Lady of Valor

by Lara Adrian

  “Oh, milady,” Bertie said. “I know that you love this man. We have all come to look upon him with fond regard, and I wager none of us here would want to see him meet with harm. But he was sent by the king to guard you as well as this keep. If the question were to come down to sparing you or himself, what do you think he would choose?”

  Emmalyn looked to her nurse, horrified, and anguished to admit to herself that Bertie was likely right in her logic. But it tore Emmalyn to pieces inside to think of Cabal dying. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “I don't care that he would want me to go, Bertie. There must be a way for both of us to be free. I have to find a way.”

  “Milady, so long as you are locked away in here, you can help no one. We have to see you away from Fallonmour. Only then will you have a chance of getting help for Sir Cabal.” Bertie patted Emmalyn's hand reassuringly. “We will put our heads together and we are bound to see a solution.”

  “If there is one, we have but a few hours to find it,” Emmalyn answered. “Dawn--and Hugh's wrath--will be upon us before we know it.”

  * * *

  The iron grate of the armory stockade clattered shut in Cabal's face, a twist of the key sealing him inside the cell with Fallonmour's dozen knights. He could have fought the guards who had shuffled him away from Emmalyn, but in truth, after seeing her shocked and benumbed expression, he had no interest in fighting. She would fare better without him in her life. Cabal had cooperatively allowed the gang of men-at-arms to throw him in here, resigned to accept whatever fate Hugh had in store for him.

  Death, no doubt.

  At present, he did not care. He already felt like the most vital part of him had died. He only prayed that Emmalyn's involvement with him would not subject her to any further ill at Hugh's hand. If it took his death to appease Hugh and spare Emmalyn, then he would go to it willingly.

  His back to the others imprisoned along with him, Cabal stood at the bars, watching as one of the two guards on post went off to deliver the key back to Hugh for safekeeping. Sir Miles was the first of Cabal's cellmates to approach him.

  “De Wardeaux arrived early this afternoon with fifty of his knights,” the old captain volunteered. “He said Prince John had granted him full rights to Fallonmour and its holdings, and that to bar him entry to the castle was to defy the prince's orders. He said it would be tantamount to treason.”

  “You had no choice but to let him in, Miles. I'm sure Lady Emmalyn will not fault you for it.”

  “He also said that he had come to apprehend Lord Garrett's murderer. He said that you are the knight known as Blackheart.” When Cabal made no response during the expectant beat that Miles awaited an answer, the captain asked, “Did he speak true?”

  “Yes,” Cabal replied.

  “And what of the rest? Did you kill Lord Garrett?”

  Cabal nodded weakly. He sensed the old knight's wariness, felt him take a hesitant half-step backward. “I did not plot to murder him, as Hugh is inclined to believe, but he died at my hand. I killed him.”

  “Hugh said he feared that Lady Emmalyn's life was in jeopardy each moment you were allowed to stay at Fallonmour.”

  At that, Cabal faced Sir Miles. “Never,” he swore. “Never would I have brought any harm to her. Jesu, I love--” He broke off too late to curb the pained admission, turning away from the old captain's gaze lest he also show him the fear of loss in his eyes.

  “I did not believe that you would,” Sir Miles said, his voice low enough that the conversation remained between the two of them only. “I'm afraid some of the others were harder to convince. That is, until the instant Hugh's men spilled through the gates and he ordered us locked away in this gaol. By then, there was little any of us could do to correct our mistake. Hugh's hold was established and all we could do was wait until you and our lady returned.” The captain swore, grasping the bars and shaking his head. “And now to add salt to the wound, you must wait along with us while Hugh sends Lady Emmalyn off to Wales in the morn to wed one of the prince's cronies.”

  “What?” Cabal felt as though he had been kicked in the gut. “He has arranged for her to marry?”

  Miles's nod was grim. “De Wardeaux boasted how he found Lady Emmalyn a husband in an old earl who's been widowed thrice over and is looking to make an heir. He said the prince agrees with him that Lady Emmalyn cannot be trusted to make sound judgments on her own and that she would benefit from a stern hand--”

  Cabal did not need to hear any more than that. He grabbed the bars and began shaking the cell door as if to tear it from its hinges. Gone was his apathy toward what might befall him; now his sole intent was to figure a way out of his prison so he could stop Hugh's plan for Emmalyn. Savagely, he yanked on the iron grid, his wild curses jolting the lone guard into action and bringing him running to the cell.

  “Get back!” shouted the knight, drawing his sword as he neared. He jabbed at Cabal through the slats. “Get back from the bars, ye bloody cur!”

  Cabal dodged the first few thrusts, trying to grab at the guard's head, his sleeve--anything he could get close enough to reach. When Hugh's man made the mistake of catching hold of the bars with his free hand to steady himself, Cabal sprung. He seized the knight's fingers and yanked him forward, dragging the soldier's body flush against the grid.

  “Get the sword!” he shouted to anyone who would help him. Several men rushed forth to assist, but the command had already proved Cabal's undoing. The guard threw his blade down, casting it a safe yard from the cell before any of them could reach it.

  The weapon lost, Cabal wrapped his forearm around the knight's neck, cutting off his air with the muscled crook of his elbow. The guard thrashed and clawed and spluttered but Cabal was unrelenting. He felt enraged, enlivened, fully prepared to kill or be killed if it meant a chance at saving Emmalyn. Snarling with fury, he tightened his hold on the man's throat. “Open this damned door or I vow I will choke the life out of you!”

  “Ich...I cannot!” the knight croaked. “Jus...just the one key!”

  Cabal cursed and brought his fist nearly to his chest, pinning the guard in a certain death squeeze. Frustrated and angered, he did not hear the second knight return from his errand until the man was nearly upon him. The Wardeaux man drew a dagger and sliced it across Cabal's forearm before he even knew what hit him. Instantly, his grip fell away and the guard he had nearly killed scrambled a safe distance out of his reach, sprawled and coughing on the floor.

  “Try something stupid like that again--any of you--and you die,” the second knight warned.

  Panting with exertion and rage, Cabal stared down at the bleeding wound on his right arm and watched with a certain morbid pleasure as the deep cut stained his tunic sleeve crimson. As long as he bled, he was alive. And as long as he lived, there was hope that he would get to Emmalyn in time. But suddenly he realized something that doused his hopes and cooled his head better than a face full of icy water.

  Even if he should manage a way out of his prison, he had likely just lost the use of his sword arm.

  Chapter 26

  The tallow candle in Emmalyn's chamber had burned for nearly two hours after Bertie and the other maids had left, and Emmalyn was still no closer to resolving the dire situation facing them all. Staring at her four walls, she had gotten so desperate to act that she had actually considered escape through her open window, a plot that would have surely gotten her killed if Hugh's ten guards on the wall-walk did not catch her first.

  Where was Cabal's midsummer magic when she needed it? If only she could vanish from out of her prison much like the lion in his story had done. Dieu, but it seemed a lifetime ago that he had been sitting at the village bonfire spinning yarns. And at present, Cabal was about as far away as possible from being able to spirit her out of her confinement the way he had helped the old lion in Palestine. Now they were both caged, and it would take more than magic and wishing to free them from Hugh's devious plans. But certainly a bit of prayer could not hurt matters, she thought
, sending a silent plea heavenward.

  It was answered by approaching footsteps, then the sound of Father Bryce's voice in the corridor outside her barred door.

  “Ah, good eve, my son. I am Father Bryce and this is Brother George--”

  “What do ye want, priest?” her guard growled.

  “We have come to provide the lady with religious counsel, my son. Her maid informs me that Lady Emmalyn is somewhat troubled over the news she has received today and would seek solace and advice from the Scriptures.”

  There was a scrape of a stool on the floor and the muted jingle of armor as the knight evidently came to his feet. “Begging pardon, Father. But I don't think Lord Hugh would approve of this...”

  “Not approve? Did you hear that, Brother?” Father Bryce's chuckle was disbelieving. “What would he not approve of, do you reckon, my son? Lady Emmalyn's seeking the church's counsel, or our providing it to her in this time of obvious need?”

  The guard cleared his throat as if discomfited with the question. “Lord Hugh said permit no one inside tonight, Father. The Brother and ye will have to go now.”

  “My son,” Father Bryce said gently, “I am a man of God, bound by my vows to serve my flock. So long as this woman is among my parish, 'tis my duty to be available to her. Now Brother George and I will thank you to let us pass so that we may see to her, as she has requested.”

  “If 'tis all the same to ye, Father, I think I'd better go check with Lord Hugh first.”

  Father Bryce gave an impatient-sounding huff. “Very well, my son. If you feel you cannot make this decision yourself, I quite understand...”

  A long beat ticked by before the chamber door creaked open. “Ye've got a quarter hour, Father, no more.”

  “Bless you, my son,” Father Bryce said as he and a slight-built, hooded monk crossed the threshold. “If you don't mind, this is a rather private matter.” That said, the priest pushed the oak panel closed on the knight's scowling visage.

  “Father Bryce,” Emmalyn whispered, greeting him warmly, though her gaze kept straying to the queer little fellow at his side. Fallonmour had only one priest and she had never heard of this Brother George, whose face was obscured in the deep cowl of his brown robe. “What's going on, Father? Did Bertie send you?”

  “Aye, my girl, she did,” the old priest whispered. “But we must act swiftly if we are to get you out of here. Come the both of you, move away from the door.”

  She did as instructed, watching in astonishment as 'Brother George' removed his concealing vestments and within scant moments stood before Emmalyn as Nell. The young maid was garbed in a russet wool tunic much like the one Emmalyn wore now, her blond hair plaited in a single braid that fell a scarcely discernible inch or two shorter than Emmalyn's own locks. “Put this on, my lady. Hurry!”

  Caught up in the rush of the moment, Emmalyn hastily donned the hooded robe while Father Bryce began to recite from his Bible in Latin, speaking loudly enough that it surely carried under the door to the guard on watch. While he did this, in a voice scarcely above a whisper Nell endeavored to explain the plan for getting Emmalyn out of the castle. “You will leave this chamber dressed as Brother George, exiting with Father Bryce through the postern gate of the keep--”

  “But to get to the back stairwell will mean passing the chamber where Hugh is stationed,” Emmalyn argued. “We will never get past him. He'll not trust this disguise--”

  Nell shook her head. “We have seen to that already, my lady. The postern is the only way out of the castle, unless you think it safer to walk past the guards in the gatehouse.”

  “No, 'tis too great a risk to walk out in plain sight. I agree, the postern is the only choice.”

  “Father Bryce has arranged to send you to the abbey in Wexley, less than four hours away. The queen's bishop is in summer residence there. Tell him your plight; he will see to your safety and get word of Hugh's defiance delivered to London.”

  “But what about Cabal?” Emmalyn asked frantically. “What about you, Nell? What about everyone else at Fallonmour? I cannot simply leave to save myself when Hugh will doubtless wreak vengeance on the rest of you for aiding in my escape.”

  Nell simply stared at her without responding but in the next instant, Father Bryce whispered urgently, “There is no time, ladies. Nell, take your place beside the bed. Lady Emmalyn, kneel before me and bow your head as if in prayer.”

  They no sooner had positioned themselves as Father Bryce had instructed, their backs to the door, when the panel yawned open and the guard cleared his throat over the priest's murmured prayers. “Ye've had long enough to counsel the lady, Father. Out with ye now, the both of ye.”

  “Continue your prayers, my lady,” Father Bryce instructed Nell as he rose to his feet. “God be with you, child.”

  “And with you, Father,” Nell said softly.

  “Come along, Brother George.” Emmalyn felt the priest's hand clutch her wide sleeve, and before she knew it she was crossing the threshold of her chamber with him, walking out into the corridor, head bowed, delivered one step closer to freedom. One step farther from Cabal. “This way, Brother,” Father Bryce said when Emmalyn stopped in the hallway, considering what lay ahead of her.

  With a guiding tug and a shuffling, hasty gait, the old priest led her down the torchlit corridor toward Garrett's solar, the room Hugh had commanded for his own upon arriving. The door was open wide, light spilling into the hall. It felt vaguely familiar to Emmalyn, hearkening back to a night when she had crept along this same space of floor, inching her way toward the room that Cabal had slept in.

  As she approached the open chamber now, led by the hand by Fallonmour's clergy, to Emmalyn's amazement, she heard the same female giggle that had so wrenched her all those nights ago. Jane's giggle. Followed by an interested male growl that could only belong to Hugh.

  “Oh, my lord!” Jane cried in a wanton purr of delight. “Such wicked things you do to me! Once more, I beg you!”

  “As you wish, my greedy little wench,” Hugh said.

  Father Bryce slanted Emmalyn an uncomfortable look, cautioning her back as he peered around the edge of the door. Evidently satisfied with what he found, he waved her forward. As Emmalyn sidled past, she could not resist a quick glance within.

  It was difficult not to laugh at the sight that greeted her. Jane reclined atop Garrett's desk, looking thoroughly bored, her bodice half-open while Hugh sprawled over her, feasting on her neck and bosom with blissful abandon. The sly maid held his head to her as if she meant to prevent him from looking up at an inconvenient moment. She met Emmalyn's wide-eyed gaze and winked at her, a gesture of sheer, unabashed feminine conspiracy.

  Returning the maid's broad smile, Emmalyn passed the doorway and followed along down the passage after Father Bryce. Within moments, they had snaked down the back stairwell and out of the unguarded postern gate. Once on the other side of the curtain wall, Emmalyn paused. She looked back at the tower keep, at the dim candlelight glowing from within her chamber and the stone castle that was her home. If she left now, would she ever see it again? Would she ever see Cabal?

  “My lady, go,” Father Bryce urged. “You mustn't tarry--'tis too dangerous for you! Your escort awaits at the village chapel. Go now, my lady!”

  Emmalyn jumped into action, speeding down the back side of the castle hill, taking care to keep silent and run swiftly, lest the guards on watch spy the small blotch of darkness traversing the plains and gullies and heading pell-mell for the village. She reached the small chapel nearly out of breath, her heart pounding, throat burning.

  James, one of the two Fallonmour knights who had returned with her from the market, stood armed and holding the reins of his destrier. A gray palfrey was saddled beside him and ready for Emmalyn's use. “I am to take you to Wexley abbey posthaste, my lady. We should be there before matins if we leave now and encounter no delays on the road.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured, almost dizzy from the pace at which these events
of the past few hours were transpiring.

  As James grasped her waist to help her mount, Emmalyn began to think about all she was leaving behind. Not just Cabal, but everyone at Fallonmour: Bertie, Wat, Father Bryce, Nell...even Jane. All of the people who had become such vital parts of her life. And then there were the villeins, the folk who worked her lands and filled her coffers and her stores. How could she just walk away from them? How could she leave everything she loved without a true fight?

  Father Bryce said to plead her case to the bishop, but what sort of case did she really have? Just her word that the queen had granted her the rights to Fallonmour; she had nothing to prove it. Even if he believed her and sent word to London, how long would that take? Days, certainly, but more likely weeks. Mayhap months. And in the meanwhile, she would seek to appeal to the bishop to return with her to Fallonmour forthwith to spare the life of her lover, the man who had confessed to killing her husband? He would think her mad.

  It would never work, and it was far too risky to attempt it when Hugh planned to see Cabal dead in the morning.

  That, much more than the thought of being carted off to Wales to wed the beast Hugh described, weighed heavy on her heart. Somehow, her future seemed less important if she was to be forced to live it without him. Regardless that he had admitted to killing Garrett, regardless of his dark past and all that had gone between them, Emmalyn loved Cabal just the same.

  She loved him, and she determined then and there that she would have the chance to prove it to him.

  “James, wait.” When the knight turned to her, she shook her head. “I cannot go.”

  “Is anything wrong, my lady?”

  “Yes. Everything is wrong, and I can't leave without trying to make it right. Help me gather the villeins, James. Tell them to fetch torches, and every pitchfork, scythe, and cudgel they can find. Bring the supply cart around; we will need the weapons we bought at market, too. We'll assemble here in the chapel once everyone is present.”