by Lara Adrian
Lady of Valor
by
Lara Adrian
(writing as Tina St. John)
Lady of Valor
Author’s Edition eBook
(c) 2012 by Lara Adrian, LLC
First published April 2000 by Ivy Books, a division of Random House
Original Print Copyright 2000 by Tina St. John
Reissue Copyright 2012 by Lara Adrian, LLC
eBook Published by Lara Adrian, LLC, 2012
eBook Cover Illustration by Patricia Schmitt aka PickyMe
All rights reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Author.
www.LaraAdrian.com
Contents
Cover Page
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue
About the Author
A note from the Author
Bibliography
A sampler of Lara Adrian's other titles
Midnight Breed Series
Dragon Chalice Series
Historical Romances
Prologue
The Holy Land. September 1, 1192
The dead man lay there, motionless and sprawled on the dirt floor of the tent where he had crumpled moments before. A bleeding wound at his side spread out like spilled wine, staining his Crusader's surcoat and the ground beneath him a deep crimson-black. Left arm outstretched, his now unmoving fingers were curled into the hard-packed earth mere inches from the boot of an English foot soldier.
Cabal--Blackheart, as he was better known these more than two years on campaign--stood in the dim illumination of a sputtering candle that had been upset during the struggle and considered that clawing, desperate hand with sober reflection, like a man awakened from the depths of a black and heavy dream.
Outside the tent, darkness had settled over the desert, cooling the vast sea of scorching sand but doing little to calm the bloodlust of the Crusaders camped there. The bonfire that King Richard's army had lit hours before would burn long into the night, as would the men's drunken voices, raised in celebration of the day's small victory.
Camped for more than a sennight and wanting for action, the soldiers had raided a village that afternoon, taking with it scores of Muslim lives. Never mind that the numbers included women and children; they were all soulless heathens according to the Church. As such, they had been afforded less regard in their slaughter than would the lowliest vermin. But the dead were the fortunate ones. They were spared the horrors suffered on those left living as prisoners of the Cross.
Staring down at the dead officer, Cabal ran a hand over his grimy, dark-bearded face, and blew out a weary sigh. Damnation. What manner of beasts had they become in God's name? Worse, he wondered, could it actually be starting to matter to him?
Before a long-forsaken conscience could rouse to needle him further, Cabal's ear was drawn toward the approaching sound of footsteps scuffing in the sand outside the tent. The flap was thrown open and a laughing soldier ducked inside, bleary-eyed, stinking of sweat and overmuch wine. “Sir Garrett, ye selfish bastard! Do ye mean to keep the chit all to yourself?” The mercenary drew in a choking gasp, stumbling back on his heels. “God's wounds, what happened--”
When he made to advance, Cabal held him off with a dismissive flick of his hand. Crouching beside the fallen nobleman, he reached out for a jeweled dagger that lay next to him, slick with its owner's blood. “I came upon the struggle too late,” he offered blandly. “There was no saving him.”
“She killed him! The damned Saracen whore killed him!”
“She was no whore, Rannulf. Only a child.” Cabal could scarcely contain the edge of disgust in his voice. “No more than ten summers if she was a day.”
“Child or nay, the filthy bitch will suffer--”
The soldier's sputtered exclamation broke off as Cabal rose to his full height and faced him, forced to incline his head under the cramped slope of the tent's ceiling. “The girl is gone.”
The mercenary frowned, looking past Cabal to a severed length of rope that lay on the earthen floor. Sir Garrett of Fallonmour had leashed the thick braided cord about the young Saracen's neck when he plucked her from a crowd of screaming villagers that day, intent on keeping her for his own base amusement. Though Rannulf seemed hesitant to voice his doubts about the prisoner's escape, his expression was suspicious, questioning.
Cabal answered frankly. “I set her free.”
“Set her free? So she can stab another man in the back? The murdering little wench should be run down and gutted!”
“Any man who goes after the girl or any other peasant in retaliation for this will answer to me.”
Rannulf gaped at him in disbelief. “God's blood, Blackheart! Ye fought beside Sir Garrett for nigh on two years. Why, to hear ye now, that peasant slut's life meant more to you than his!”
Cabal met and held the incredulous stare without responding. Garrett of Fallonmour was certainly no friend of his, but then Cabal did not place much value on anyone's life, not even his own. He took a small amount of satisfaction in seeing that bleak understanding register fully in the other man's eyes.
“Jesu,” the mercenary whispered suddenly, as if just now realizing the breadth of his folly. Few dared challenge the man whose reputation deemed him among the worst of King Richard's savage henchmen. Face fading to an unhealthy pallor, Rannulf swallowed hard. “Sir Cabal, please. I assure ye, I meant no offense--”
Casually, Cabal wiped Garrett's blood-stained blade on the edge of his surcoat, biding his time in contemplative silence while Rannulf spewed a fretful string of apologies. Better that the mercenary's immediate worry for his own neck blind him to the disturbing truth behind Cabal's actions regarding Garrett's innocent young hostage. A truth that Cabal himself was only recently coming to realize...
Though his heart was every bit as black as a desert night, it had, of late, begun to beat.
Damnation, how he needed to feel the crush of battle! Too much idle time was making him soft. Weakening him. His feet itched to be on the march again; his muscles craved combat. If Richard and the Saracen leader did not resolve their standoff soon and get on with the business of war, Cabal reckoned he would likely go mad with the waiting.
“Clean up this bloody mess,” he growled to Rannulf. The harsh command sent the soldier to his knees on the tent floor, scurrying to pick up the smoldering candle and right the up-ended table. “See to disposing of the body as well. Doubtless the king has no desire to see one of his noble vassals left behind for sport among the infidels. Not even this one.”
Cabal tossed Garrett
's dagger to the floor, then turned and quit the tent. Outside, the smoke-filled night air was thick with the sounds of conversation and drunken laughter. Flames from the camp bonfire climbed high into the moonless sky, illuminating hundreds of faces that watched surreptitiously as the king's most feared warrior strode through their midst on his way to the royal pavilion at the end of the avenue.
Four men-at-arms stood outside the massive, striped silk tent that sheltered King Richard, England's finest son. Though the king had been ensconced within most of the day for solitary contemplation and meetings with his officers, his guards granted Cabal immediate entry, same as they would any high-ranking vassal. One of them swept aside the square of silk that served as the tent door, allowing Cabal to pass beneath. That he had earned this brand of respect out of fear more than status irked him somewhere in the far corners of his mind, but Cabal pushed the feeling away as he came into the tent and bowed before the presence of Coeur de Lion.
“Ah, Cabal. I thought perhaps you might have been Fallonmour, come at last to join us. His tardiness for this conference is beginning to try my patience.” The king had assembled five of his officers inside, the noblemen all seated before him around a large, ornately carved table that was strewn with countless maps and papers. His legendary royal temper beginning to flare, Richard barked, “Will someone go fetch the impudent bastard or must I do it myself?”
Only Cabal dared speak in the moment of panic that followed. “That will not be possible, my lord.” He met Richard's puzzled stare, his blunt statement also gaining the attention of the two servants who had scrambled toward the tent's exit. “There was an incident with one of the prisoners in the camp a short while ago,” Cabal explained. “Fallonmour was killed.”
The king remained silent amid the aghast exclamations of his officers, his tawny brows arched only slightly in reaction to the news. “Well,” he said to Cabal, “that Fallonmour survived more than a week past his arrival in Palestine is a credit to your skill more than his value to me as a soldier. I wager he'd have been dead long before this, had you not been there to guard his back.”
Cabal stared, but took no esteem in a compliment that was merely stated fact. Though he had despised Garrett for his carelessness in battle and faulty leadership of his regiment, as was his duty, Cabal had delivered him from the killing end of a Saracen blade on more than one occasion. But not tonight, and the thought plagued him anew.
“Come in, then,” the king offered, indicating a vacant x-chair beside the gathered noblemen. “It should please you to know that I have reached a decision regarding the infidels' proposed treaty.”
Cabal seated himself at the table with the others, unaffected by the cool glances of the officers as he, a baseborn mercenary, took his place amongst their titled ranks. He accepted a cup of wine passed to him by one of the king's servants then watched over the rim as Coeur de Lion rose from his chair and began to pace slowly behind the desk.
“I have decided to accept the terms of Saladin's agreement,” he stated without preamble, his distaste for the resolution made clear in his constricted tone of voice. “I leave to meet with him in the morn.”
The king's vassals did nothing to conceal their relief, each of them rushing forth with congratulations, offering words of support for the decision to end the strife. Interested only in being on to the next battle alongside his king, Cabal remained stoic, drinking his wine in emotionless silence as Richard explained the details of the settlement, then gave orders for the officers to inform their regiments.
“Prepare the ships to sail for England in the coming weeks,” he instructed. “I, however, will needs take an alternate route from the rest of you. It seems my advisors fear I might be set upon if I travel in the open. I tell you, 'tis damned inconvenient when one's enemies lie in wait within and without the realm. Not to mention among one's own blood kin.” Alluding to the known treachery and scheming of his younger brother, Prince John, the king's wry humor lacked its usual bravado.
“What of Fallonmour's holdings now, Your Grace?” inquired one of the assembled men, his concerned tone scarcely masking the glint of avarice in his eyes. “'Tis far too valuable an estate to leave in the hands of Sir Garrett's new widow--or his brother, Hugh de Wardeaux.”
“Indeed.” The king's broad, leonine brow furrowed in consideration. “I know not of the widow Fallonmour's politics, but Hugh has made no secret of his loyalties to John. 'Tis one more alliance I can ill afford to ignore.” Richard met Cabal's confirming nod, then retrieved a quill and a blank square of parchment from his desktop and began writing. “Until I am back in London and have the leisure of deciding upon a worthy vassal to install as lord, I think it best to place Fallonmour under the wardship of someone I can trust.”
Cabal lounged negligently in his chair, watching with mild interest as five sets of eager eyes rooted on the king, five noblemen waiting like vultures for a chance to increase their wealth upon the sudden death of one of their own. Idly, he wondered which would get the boon, at the same time thankful that his pledge in service to the Crown had removed him from such meaningless concerns.
As of its own accord, his hand stole to the center of his chest, where the solid weight of that obligation rested so insidiously against his skin. A cold reminder of who he was, and what he would never be.
The king ceased writing midway down the page and glanced up at his officers, seeming to assess the lot of them each in turn. His cool, careful gaze traveled over their expectant faces as if visually measuring their honor, questioning it. “There is only one man here whom I would trust to selflessly guard my interests at Fallonmour,” he said. “One man I would install without worry that he might harbor his own designs for the place.” Coeur de Lion's commanding stare came to rest pointedly on Cabal. “I will send him.”
Chapter 1
England. June, 1193
That particular day dawned much the same as the hundreds that had come before it, still, Lady Emmalyn of Fallonmour felt an odd quickening in her veins--a queer sense of hopeful anticipation that roused her before the sun's first rays lit her chamber. Something was in the air; she could feel it.
Would today be the day?
Excited to find out, she washed and dressed quickly, then quit her chamber and descended the stairwell that spiraled through the heart of the castle. She moved hastily and on light feet, knowing she would have only this short while to claim for her own. Before long, the entire keep would wake and her daily duties as castellan would begin anew.
Among the first to seek Emmalyn out this morn would surely be the seneschal, entrusted to oversee Fallonmour upon Garrett's departure three years past. The dour old servant had informed her last eve of his intent to go down to the village at first light for the weighing of the newly sheared wool and an assessment of the fields' bounty. While Emmalyn fully intended to cooperate with the accounting, she disliked the man's tactics, and particularly his harsh treatment of her folk.
She would accompany him to the fields, she had told him firmly, but they would go when she was ready. At present, she had other, more pressing priorities to attend outside the keep.
Fallonmour awaited a new arrival.
Emmalyn crossed the bailey, anxious with anticipation by the time she reached the stables. The head groom, a large, graying bear of a man, was already at work, tools in hand. He greeted Emmalyn with a wide smile when she entered the outbuilding.
“How does she fare this morn, Thomas?”
“Well, milady. Only a matter of a day or two now, I reckon.”
“A day or two?” Emmalyn couldn't help but sigh her disappointment. “'Tis the very answer you gave me last week, Thomas. Will she never have this foal?”
The old stable master chuckled. “The first is often late in coming, milady. No cause to fret just now. Minerva will let us know when 'tis time.”
Emmalyn looked into her mare's soft brown eyes and smiled. “Did you hear that, Minnie? You're going to be a mother soon.” The bay blinked her
frond-like black lashes and nuzzled Emmalyn's outstretched palm. Then she nipped her. Gently, but enough to make Emmalyn yelp in surprise.
“'Tis all right,” she assured Thomas when he dropped his tools and hastened to her side.
He bent to retrieve something from a bucket on the floor then cleared his throat. In his hand were an apple and a small knife. Sheepishly, he held them out to her. “Apologies, milady, but I fear I've spoiled the beast of late. She looks for a treat every morn now--gets downright surly if denied it overlong. I beg pardon, if ye be displeased.”
“You have a kind, giving heart, Thomas. You needn't ever apologize for that. Besides,” she relented on a soft laugh, “it seems I am as much to blame as you for Minnie's poor behavior. While you have been spoiling her with apples in the mornings, I have been doing the same after supper each afternoon. 'Tis a wonder she hasn't tired of them by now.”
Emmalyn had scarcely sliced off the first crisp wedge when the mare nudged forward and stole it from her fingers. While Minerva munched contentedly, Emmalyn stroked the rough silk of the horse's large head and neck. “I reckon she is due some special treatment, is she not? After all, 'tis not every day Fallonmour hosts a royal birth.”
She could hardly contain her pride over the prospect. Minerva's foal was sired by Queen Eleanor's finest stallion, the breeding a gift from Her Majesty on the dowager queen's last visit to Fallonmour, and something Emmalyn prized dearly. At her side, Thomas beamed his assent then picked up his tools and returned to his tasks with the other horses.