting to do that for years.”

  Grinning wryly, Cabal urged the slumped and defeated Hugh past the great hall, pausing only long enough to let him see the wasteland that remained of his mighty garrison of just a few hours before. Head hung low, Hugh marched before Cabal toward the keep's exit.

  As they neared the open door, Cabal noticed that a queer orange light illuminated the night outside the keep, filling the bailey and washing nearly to the castle steps. From the stunning intensity of the fiery glow, it appeared that one of the outbuildings had been set ablaze during the struggle with the Wardeaux guards. Guiding Hugh toward the portal, Cabal was not at all sure what would greet them on the other side.

  Never would he have guessed it to be this.

  Standing shoulder to shoulder in the courtyard, pitch torches blazing, was an army of more than two hundred peasants. Every man and woman, young and old, who lived or worked on Fallonmour's lands was now here, assembled and ready to defend it. Armed with the tools of their stations and the supply of weapons bought at Lincolnshire, the villeins had grouped together and stormed the keep en masse. Twelve crossbows leveled on Hugh as Cabal pushed him into the courtyard, countless pitchforks and scythes gleamed their warning in the torchlight.

  At the front and center of this formidable throng of unlikely heroes was Emmalyn, her shoulders squared, chin held high, looking even more awesome to Cabal than the extraordinary group she led. Despite her delicate frame, Emmalyn's presence seemed to fill the expansive yard.

  Like a lioness prepared to defend her kin, she stood protectively at the fore, her braided golden hair in wild disarray, errant tendrils lifting in the night breeze, every inch of her gilded in the ethereal glow of torchlight and sheer tenacity. She bore no weapons to this confrontation, facing Hugh instead with faith in her people, faith in herself. Strong, capable, courageous. Here was Fallonmour's true champion.

  Cabal had never been so humbled, nor so proud.

  Emmalyn glanced at him and smiled, a little smile, which made him want to think she might be relieved to see him standing before her now. That she might forgive him his foolishness of the night before. That she might forgive him everything. The gentle light reflecting in her eyes made him want to hope that he had not lost her after all.

  Hugh, however, could construe no fond regard in the look he weathered from this intrepid lady. Emmalyn pinned him with an icy stare, pointing her finger toward the open gates, and ordered simply, “Go.”

  He hesitated, looking to where Sir Miles and the rest of the garrison had gathered Rannulf and the bulk of his ailing knights in the yard, easily holding them at bay. He looked to the sea of hard-faced peasants, ready to plug him with bolts on Emmalyn's command, and he took the first step down into the courtyard.

  “You are making a dire mistake, Emmalyn,” he warned as he descended fully and began the slow trek through the parting crowd. Several villein warriors fell in behind him, urging him forth with pitchforks at his back. “I'll not abide this insult!” he called to her over his shoulder. “Not even your precious queen will be able to protect you now!”

  The lady scarcely blinked under the threat. Instead, she motioned to one of the Fallonmour knights at her side. “James, fetch the supply cart and bring it around to the bailey. Hugh and his men will need use of it for transport back to Wardeaux.”

  As the cart was being loaded with Hugh's defeated army, Cabal stepped down the keep stairs and walked to Emmalyn's side.

  “Are you badly hurt?” she asked, indicating the gash on his arm.

  He shook his head, frowning. “'Tis nothing.” In truth, he had not even recalled the wound, could not feel the throbbing pain of it, now that he was looking at her. “Emmalyn, you must know, what Hugh said about Garrett's death--”

  “You killed him to save the girl,” Emmalyn replied. “Your honor would never have allowed him to harm her. I know that much about you without your telling me, Cabal.”

  “I should have told you everything from the start.”

  When she glanced away from him and drew a steadying breath, it was all Cabal could do to keep from taking her into his arms. He fisted his hands at his side, lest he reach for her and feel her justifiable rejection of him.

  “How much more will you keep from me? What else will I have to find out on my own?” she asked brokenly. “I love you, Cabal, but I cannot love you in pieces. I want all of you: your past, your future, and every moment in between. You have to trust me. You have to be willing to give me that.”

  “You have me, Emmalyn. God knows why you would want me, but I vow I am yours. I was yours from the moment I first saw you. I have never known love like this before, my lady.”

  “You could shatter my heart in a thousand pieces if you wanted to,” she whispered. “You already did, when you pushed me away last night.”

  “Ah, Emmalyn,” he whispered, full of reverence and devotion. “Let me make it right.” Putting one knee to the ground at her feet, he reached out and grasped her hand in his, placing a kiss in her palm. “I love you, my lady. Nothing would make me happier than to spend the rest of my days proving it to you. And so I beg you now, on my knees before all of these witnesses, will you give me that chance?”

  Cabal could feel the hundreds of faces peering at the two of them, could feel the hush of silence fall over the bailey as everyone--himself included--held their breath in anticipation of Emmalyn's answer. She looked down at him, her enchanting eyes shimmering with emotion, her pretty lower lip caught between her teeth as if she were moved beyond words.

  “I am yours, my lady...body, heart, and soul. Will you have me?”

  Finally, laughing through her tears, she managed a faint nod. It was all Cabal needed. As the crowd erupted in a triumphant cheer, he surged to his feet and swept Emmalyn into his arms, kissing her as though he had been denied her sweetness for an eternity. She clung to him, matching his ardor, whispering her affection, her tenderness casting away every fear and doubt that had haunted him in the hours they had been separated.

  His beautiful, valorous lady loved him, and the future, at last, looked bright.

  Epilogue

  April, 1194

  That particular day dawned much the same as the hundreds that had come before it. Still, Baron Cabal of Fallonmour felt an odd quickening in his veins--a queer sense of hopeful anticipation that roused him before the sun's f
irst rays lit the chamber he shared with his lady wife. Something was in the air; he could feel it.

  Would today be the day?

  Eager to find out, he inched closer to the beauty who lay beside him and traced the line of her bare shoulder. Her sleepy sigh was a balm to his soul. The kiss he placed against the tender skin at the back of her neck was soft, meant more in gratitude for the joy she had given him these past months than as a means of rousing her, but she stirred, smiling as she rolled onto her back.

  “I did not mean to wake you,” he whispered, smoothing a tendril of silky hair from her brow.

  “'Tis all right, although I was enjoying a lovely dream.”

  “Were you?” He could not resist pressing his lips to the creamy softness of her breast.

  “Mmm,” she said with a weak nod. She reached up and caressed his grizzled jaw, the dark-jeweled, silver ring on her right hand glinting in the morning sunlight. As promised, Emmalyn had accepted this and everything else about him without reservation, embracing his battered heart no matter how scarred and flawed it had once been. “I was dreaming that you and I were in a field of violets,” she told him now, her voice a silky whisper that warmed him from the inside out. “We were making love under a blue, blue sky.”

  Cabal growled just thinking of the idea. “It has been torture not being able to love you fully these past weeks,” he admitted. “But I reckon this makes it worth every moment.” He caressed the perfect swell of her belly, his heart gladdening for the impertinent kick that rippled beneath his palm.

  Fallonmour awaited a new arrival.

  “'Twill not be much longer, my lord. This baby is ready to meet his father.”

  “Her father,” Cabal countered, revisiting a light-hearted disagreement they had been having for the past nine months. He kissed his wife and moved down on the mattress so that his ear rested against the place where his child slumbered.