Lady of Valor Page 18

  Hugh spat at the ground where Cabal's mount stood, then growled to his guard to return to the retinue. He threw a chilling smile at Emmalyn before wheeling his charger about and giving it an angry jab in the sides. The white steed thundered off at a hard gallop, and within moments both Hugh and his armed escort had rejoined the company on the south hill. When the band of Wardeaux knights began to disperse and retreat, a shout rang out from high atop the battlements at Emmalyn's back.

  It was a victory cry, she realized, feeling a mixture of startlement and pride as the jubilant clamor traveled the line of guards and climbed heavenward in a great roar. Somehow they had managed to send Hugh away--she, Cabal, and the garrison Arlo had once called pitiful. Though she was rattled from the confrontation, and well aware that there would be another to come, never had Emmalyn's heart felt so unencumbered.

  But when she looked to Cabal, she could not help noticing the firm set of his jaw or the way his narrowed warrior's eyes remained rooted on Hugh and his men, watching in cautious silence until they were completely out of sight.

  Chapter 16

  For the rest of that day and well into the next, all of Fallonmour--castle, courtyard, cottage, and croft--buzzed with the retelling of their lady's valiant stand against Hugh de Wardeaux. Cabal could go nowhere without being pressed by someone to recount the details of his own clash with Hugh, forced time and again to dispel the rumors that he had laced open the baron's throat, then sent him off with his noble tail tucked between his legs. The truth was hardly that dramatic, but the folk seemed disinclined to see it that way. He, Lady Emmalyn, and indeed, the entire garrison, had been lauded heroes of the day, the people's enthusiasm made all the more fervent for the preparations of the St. John's Eve festival taking place that very night.

  While the castle servants and village folk had been granted the feast day for themselves, Cabal had set the garrison to practicing in the yard. The men had taken to the task with very little grumbling and a visibly new sense of purpose. The old guards were puffed up and boasting of their faded reminiscences of past battle glories, while the squires and trainees were imbued with the brand of buoyant cockiness that every soldier feels before he is faced with the gravity of killing another man, or watching in horror as his own guts spill out of him onto the battlefield.

  Only Sir Miles seemed to share Cabal's unspoken understanding of what a future confrontation with Hugh would mean--for Fallonmour, certainly, but more to the point, for Lady Emmalyn. The old captain wore a sympathetic expression as he ambled over to where Cabal stood in the far corner of the bailey, mopping his brow on his sleeve after a vigorous bout of exercise with sword and pell. For the past hour, Cabal had been taking out his frustrations on the tall wooden practice post, leaving it scarred with angry hack marks and deep-cut grooves where his blade had bitten into it countless times.

  “I am glad you were so fast to turn me down this morn when I offered to spar with you,” Sir Miles said, handing him a clean, dry towel. “You nearly cleaved that pell in half; I shudder to think what you might have done to my brittle old bones, given the chance.”

  Cabal smiled despite the weight of his thoughts. In truth, he welcomed the diversion. Accepting the swatch of fresh linen with a grateful nod, Cabal dried his sweat-dampened hair and neck. “My apologies if I was curt with you this morn, Miles. I wasn't in much of a mind for company.”

  From across the courtyard, a ruckus drew Cabal's attention. Two pages had taken notice at the same time of his break in practice, and now, a brief but frantic scuffle was under way as both boys lunged for a pitcher of ale, each clearly determined to be the one to serve him. The older boy proved the faster, leaving the younger to sulk as he hastened over with refreshments. Cabal's murmured thanks might have been a blessing from the dragon slayer, Saint George himself, based on the awed expression of the lad when he heard it.

  “You're gaining quite a reputation,” Sir Miles remarked after the page had strutted back to where his companion sat brooding. “Fallonmour's own champion is what they're calling you about the castle and in the village. From the looks of your progress here this morn, I'd say it appears you are taking the role a bit too seriously, my lord. You're not planning to take on Hugh and his army single-handedly, are you?”

  Cabal shot the captain a quelling look. “You know as well as I do, Miles, that what we did yesterday amounted to a great deal of nothing. What Hugh saw was naught but a mirage, just as we had planned. Had he gotten any closer to the walls, or worse, had he decided to put us to the challenge then and there, I doubt very much that we could have held him off, even if we did outnumber him more than two to one.” Cabal shook his head, feeling the start of a headache pulse to life in his temples. “'Tis going to take more than a few dozen scarecrows to hold this keep when it comes under siege from Hugh.”

  “We've got at least another seven days before de Wardeaux can possibly return,” the captain argued, “not counting the time it will take him to assemble reinforcements. That leaves us plenty of room to prepare. Consider how far the men have come in just the short time you've been here.”

  “Not far enough.”

  “If yesterday's confrontation did nothing else, my lord, it bonded those men like mortar. Look at them.” Sir Miles gestured to the practice yard where the clash of swords and lances rang, along with shouts of encouragement and good humored gibes.

  The line between knight and peasant soldier had blurred considerably, to where at a distance, it was difficult to tell one from the other. Even Taggart had begun to cooperate with the rest of the men. The big knight had paused in his sparring to show one of the new soldiers the proper way to hold his weapon before continuing to demonstrate to three rapt trainees the side-to-side finesse employed when fending off more than one opponent.

  “They are working together now,” the captain said, “helping each other. Today they are a unit. Given another week's time, I warrant they will be an army.”

  Cabal chuckled. “When did it come to pass that you actually started believing in this plan, Miles?”

  He seemed to consider for a moment. “I suppose when I saw how much you wanted to believe in it. Those men respect you, as I do. They trust you to lead them; 'tis on you to trust that they will not disappoint you.”

  Smiling, Miles reached up and placed his hand on Cabal's shoulder the way a father might do to a favored son. The unexpected contact and, indeed, the fond regard, took Cabal wholly aback, both felt so foreign to him. Fear he had earned easily enough from the time he could first raise his fists to fight, but never had he known anything akin to the warmth of a father's pride, to say nothing of another man's respect.

  Stunned, he found he had no idea how to react. Something inside his chest felt squeezed and unfettered at the same time, the weight of some unknown yet compelling emotion pressing down on him until he could scarcely gather his breath. He didn't want to know this feeling; he wasn't sure he deserved it, and he certainly didn't need the responsibility of trying to uphold it. With a gruff murmured excuse to Sir Miles that he needed some cool water for the ache in his temples, Cabal left the training yard to search out the bailey well.

  The boy, Wat, was there when Cabal rounded the corner. He was struggling with the winch, trying without success to bring a full bucket of water back up the long distance of the well. Cabal hung back, watching quietly and reluctant to get involved. That is, until it appeared he would be waiting for his turn most of the afternoon did he not intervene. The third time Wat lost his grip on the handle and the bucket splashed back down into the water far below, Cabal cleared his throat.

  “You're going about that all wrong.” Wat startled upon hearing his voice and whirled around, red in the face and panting, clearly frustrated. He said nothing but gave Cabal a wide berth as he strode up beside him at the well. “The way you're standing there, before the winch instead of to the side of it, means you must work harder to bring the bucket up.”

  “'Tis how Thomas does it sometimes. I seen him.�
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  “Well, Thomas is stronger than you are. You need to put your body weight into it. Stand here.” Hesitantly, his brown eyes watching Cabal with guarded uncertainty, Wat inched forward to the place indicated. “Now grab hold of the handle with both hands.”

  “But this is how the maids do it,” Wat protested.

  “'Tis how you will do it, too, until you grow muscles enough to do it some other way. Now lean in as you turn the crank, and when you bring it forward, pull back using your weight as leverage.” Though clearly disgruntled to have to employ such an unmanly method to carry out his task, Wat did as Cabal instructed and in little time at all, he found success.

  “Much more efficient, was it not?” Cabal asked when the bucket cleared the top of the well. “Now fill your pail and go, so that someone else might have use of the water today.”

  Without a further care for the boy or how he had just dismissed him, Cabal watched idly as Wat transferred the water from the bucket at the well to the one he had brought from the stables. He returned the former in silence then quietly walked away. Absorbed in his own thoughts, Cabal assumed Wat had left the area entirely until he heard the child's voice behind him, a miserable, strangled-sounding croak.

  “Why do you hate me, Sir Cabal?”

  For a moment, Cabal did not move. Then, slowly, he turned to face the boy. God's truth, he felt like the worst sort of clod when he saw the hurt in Wat's eyes. He was small for his age--a number Cabal guessed to be somewhere near seven or eight--and he was painfully thin, wan, like the beggarly children of the foulest city slums. Wat's bruises were fading since he had come to Fallonmour, and Emmalyn had seen to it that he was clothed and groomed as fine as any of her castle pages. But underneath all of that, he was still a scared, insecure child, and from the first time he had seen him, Cabal had behaved no better than the most careless of noble brutes.

  Without waiting for an answer or a chance to be further abused, Wat turned to head back for the stables.

  “Wait,” Cabal called after him before he could scurry off. “How old are you, Wat?” The boy's brows crashed together and he shrugged. “You don't know?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Do you reckon you're old enough to ride a horse?”

  “Don't know, sir. I never done it 'fore.”

  “Never?” Cabal scowled faintly, considering. “Well, if you can bring my mount to me before I change my mind, mayhap I'll take you out and teach you today.”

  The instant the words were out of Cabal's mouth, Wat dashed off as on winged feet, sloshing water out of his pail in his haste and excitement to reach the stables. Cabal turned back to draw the bucket out of the well and started washing up, feeling a bit better for his offer to Wat. He supposed he owed the boy this small benevolence. For that matter, he supposed he owed it to himself.

  * * *

  A day of festival also meant a day without the castle folk about to tend to their duties. With the servants off preparing to celebrate Midsummer's Eve in the village, Emmalyn was able to enjoy an uncustomary quiet within the keep. There were none but she and Bertie to shake out the sheets and do the mending, and Emmalyn found the solitude a comfort. She had been aware of the garrison training in the yard for most of the morning, but the bailey had been empty now for some hours, save for the occasional changing of the guards stationed on the wall-walk. Soon dusk would begin to creep over the land, giving rise to the sounds of revelry from the village below.

  Already she could hear the rumble of laughter and men's voices carrying on the breeze as they prepared the bonfires that would light the night sky and fill the air with the heady aromas of wood smoke and seasoned roasting meat. As she did each St. John's Eve, Emmalyn had given the villeins enough mutton and venison to feed them all twice over, along with several casks of red wine and ale.

  But while the peasants would feast like lords, she herself made do with a light supper of cold meat and cheese, a meal she shared with Bertie in the women's solar. The sounds of festival churning outside, the old nurse had set aside the wool she had been spinning and went to the open window.

  “Oh! Look, milady,” she said on a laugh when Emmalyn made no immediate move to join her. “The men have just brought the wheel to the top of the south hill. Come quickly, milady, else you'll miss the turn of the solstice.”

  Emmalyn sighed and put her work down, crossing the room to stand beside Bertie at the window, even though the annual tradition taking place outside was quite familiar to her. The men of the village had set an old cart wheel ablaze and let it roll down the steepest hill. This not only marked the start of the night's festivities, but also depicted the coming change of seasons, for it was on this day that the sun reached its highest point in the sky. Like the burning wheel now descending downhill, so would the hours of daylight diminish as the summer gave way to autumn.

  “Time goes by so quickly,” Emmalyn reflected aloud, her voice scarcely audible amid the raucous din traveling up the distance from the village as the wheel reached the crowd at the bottom of the south hill. “'Tis hard to believe that tomorrow begins the start of the hay harvesting already.”

  “Aye, 'tis hard to believe,” Bertie agreed. “But that is tomorrow's worry, milady, not today's. Today you should follow your people's example and make yourself merry. Your troubles will be waiting for you in the morn, whether or not you stay up here brooding over them. Come with me to the celebration, child. 'Twould do your heart good.”

  Although it was hard to argue with Bertie's logic, and the offer to join the festivities was tempting, Emmalyn shook her head. She could not remember the last time she had attended one of the villeins' feast days. For her to go now, when she was yet being hailed by the folk for her stand against Hugh, would only make her the center of unwanted, and certainly undeserved, attention. “This is their celebration, Bertie, not mine. And please do not feel that you have to tarry about keeping me company when you really want to be outside with everyone else. Go on and enjoy yourself.”

  Bertie gave her a frustrated look but argued no further. She finished the rest of her wine and put away her spinning, then, on Emmalyn's reassurance, quit the chamber. Emmalyn remained at the window, listening as the woman's footsteps grew more distant in the corridor. Bertie would change into one of her better kirtles, Emmalyn knew, and she would spend the evening dancing around the bonfires and singing with the common folk as if she were a girl younger than Emmalyn's own twenty years.

  In truth, Emmalyn envied her folk that freedom, harboring a sudden want to be carefree and devoid of her responsibilities, even if just for a few hours. But thoughts of the confrontation with Hugh, as well as worries for what the future held, kept her heart heavy. Weighing on her, too, was the knowledge that if the queen entertained her request, Cabal would soon be removed from Fallonmour...perhaps removed from her life forever.

  No matter how hard she tried to convince herself that it was what she wanted--that it was what she needed to do, for herself and for Fallonmour--Emmalyn found little joy in the idea of Cabal's imminent absence. As it was, she had missed him terribly these past days. His determined aloofness tore at her deeply, but she could not bring herself to risk his rejection by seeking him out.

  Heavy with regret, Emmalyn was about to retire to her bedchamber when the rhythmic pounding of a nearing horse's hooves drew her attention to the window. Below, in the dusk-filled bailey, she saw Cabal, just returning to the keep. Seated before him on the destrier, and looking more spirited than she had yet known him to be, was little Wat. Emmalyn hid herself behind the stone embrasure and watched in curious silence as Cabal dismounted, then swept the boy off the saddle and set him on the ground.

  At first she wondered if Cabal had taken Wat out to search for his kin, but the boy seemed too animated for such a sober task. Wat chattered so fast it was impossible for her to discern a word of what he said. His excitement was unmistakable, however, as was his adoration for Cabal. Clutching a small object in his hands, Wat followed along like an eag
er pup while Cabal walked his mount toward the stables. Emmalyn waited for the knight to rebuff him, to brush him aside with the same disinterest he had shown the boy from the day he had first seen him.

  She watched, waiting for Wat's certain impatient dismissal, but it did not come. Instead, the both of them disappeared into the stables with the black steed and a few moments later, re-emerged looking like easy--if oddly mismatched--companions.

  Just then, Bertie came out of the castle and into Emmalyn's view. The russet samite gown she wore was at least a decade out of fashion but still fit her well. Emmalyn could tell from the elderly maid's sashaying steps that she felt feminine and pretty, despite the age of her person and her garment. Cabal crossed his arms over his chest and gave a low whistle of appreciation, a move that Wat promptly adopted for his own. Bertie cooed with delight at all of the attention, dropping into a clumsy curtsy before her two admirers.

  “And who might this fair maiden be?” Cabal teased.

  Frowning, Wat tugged on the hem of the knight's tunic. “'Tis Nurse, my lord! Can you not see?”

  While Emmalyn bit back her amusement, Cabal hunkered down to Wat's level, still smiling at Bertie. “Why, by the Rood, lad, so 'tis. Is she not the loveliest damsel you've seen all day?”

  Wat nodded enthusiastically, clearly willing to agree to anything the knight suggested. In the next breath, he rushed to Bertie's side and grasped her hand. “Sir Cabal learned me to ride a horse today an' I only fell off two times! He says someday mayhap I will ride good as him, an' look Nurse, see what he made me?”

  Wat held out the prize he had been cradling, a chunk of wood, carved in the shape of an animal. “Oh, my!” Bertie gasped as he waggled it before her, mimicking a beastly roar.

  “'Tis a lion,” the boy explained. “Sir Cabal seen a real one on Crusade.”