Knights of de Ware 02 - My Warrior

by Glynnis Campbell

  Robbie leaned back against the curtain wall, picking meat from his teeth with his fingernail. The once busy courtyard was now ominously still. Occasionally, a hawk swooped down at the castle or a woman skittered fearfully along a wall to pass by the rebels. His men strutted about, planning the overthrow with loud enthusiasm and punctuating their boasts with hearty slaps upon the back.

  But from what Robbie could tell, Owen wasn’t concerned with the needs of the Scots rebels. Instead, he seemed preoccupied with the fates of Holden and Cambria. That didn’t sit well with Robbie. More than once, Owen had slipped and referred to Blackhaugh as his castle. To makes matters worse, the man was becoming more and more obsessive, possibly in part from the fever he suffered from his suppurating wound. The stupid man, Robbie thought—he’d lose that leg if he didn’t seek help for it. Still, there was something unsettling about the way Owen’s eyes gleamed with feverish light, something that seemed more lunatic than sickly.

  In the end, Robbie decided nothing could be done for it. He and his men had passed the point of redemption. Their brash capture of Blackhaugh was a fait accompli, and, right or wrong, they’d have to live with that deed.

  The campfire popped as King Edward tossed a stripped boar’s rib onto it, prompting a maidservant to fetch another. Holden looked down at his own half-eaten portion, unable to stomach another bite. The air was redolent with the scents of roast boar, pungent evergreens, and something else, something that made him seethe with silent rage—the stink of court intrigue.

  His wife was embroiled in it now, the little fool, and she hadn’t the slightest notion of what she was doing. She was like a tiny water bug caught in an enormous whirlpool.

  Cambria laughed again from across the fire. The sound was as dissonant to his ears as the grating of rusty mail.

  At least, he had to concede, she hadn’t shamed him by her appearance. She looked absolutely radiant by the waning fire’s glow. The imp had stolen one of his own green velvet surcoats, cleverly slipped it over a borrowed kirtle, and girded it with his best silver chain. He had to admit his wife was resourceful, if somewhat less than scrupulous.

  As he peered at her over his cup of ale, she smiled coyly at the king, playfully catching the sleeve of his garment. Holden ground his teeth together and clenched his fists against the urge to grab her and drag her forcibly away.

  Guy leaned close to Holden. “She plays with fire, your wife,” he murmured.

  “Aye.”

  Holden’s fingers threatened to crush his silver goblet. Cambria was indeed playing a dangerous game for a person who’d never been to court, never encountered the intrigues and nuances of political conversation. The meddling wench thought to manipulate Edward with flirtation, to move him to empathy for the Scots. She had no idea what she was doing.

  Of course, Edward lapped up the attention she paid him. He even appeared to consider her carefully couched suggestions. But Holden knew Edward. Once the king’s mind was made up, nothing would steer him from his purpose.

  “What will you do?” Guy muttered.

  Holden bit the inside of his cheek. He didn’t have an answer.

  Guy took a large swig of ale, and then set his cup down with a decisive thump. “She’ll brand herself a conspirator against the Crown,” he grumbled, “and take the house of de Ware down with her.”

  Holden nodded. Those had been his exact thoughts. He finished off his own ale in a single gulp and rose to approach the king. If he couldn’t silence his meddling wife, then he’d just have to remove her.

  He greeted Edward with a bow and his most charming smile. “Majesty, your hospitality has been most warm and welcome. But I fear my old warrior’s bones grow weary. By your leave, I will take my lady and retire for the evening.”

  Cambria stiffened as he dug his fingers pointedly into her shoulder.

  Edward pouted. “Would you take the spark from our fire?” he asked, pretending offense.

  “I fear so, aye, Majesty,” he glibly replied, “for the fires at home need tending.”

  Cambria bristled frostily at his frank remark, but held her tongue. She was clever enough not to taint the progress she’d made with the king by a display of temper.

  Edward smiled winningly. “Well, my dear, your Wolf awaits impatiently. Take care he doesn’t devour you.”

  The folk around the dying embers chuckled politely at the king’s wit. Cambria coyly lowered her gaze as she rose and curtseyed to Edward. But when she turned toward Holden, a hundred unspoken threats smoldered in her eyes.

  The tension was like a stifled scream as they walked in stony silence through the shifting shadows of the firelit pines. He guided her with an iron fist around her elbow. She railed against the contact, but at least she was wise enough not to raise her voice while they were yet within hearing.

  He pushed her through the opening of his pavilion. She sputtered as the material flapped about her face, and as soon as he released her arm, she spun around, facing him with all the fight of a spitting kitten.

  “What do you mean by this?” she demanded, placing her hands squarely on her hips.

  “What do I…?” he began incredulously. “Madam, you have played your last game of intrigue.”

  “Intrigue? I befriend your king, and you call it intrigue?”

  “You’re a novice,” he told her, his voice dripping with scorn. “Your ploys are so transparent, I wonder that the king didn’t tire of them sooner.”

  Her lips formed a silent, mortified “oh.”

  “I’m returning you to Blackhaugh tomorrow,” he informed her, dipping his hands into the basin of water by the entrance.

  “You can’t command me—“

  “I can and I do!” he thundered, his anger descending like a storm cloud. “Pack what you like tonight, for you leave at first light.”

  “Nay. I have influence over the king and—“

  “The only influence you have over the king, my lady, is concerning his opinion about the loyalty of de Ware!” His voice had risen to a shout, but he’d effectively silenced her. He continued in controlled tones, drying his hands on a linen towel. “Now, pack your things, and don’t think to defy me in this. I won’t allow you to put the name of de Ware at risk. My king and my country are my foremost concerns.”

  He felt a twinge of guilt at that confession. It wasn’t at all true. As any wise lord, he put his family and vassals foremost, knowing that king and country often bent under the thumb of ridicule and public opinion. He naturally played the game of confidant, but a part of him was always guarded, ready to set sail with the change of the political winds.

  Wedding Cambria, Holden had assumed responsibility for her and her clan—they were now part of his circle of protection—but, damn the wench, she was jeopardizing his ability to provide that protection. If she proved dangerous to the fragile threads of the de Ware reputation, she endangered his family and her own. Maybe if he tried to explain…

  Damn! He owed her no explanation for his actions. He was her lord, her master. Tomorrow he’d send her away with two of his best men, and that would be that.

  “I suggest you be about your labors,” he said coolly, undressing and stretching out across the pallet, “and then get what rest you can.”

  Despite his properly admonished wife’s pacing and flouncing and the hurling of her possessions into a pile, it wasn’t long before he was taking in the deep, relieved breaths of slumber.

  Cambria slammed her boots onto the floor in rage. How dare he dismiss her so easily! So king and country came first to him, did they? Well, two could play at that game, and she planned to let him know in no uncertain terms that for her, her clan came first. In fact, with the great responsibilities her clan entailed, she doubted she would have much time, if any, left over for wifely duties once he returned to Blackhaugh.

  Raising her chin defiantly, she shuffled out of her kirtle and under the covers, facing the future with new determination. She was careful not to let any part of her body touch the E
nglishman as they slept side by side through a very long night.

  The sun took no mercy on Cambria’s gritty eyes. She blinked them several times as she plodded along on the palfrey, but they still stung from lack of sleep and the dirt of the road.

  One knight rode before her, one behind, and from their silence, she could tell they resented being sent upon this nursemaid’s mission.

  Sir Guy led the way, still wallowing in the shame of having lost Owen. He likely felt suitably punished, riding solemnly before her, wearing his duty like an ascetic’s hair shift. Close behind her was Sir Myles, as sullen as a summer squall. This had been his first campaign. She’d doubtless ruined it, forcing him to abandon his place of glory to accompany her home.

  There was little conversation between the three as they rode down the dusty road, which suited Cambria perfectly. She had no desire to defend her actions, actions she felt were completely justified.

  She was glad she’d spoken with the king. It was important to convey the thoughts of her people to this English monarch. In that, she felt she’d succeeded.

  She couldn’t have been further from the truth.

  Even as she rode proudly off across the countryside, Holden was attempting to repair the damage she’d done. He smiled as winningly as he could at Edward, considering the embarrassing circumstances.

  “She is outspoken, Majesty,” he agreed, trying for a casual air as he sipped his morning wine, “but I assure you, she merely wags her tongue about fanciful notions, as a woman will, and calls them fact.”

  The king nodded, but didn’t look entirely convinced.

  Holden hated lying to him. Indeed, he believed nothing of the sort. Cambria’s opinions were as valid as any. It was true that for the Scots, putting Balliol on the throne was an abomination. But telling Edward so would profit nothing. And now he had to persuade the king that such notions were simply idle chatter on Cambria’s part.

  “She battled with the sword forthrightly enough,” Edward challenged, his eyes never leaving his own goblet.

  “She has some background in warfare,” he countered, “but I fear her father was neglectful of her studies in diplomacy and courtesy.”

  Edward pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I trust, then, you will endeavor to educate her in the subtleties of court behavior, the dangers of wagging tongues, and so forth?”

  Holden restrained a sigh of relief. “Aye, Majesty. Already I’ve sent her home, and she no doubt stings from that rebuff.”

  A smile teased the corners of Edward’s lip. “No doubt.” He stood and turned to go, then caught himself. “Have you found the traitor spy yet, de Ware?”

  “Not yet,” Holden answered tightly. “We think he may have joined the Scots rebels.”

  “Hmm, slippery eel.” The king’s eyes glittered with a trace of mockery. “Do you need…help, Wolf? I can lend you some of my men if you…”

  Holden straightened. “That won’t be necessary, Majesty.”

  “Well, when you do find him, bring him to me, will you?” He drained the last of his cup. “It’s always best to make an example of traitors.” Bitter pain flickered briefly in Edward’s eyes, and Holden wondered if the king was remembering Roger Mortimer, his mother’s lover, whom he’d executed a few years past for treason.

  “Aye, Majesty.” He inclined his head in farewell as the king turned to leave.

  “By the way, I’m glad it’s you who will tame the Scots wench,” the king said over his shoulder, surprising him. “She’s a spirited mare. You’ll calm her spirit without breaking it. Good luck, de Ware.”

  Holden looked after the king in wonder. Sometimes His Majesty could be quite insightful. Then again, hadn’t Edward just said he was pleased that Holden would be the one to…tame her? He barked once in laughter at that thought. Edward was mistaken there. Cambria Gavin would never be tamed.

  For three days following Edward’s departure, Holden’s men maintained a watch over the land in the event renegade Scots again made attempts to challenge the English occupation. But time dragged its heels, and Holden grew as impatient as a boy hauled to Mass. He was bored by the inactivity, curiously restless. And his relentless pacing through the camp annoyed his fellow knights, who claimed they knew the name of his torment better than he did.

  It was her, he finally admitted. It was that stubborn, soft, raging, gentle, reckless, beautiful Scots witch. And he was little better than a yoked ox wearing a rut around a mill wheel as he lumbered helplessly around her memory. She antagonized him, certainly, drove him half-mad with her intrigues and insults. But he’d begun to grow accustomed to this new field of battle. His mind was primed for the fight. He missed her, his little warrior, and although the thought was selfish, he began to regret sending Cambria away.

  It was while he was idly grooming Ariel, imagining in vivid detail his return to his wife’s side, that a young messenger arrived, agitated and out of breath.

  “Lord Holden?” the boy gasped.

  Holden turned. The message in the lad’s eyes was unmistakable. For a moment, his heart stopped. Every sense was as keen as a new-honed knife.

  “Cambria,” Holden breathed.

  It was a statement, not a question, and the messenger looked puzzled for a moment. “Aye, my lord. How did you know…?”

  Dread stabbed its icy blade into Holden’s chest, twisting mercilessly at his heart.

  “Sir Owen has her, my lord,” the boy told him, “at Blackhaugh.”

  “Owen is at Blackhaugh?”

  “He’s taken the castle. He said I was to tell you—“

  Holden heard nothing else. Shite! He’d sent his wife into the arms of the enemy.

  “My lord?” The boy looked up at him expectantly.

  Holden clenched his jaw, becoming a cold-blooded warrior. His eyes grew alert, resolute, and as dispassionate as the wolf’s on the hunt.

  The messenger drew back a pace and made the sign of the cross. Holden armed himself, filled a satchel with meager provisions, and mounted his stamping charger. Then, leaving instructions with his men to break camp and follow as soon as they could, he rode off in a spray of dirt and pebbles that sounded eerily like the rattling of dry bones in a grave.

  CHAPTER 15

  A faint breeze blew in the window of Blackhaugh’s tower, lifting tendrils of Cambria’s hair about her battered face. Bracing her back against the rough stone, she shivered in her torn shift despite the warmth of the day. She cursed herself for the stubborn pride that kept her from eating the food Owen brought, pride that had gained her nothing but weakness.

  Not that strength would serve her much. Her hands were bound in iron above her head, and all of her attempts to free herself had earned her only pain each time the shackles bit into her injured wrists. Long ago she’d given up trying to work the heavy ring over her head loose from the wall.

  She wondered what game Owen played, what was happening beyond the tower walls.

  Without preamble, the door the chamber flew open, banging back against the wall. Owen entered briskly, his unkempt hair hanging down over his eyes like a frayed tapestry, and limped past her to the window. As he peered below, his face was transformed by an ugly grin, and he rubbed his hands together like a hungry fly. Cambria could only muse at the source of his exuberance.

  With the blissful sigh of a lizard spotting a bug, Owen approached her. Almost lovingly, he caressed her cheek. Her flesh crawled. The shackles pinning her wrists to the wall afforded her no room to strike him, and he’d bound her legs with heavy chains yesterday after she’d landed a healthy kick to his belly. Still she managed to whip her head around in time to bite into the meaty part of his palm, hard enough to draw blood.

  He yelped in pain and drew back his mangled hand. With the back of his other fist, he cracked her hard across the cheek, splintering her vision in an explosion of sparks. She slumped weakly against the wall, stifling a moan.

  It wasn’t the first bruise she’d earned since her unfortunate arrival at Blackhaugh. Curse h
er luck, she’d walked straight into a trap. The shame of it was almost worse than the beating she’d endured at Owen’s hands.

  They’d all been waiting for her—Robbie, Graham, Jamie, the remnants of the Gavin rebels—and they’d already imprisoned her loyal clansmen. God only knew what they’d done with Garth.

  It had taken six men to subdue and haul Guy and Myles off to the dungeon while Cambria awaited her fate.

  Angry and foolhardy, she’d spit on Owen, showing no fear of the bastard, despite Robbie’s anxious warnings. And both she and the Gavin rebels had paid for her audacity. With a dagger at their laird’s throat, Robbie and his men, still Gavins at heart, had no choice but to surrender to Owen’s will. He’d locked them all up and carted her off to the tower.

  By the time the brute tired of using his fists, there wasn’t an inch of her that didn’t ache. The taste of blood was still heavy in her mouth.

  But she hadn’t surrendered. Even now, half-conscious, her belly empty and fresh blood trickling down her cheek, she refused to cower before him.

  Owen sucked at his wounded hand and spit the salty blood onto the rushes. He’d had almost all he could bear of Lady Cambria de Ware and her unflappable insolence. She was surely the offspring of the devil and a she-cat, with her raking claws and dagger-sharp teeth. It was hard to believe at one time he’d wanted to poke his piece in her. He thought less often of bedding her now, prickly as she was, and more of torturing the Wolf with her slow murder. If he couldn’t bring the bitch to her knees, he’d at least see de Ware humbled before him.

  With a decisive grunt, he reached for an urn of water on the table. He flung its contents at the wench to jar her from her stupor.

  Cambria sucked in a startled breath as the water slapped her face. She sniffled and choked as it burned high inside her nose, making her eyes tear.