by Lara Adrian
“As you wish, milady,” Martin replied.
Emmalyn watched him dash off, dreading the prospect of having to face Sir Cabal again after such a humiliating discovery. “How did you come to know about this?” she asked him.
“I have pledged my service to protecting this keep. It is my duty to know these things...and set them to rights.”
Garrett would have laughed aloud to know she had been made a fool by Arlo's withholding news of the thieving and, as well, the villeins' apparent lack of confidence in her ability to manage the problem. He would have thought it laughable, and then his humor would have just as swiftly turned to anger. But there was no trace of smug amusement in Sir Cabal's voice, and no mockery in his features when Emmalyn finally blinked up at him to measure the meaning of his comment. His handsome face showed no disdain; only frank sincerity, gentle regard. To her bewilderment, Emmalyn found she had no idea what to make of him.
He puzzled her further with a polite sweep of his arm. “Shall we tour the boundaries now, my lady?”
Chapter 8
Cabal rode beside Lady Emmalyn on the tread-worn path from the village, his black destrier nearly dwarfing the palfrey she guided gently along the perimeter of the fields. Peasants working their rows and furlongs paused to hail her with warm greetings as she passed, devotion shining plainly in their smiles and in their exuberant boasts of the crops' anticipated yields.
Lady Emmalyn met this fond regard with like affection. Speaking to them in their common English tongue, she offered generous praises for their efforts, addressing many of the serfs by name and inquiring after new babies and family members taken ill. Cabal observed her guileless interaction with the folk, struck by the genuine interest she demonstrated.
Once out among her people and deep within her lands, she seemed to have all but forgotten his presence, which seemed to disturb her so continually. Out here Lady Emmalyn laughed easily, smiled often. Out here she was carefree and radiant, imbued with a clear passion for the land and its folk.
Watching her now, talking so easily with the field hands and helpfully informing the hayward about a bit of broken hedge, Cabal had to tamp down a queer nudge of guilt that gnawed at him, knowing that she would one day be taken from a place she so obviously loved. He did not want to ponder her future, no more than he endeavored to give thought to his own, but to his profound irritation, he could not keep the thoughts and questions from entering his mind.
How would she fare in the probable future Richard would choose for her as the wife of one of his rich vassals? What would happen to her spirit once it was caged in a distant fortress, bound in expensive silk gowns and tethered to the stuffy expectations of a nobleman's bride? Would she buck, or would she break?
As if she sensed his dark speculation, Lady Emmalyn glanced over and met his gaze. Her smile dimmed instantly. A light shake of her reins set her mount off at an easy gait, following the outskirts of the fields and past the sweeping meadowlands. She pointed out landmarks and property lines to Cabal along the way, taking great care, it seemed, to keep the pride from her voice now that it was just the two of them once more.
But as they paused on a small rise that looked out over the rolling hills and far off to the horizon, her expression belied the truth, and her eyes could not conceal the depth of her love for her home.
“I can't imagine life outside these boundaries,” she said quietly, almost to herself.
Cabal was at a loss for how to respond. He stared ahead at nothing, waiting out the lengthening silence. From the corner of his eye, he saw her dash away an errant tear. He steeled himself to her distress; he could not comfort her. It was not his place, and anything he said to try to set her mind at ease would only be a lie.
“This demesne is now more home to me than the place of my birth,” she whispered. “I can close my eyes and see clearly every hill and dale, the patterns of the fields, the orderly grid work of the hedges and furlongs. Without thinking, I can conjure the smells of the orchards and the sweet, earthy pleasure of sheared fleece and fertile soil.” She gave a sad little laugh. “I don't expect you to understand.”
But Cabal did understand, he thought grimly. His home had long been the battlefield, its sights and sounds and smells as much a part of him as Fallonmour clearly was to Emmalyn. When he breathed deeply, even now, his lungs filled with the pungent scents of smoke and steel and blood. He swallowed, and tasted the grit of warfare in the back of his throat. Behind his closed eyelids he saw mounds of rubble, acres of destruction...an endless sea of death. He expected he always would.
He had long ago convinced himself that he did not care.
“My husband lived here nearly all his life and he never truly appreciated Fallonmour,” Lady Emmalyn remarked distantly. “I suppose he craved action, much like yourself. When the call went out for men to join the Crusade, Garrett was eager to go. He could not stop talking of all the wealth and glory to be had on campaign.”
“He found neither in Palestine.”
She paused, evidently hearing the harsh grate of his voice. Turning, she regarded him with a wary glance. “You knew my husband, Sir Cabal?”
There was an edge of suspicion, or perhaps it was fear, in her hesitant query. “Garrett was one of King Richard's officers,” Cabal told her with a casual shrug. “We were in the same regiment; we fought together for nearly two years.”
“Two years,” she echoed, glancing away quickly, her voice soft, guarded. “Then you and he must have been well acquainted.”
“Well acquainted, but we were not friends, if that is your meaning, my lady.”
Her fine brow pinched. “I don't think Garrett had any friends.”
“Not even in his lady wife?”
Clearly put off by his intimation, Emmalyn stiffened suddenly. She looked down at the reins in her hands, her dark lashes shuttering whatever emotion had begun to surface in her eyes. “I do not think my marriage is any concern of yours, my lord.”
It wasn't, but Cabal needed to know--for more than one reason. He was well out of bounds in asking, to be sure, but the question had been plaguing him since he first laid eyes on Garrett's beautiful young widow. He had to know. “Did you love him?”
Her tiny hand had tightened on the reins of her mount, gripping them now like a life line. She hiked up her chin but Cabal could see the wariness in her expression, the threatened look in her eyes. “Garrett was my husband, Sir Cabal. I honored him in all ways as his wife--”
“That is not what I asked.”
Lady Emmalyn's stare went from cornered to outraged, but she said nothing to defend her vows. Instead, she faced him with more tenacity than the boldest of his soldiers ever had, holding his piercing gaze where seasoned warriors had been known to wilt quickly. She was a passionate woman, so fierce in her love for the place that was her home, and in her devotion to her folk. Inexplicably, Cabal felt compelled to know if Garrett, too, had enjoyed any measure of her affection.
“Did you weep for your husband in chapel this morn, my lady?”
“How dare you ask such things--”
“Did you?”
She scoffed, but her jaw quivered slightly. “Am I to assume, sirrah, that the king has charged you with prying into my marriage in addition to your commandeering my home?”
“If I ask you, madam, 'tis because I want to know.” Cabal studied her closer now, seeing a fissure begin to appear in her stoic demeanor. “Garrett had your hand, my lady, but did he have your heart?”
He could not read the emotion that haunted her gaze in that next instant. She shook her head nearly imperceptibly; her lips compressed tightly as if to bite back her reply. “You have no right to ask me anything!” she hissed. A slap of the reins set her palfrey off at a hard gallop, fast delivering her away from Cabal, following the perimeter of the fruit orchards.
He watched her flee along the path, knowing it would be wise to simply let her go. Best to leave her alone. Probing her on such personal matters was bad enough; he did
not need to further entangle himself now by chasing after her. And for what? To apologize? To offer sympathy? God knew he had precious little experience with either.
He had nearly made up his mind to let her be when she turned off the safety of the track and plunged into the orchard, vanishing from his sight. Cabal rose in his stirrups as if to follow her with his eye, but it was no use. She was gone, concealed by the dense trees. God's wounds, what recklessness was it for her to venture into the grove alone when she had just learned of thieves loose in the area?
With a growled oath of frustration, Cabal hauled on his mount's reins and wheeled the steed around. He kicked the destrier into action, riding for the orchard at an urgent, thunderous gait.
The black shot between the neat rows of apple trees like an arrow, speeding Cabal deep into the cool shade of the forest, fast on Lady Emmalyn's heels. She was several yards ahead in the same row, now guiding her palfrey at a careful trot--until she sensed Cabal's approach from behind. She glanced over her shoulder and saw him bearing down on her. Her eyes flew wide open.
“Leave me alone!” she cried.
She turned to the fore and slapped her palfrey into a frenzied gallop. Cabal gritted his teeth, swearing under his breath. He spurred his mount, leaning forward in the saddle, listening to the relentless pounding of his horse's heavy hooves, determined to close the distance before she roused every thief and brigand in the area.
Lady Emmalyn was less than a furlong from his grasp when she suddenly drew back on the reins and leaped from the palfrey's saddle. She cast a wild glance at Cabal, then disappeared into the next row of trees. “Go away!” she shouted, her desperation carrying her deeper into the grove.
Cabal yanked his destrier to a halt and threw himself to the ground. “Damnation, lady--come back!”
He ducked under a low bough and took off after her, following the blond streamers of her unbound hair as she navigated the grove of apple trees, cutting first to her left and then back to her right a few yards later. With his eye trained on her, anticipating the next angle of her blind flight, Cabal closed in. He ran harder, gaining on her.
She glanced behind her a mere instant before she veered to the left---plowing directly into the solid wall of Cabal's chest. He closed his arms around her, catching her neatly in his grasp. She bucked against his firm hold, twisting around and trying to pry herself free.
“Let go!” she cried. “Please, just leave me alone!”
“I've been sent to guard you, my lady,” Cabal growled beside her ear. “I reckon the king would be most displeased to learn that I had let you run off and get your pretty throat slashed by the brigands who've been robbing your village stores.”
“I can take care of myself,” she muttered, making a forward lunge and straining against his grasp to no avail. “For pity's sake!” she gasped, breath hitching. “Will you afford me no peace at all?”
There was an edge of panic in her voice that made Cabal still. He loosened his grip on her, but did not release her fully, gently guiding her around to face him instead. Moisture swam in her eyes; her cheeks were bright and stained with tears.
God's wounds, she was crying.
For Garrett? Cabal felt a stab of remorse for his part in driving her to this current emotional state. Worse, he weathered a hearty lash of jealousy for the bastard who had been born noble enough to make this proud, passionate lady his wife, and then been fool enough to leave her for campaign.
Seeing Lady Emmalyn standing there in his shadow, trying to harness her distress, inspired Cabal to do the unthinkable. He, Blackheart--the scourge of Palestine, who never made excuses for his actions--apologized. “My lady, I am sorry. I had no idea.”
“No,” she said miserably. “You have no idea, my lord.” She drew out of his arms and swept away her tears. “I do not weep now because I mourn my husband, Sir Cabal. If I cry, 'tis out of shame. I cry because I do not grieve for Garrett's death...because I did not love him.”
A perverse sense of relief flooded Cabal to hear her say the words, although it was clear they weighed heavy on her conscience. “You are hardly the first noblewoman to feel no affection for the man who was made her husband.”
She gave a slow shake of her head. “You do not understand,” she whispered. “I entered my marriage fully prepared to love Garrett. But he was a hard man. I confess, I came to loathe him. For so long I yearned only to be free of him.” Soberly, she glanced at Cabal and met his gaze. “Many times I wished him dead, and now--”
“You had nothing to do with his death, my lady.”
“How can you be so certain?” she asked, desperation and guilt dimming the vibrant hue of her eyes. “How can you be certain that God is not punishing me for wanting out of my marriage? Perhaps in wishing Garrett gone I have only visited worse troubles on Fallonmour and the people I care about. I promised the folk here a better life. I promised them peace. They trusted my word and I have failed them.”
“Garrett died because of his own careless actions, my lady, not because you wished it. And as for Fallonmour and its folk, you are relieved of the responsibility. 'Tis the king's to contend with now, and for the moment, mine as well. You needn't fret over it anymore, my lady.”
“I needn't fret?” she choked, her sadness evaporating swiftly under the blaze of resurging anger. “Do you think 'tis so easy that I should turn off my feelings or ignore the concern I have for my people simply because the king has decreed it so? How black-and-white everything must be to your way of thinking, Sir Cabal. You have no idea what it is to have no say in your future.”
“Do I not?”
“You are a man,” she said, hurling the statement at him like an accusation. “You at least have the freedom to choose your own destiny.”
Cabal's answering chuckle was brittle, catching in his throat. “I have not known choices since I was a lad of fourteen,” he replied, surprising himself that he would think on that pivotal day, let alone bring it to light before her now. But it was too late to call it back; Emmalyn was blinking up at him in quiet confusion, her gentle, questioning expression like a balm, drawing poison from a wound.
Cabal was not at all sure he wanted to be healed.
You are beyond mending, his ruthless conscience mocked in the next instant, coaxing him back to the dark safety of festering hatred and long-buried heartache. Venturing out into the light would only get him burned, and he had never let anyone step one foot into his bleak past. Nor would he, least of all this lady.
“What happened when you were fourteen?”
Lady Emmalyn's soft voice curled itself around him and Cabal was struck at how hard it was to resist her soothing pull. He forced a casual shrug. “'Twas the year I was sent to London for training in the royal garrison,” he said, distilling the bitter truth to its most basic fact in an effort to dissuade her from further exploration of the topic.
Even now, another fourteen years away from the night that had forever changed his life--the night that had robbed him of all he had, and made him what he was today--Cabal still felt the hot coil of rage burning deep in his gut.
Fourteen years ago, his mother had been assaulted by a nobleman before a crowded hall. The highborn lord grew enraged that a common entertainer would refuse him, and he struck her. She hit her head on the hard stone wall and never drew another breath. To add insult, her assailant then reached down and stole the only item of value she possessed: a ring of tooled silver wrapped around a large gemstone the color of smoky steel. The ring had been a gift from Cabal's unnamed sire, a token his mother had believed would keep her safe from harm.
Fourteen years ago, Cabal had stayed behind when the troupe of jongleurs and dancers left the castle, hiding himself away in a dark corner of the keep, numb with grief, trembling in fear, waiting until everyone had either departed or taken to their pallets. Then, in the dead of night, he crept into the lord's chamber and murdered him in cold blood.
“You fostered at the palace as a child, my lord?” Lady Emmalyn p
rompted, her light inquiry nearly successful in tugging his morbid thoughts back to the present.
But Cabal could not keep the memories at bay. “I fostered there, yes,” he answered. “More or less.” His reply was sardonic, wry for the recollection of the rigorous exercises and mental conditioning that turned a hurting young boy into an emotionless, lethally efficient warrior.
Fortune had smiled on Cabal fourteen years ago--or perhaps it had sneered--for when King Henry heard of the common lad who had slain an enemy of the realm, he sent for the boy. Cabal could still see the spark of intrigue in the aging king's eyes when he was ushered into the cavernous royal chambers in London. He could still hear the note of interest in King Henry's voice when he learned Cabal's name. Could still feel the steady, questioning regard of the king's eyes when he spied the ring Cabal had since fastened to a leather cord he had tied around his neck.
For fourteen years, he had worn the ring like a badge, drawing on it first for comfort and then for strength. Even now its cold weight against his heart centered him. It grounded him, kept him focused. Helped him stay true to his training when he might be tempted to feel. Every moment of every day, that thick knot of silver and coal-dark stone reminded him who he was, what he always would be.
Blackheart.
“No one has choices,” he said abruptly, his voice so quiet he had to wonder if he had actually uttered the words.
But Lady Emmalyn was frowning up at him, looking nigh as astonished as he felt. “I do not understand. Do you not want to be a knight, Sir Cabal?”
He laughed at that, a sharp, cynical bark that made her flinch. “What does it matter what I might want? Who would care?” he whispered, deliberately crowding her, leaning in when she began to draw back. “Do you, Lady Emmalyn?”