Lady of Valor Read online

  “Blackheart, is that ye?”

  Rannulf. Cabal knew without turning around that the dirty beggar could be none other than his comrade from Palestine. The very same soldier who had been present in Garrett's tent that fateful night in September of last year. The one person who, whether Rannulf knew it or not, held the power now to destroy Cabal.

  Hoping his expression was one of cool dispassion, Cabal faced him. “I think you've got the wrong man, friend. Mayhap too much ale has impaired your eyesight.”

  “Nay,” Rannulf said, shaking his head. “Nay, 'tis ye all right. Do ye not recognize me, Blackheart? 'Tis me, Rannulf! God's bones, but I know ye remember me!”

  “Sorry, no. I'm certain I have never seen you before.” Eager to be rid of him, Cabal hoped the easy boon of a handful of coins would send Rannulf away. He opened the purse and dug around for a sum large enough to keep the mercenary mindlessly drunk for the better part of the day. “Here. Take this and be gone. 'Tis more than you asked for.”

  Rannulf took the offered coin but it only seemed to put the glimmer of greed in his red-rimmed eyes. “Why do ye refuse to acknowledge me? Ye know who I am, Blackheart, just as I know ye.”

  “Get out of my way, drunkard, before I decide to move you myself.”

  The mercenary scowled. “Ye say you don't know me? Why, then, are ye suddenly moved to give me five sous to send me away?”

  “Do you need more?”

  The question caught in Cabal's throat, betraying the stifling press of panic closing in on him. He was trapped in a conversation he would pay anything to avoid. He knew it, and so did Rannulf. The mercenary grinned, a nearly toothless mockery of good humor.

  “Ye've certainly done well for yourself, Blackheart. Half the men in our regiment came home to starve and scrape out a living on a land bled dry to pay a king's ransom. But look at ye. Fine silk clothing, well-shod feet, a purse nearly fat enough to choke an earl.”

  Cabal cleared his throat. “I have neither the time nor the interest to stand about arguing with you, man. You've got your coin, now take it and get out of my sight.”

  “Why, Blackheart, ye look as if someone has just tramped over yer grave. What are ye so afraid of?” The mercenary chuckled, rubbing two of his silver pieces together. “More to the point, what are ye willing to give me to keep my silence?”

  The threat was more than Cabal could bear. He drew his dagger and flew at Rannulf, pressing the lethal edge up against the mercenary's neck. “I said, you are mistaken,” he bit off tightly. “You do not know me. Don't force me to convince you.”

  He eased off and left Rannulf coughing and sputtering behind him. Shaking from the confrontation, his mind spinning to calculate the many possible ramifications, Cabal stalked away, praying as he had never prayed before that his implied warning would be taken seriously. Now more than ever it was imperative that he get Emmalyn out of this place and back to Fallonmour. Before she learned the entire ugly truth, and this damnable situation blew up in his face.

  * * *

  Emmalyn left the goldsmith's stall, dejected. She had hoped to find something unique for Cabal among the expensive trinkets and bejeweled items for sale at the market, but nothing caught her eye. Nothing seemed quite special enough. She turned back up the street in lethargic disappointment.

  From within one of the stalls she passed along the way, a merchant called to her. “'Tis far too lovely a day to look so sullen, my lady. Mayhap I have something for sale here that might cheer you.”

  Emmalyn smiled at the kind-faced old man and started to shake her head. Then she saw his vast array of leather-bound tomes and beautifully crafted tablets. Ever fond of reading and learning, she found herself drifting over to the bookseller's stall with little reluctance, willing to browse, if only for an indulgent moment or two.

  “What do you like to read, child?”

  “Everything,” she answered, marveling over the intricately tooled leather binding that covered an illuminated manuscript of the Book of Psalms. Beside it was a text on herbs, the pages painted with illustrations depicting various plants and trees and spelling out their many healing qualities. “These are beautiful volumes, all of them.”

  “Ah, you see?” He clapped his hands together in apparent delight. “I told you I would have something here to cheer you. Which of these might you like to take away with you this morning, dear girl?”

  Emmalyn laughed at how the twinkle in the old man's eye had gone so swiftly from kindness to commerce. “'Tis tempting, I assure you. But I am not looking for anything for myself today. I was hoping to find a gift for my...for my friend.”

  “And what better gift than a book?” enthused the old man. “A wise choice, my lady. Something for your friend to enjoy time and time again.”

  Regarding him wryly from under her lashes, Emmalyn quipped, “You, sir, are attempting to charm me out of my money.”

  He chuckled good-naturedly and came off his stool to stand before her. His movements were careful, halting with a pronounced stiffness of the joints, and when he selected a slim volume out of one of the stacks and presented it to her, his gnarled, thin-skinned hands shook with the tremors of advancing age. “Mayhap your friend likes flowers, my lady? This is a lovely text devoted to pleasure gardens. I obtained it last summer while I was visiting on the Continent. I've whiled away many an hour perusing this book. In all honesty, I would miss it dearly, however, I reckon it would please me more to let you have it today for ten sous.”

  Emmalyn shook her head gently. “Thank you, but no. I don't think my friend would be much interested in flowers or gardens. Although he does enjoy tales of travel and adventure,” she added, recalling Cabal's fondness for both subjects.

  “Does he now?” the bookseller asked, his rheumy eyes lighting up, but whether it was from Emmalyn's casual admission that her friend was a man, or the merchant's anticipation of a pending sale, she could not be certain. “Travel and adventure, travel and adventure,” he mumbled to himself as he turned and thoughtfully scanned his inventory.

  Having gathered an assortment of texts, he came back to where she stood. One by one, he went through them, extolling their individual merits and listing their varying prices. Although each was lovely in its own right, none moved her enough to retrieve her coin.

  “What is that one over there?” She pointed to a handsome volume that had been uncovered when the seller brought her the other books to consider. Rich enameling and precious gold leaf adorned the top of the deeply carved tooling on its leather cover, twinkling in the morning sunlight.

  “Ah,” the old man sighed. “You have fine taste, indeed, my lady. That is a history book, copied from a text commissioned by the first King Henry some two-score and ten years ago. 'Tis the most exquisite--and the most costly--item in my collection.”

  “May I see it?”

  “Of course.”

  His step growing more spry by the moment, the bookseller retrieved the ornate volume and presented it to her. Awed by its beauty, Emmalyn admired the cover in breathless wonder before opening it to the text within. “'Tis about the kings of England,” she mused. Carefully, she turned the crisp parchment pages, pausing to admire some of the colorful illustrations and exquisitely scribed passages.

  “'Tis an historic account primarily, but you will find 'tis also filled with tales of adventure, my lady.” He flipped the pages and spread the book open for her at a certain section, gesturing to a painting of a handsome, golden-haired monarch. “The great king, Arthur, was among the most daring rulers who ever lived. Why, I warrant the stories of his times alone are well worth the price.”

  “King Arthur, did you say?” Emmalyn's heart soared. Could there be any more perfect gift for Cabal? “I must have this book. Please, how much is it, sir?”

  “As I cautioned you, my lady, it does not come cheaply. I'm afraid that a book of this quality and import could sell for no less than a livre...”

  Dieu! She could buy the finest-bred ram and ewe at market wi
th that much silver. Nevertheless, she poured out her coins, hoping she had enough. She counted out her money, aware that the old man was adding up the sum right along with her.

  “I only have a marc and three sous,” she said. For a fleeting moment, she considered trying to find Cabal to retrieve her purse, but if she wanted to surprise him with the book, the transaction would have to take place now. “I do not have nearly enough.”

  The bookseller stared down at her handful of coins, stroking his chin. He looked about as disappointed as Emmalyn felt, pursing his lips and letting out a weighty sigh. Then he gently closed the book and tucked it under his arm. She was almost tempted to grab the tome away from him when he abruptly turned and carried it to the other side of his stall, delivering it far out of her reach. His back to her, he took a length of fabric from a shelf beside him and wrapped it around the precious volume, perhaps to place it in safekeeping for another customer, one who could pay him what it was worth.

  Feeling worse now than if she had never seen the book, Emmalyn put her money away. “Thank you for your time, sir,” she said as she started to leave the booth.

  “Just a moment, my lady,” the bookseller called.

  She looked over her shoulder and frowned in confusion. In his quaking hands was the book, swathed in linen and tied securely with a length of twine. The old man held it out to her, smiling warmly. “Today is my last day at market, you see. This eve I shall have to pack up all of these heavy books and carry them back home with me to London. I reckon I would rather lessen my burden and know that I made a lovely lady happy this morn. Will you take this book for a marc and three sous, my lady?”

  “Yes!” Emmalyn cried, spilling her coins in her haste to surrender them to him. She scrambled to catch them all and placed the sum in his pale, wrinkled palm. “Thank you so much! 'Tis more than kind of you to offer.”

  Chuckling, he pocketed the money and gave her the book. “I only hope your friend enjoys your gift as much as I have enjoyed meeting you, my lady.”

  Emmalyn clutched the prize to her bosom, her heart nigh to bursting with gratitude and joy. “He will be very pleased, I'm sure. And I will treasure your generosity always.”

  With an elated wave of good-bye, she left her new friend and hurried back up the street, anxious to meet Cabal and start home. She could hardly wait to give him her present. Her head was so filled with joy and pleasant ruminations over how he would react to an entire book devoted to his childhood heroes, she almost did not hear someone calling her name.

  From the vicinity of a silk trader's stall, the hail came again--a dulcet female voice rising over the hubbub of the crowd. “Emmalyn! Emmalyn, for Heaven's sake, please wait!”

  Unable to escape the inevitable encounter, Emmalyn turned to greet the young noblewoman. From the clutch of drably-garbed people crowding the streets emerged Lady Josette of Beaucourt, a vision of wealth and style--from the top of her gossamer-veiled brunette head, to the hem of her flowing kirtle of rich forest green silk. She rushed forth and embraced Emmalyn, pressing a quick kiss of greeting to each side of her face.

  “I wasn't sure I would see you,” Josette said breathlessly. “Did you receive my letter, Emmie?”

  “I did, yes.” Emmalyn nodded, smiling fondly to see her sister, even if she had hoped to leave Lincolnshire unnoticed.

  “Well, I do hope you had planned to come visit me while you were in town, and not slip in and out without a word as it seems you fully intended to do,” Josette scolded lightly, sounding years older than her two and twenty summers. “When did you arrive?”

  “Yesterday,” Emmalyn said, “but I'm afraid I cannot delay overlong; in fact I'm off to meet my traveling party now. We depart for Fallonmour later today.”

  Josette gave her a perfect pout. “So soon? You must stay a while with Stephan and me at Beaucourt, Emmie! Queen Eleanor herself is in the shire and expected to attend our feast on the morrow's eve. Pray, tell me you will stay! It has been so long since I've last seen you.”

  “I'm sorry, I cannot,” Emmalyn said, wishing she could spend some time with her sister, yet knowing that her first obligation was to Fallonmour. She gave Josette's hand a gentle squeeze. “I'm afraid I have lingered overlong as it is. I should well be on my way.”

  “Then at the very least, I shall walk with you and say good-bye as you leave,” Josette offered brightly. A snap of her slender fingers brought two of her maids scurrying to her side. “Besides, I want to show you what I purchased today.”

  Nodding, Emmalyn linked arms with her sister and they started back up the street, heading toward the abbey where Cabal had likely been waiting for some time already.

  Behind the two sisters, following in their wake at a deferential but protective distance, were Josette's maids and several men-at-arms come from her entourage. A long-limbed page rushed forth from the group, carrying a portable awning of sorts. It was evidently his foremost duty to see that his lady's fair skin did not burn in the mid-morning sun, for he trotted along at Josette's side like a puppy, his every attention fixed on keeping her head covered in shadow.

  Emmalyn walked beside her sister, feeling rather like a peasant next to the queen. Yet for all her pomp and grandiosity, Josette remained sweet as an angel and entirely unfazed by the flurry of attentive activity--to say nothing of the number of people--that her going to market seemed to require.

  “Aside from spending far too much on Stephan's favorite spices,” Josette confided in Emmalyn as they strolled the avenue, “I indulged terribly and bought three large bolts of sendal, imported from Sicily. Emmalyn, you'll simply not believe the colors to be had this year! There is scarlet, of course, and various shades of blues and greens, but the most exciting find by far--and, indeed, the most costly--was the violet. Can you imagine? Oh, would that Mother were still alive. How she would have adored a gown of purple silk!”

  “Yes, she would have,” Emmalyn agreed.

  Their mother had passed away peacefully some years before at the ripe old age of two score and seven. Thinking on her now made Emmalyn reflect a bit sadly on family and life. She had long missed her mother's counsel, but took some comfort in the fact that she had her sister beside her now. Before she could stop herself, Emmalyn had blurted out the circumstances of her recent widowhood and the pending dispensation of Fallonmour.

  “Oh, Emmie, I'm so sorry!” Josette grasped Emmalyn's hands and brought them tightly to her chest. “I know that yours and Garrett's was not an ideal match, but how awful this must be for you, so recently widowed. And here I am, prattling on about silks and gowns and spices. You must think me terribly insensitive.”

  “No,” Emmalyn soothed, patting her hand. “I don't think so at all. You could not have known.”

  It seemed she was always calming Josette, from the time they were children. Emmalyn's sister had been a sunny child, the elder, but highly emotional and quick to burst into tears over the slightest worry. Having grown up coddled and protected, Josette could have easily become a spoiled shrew, but instead she had blossomed into a lovely, delicate flower whom no one begrudged for her fragility, even now.

  “Whatever will you do, Emmie? Is there aught that Stephan and I can help you with? Do you need anything at all?”

  “No,” Emmalyn said, shaking her head. “Really, I am managing well enough, Josette. Please don't fret over me.”

  “Don't fret? I can't imagine what I would do if I should ever lose Stephan. Oh, Emmie, you must feel so terribly alone.”

  “I was long used to being on my own, even before,” she admitted gently. “And I am not entirely alone now. The king sent one of his finest men to watch over my safety and that of Fallonmour. Sir Cabal has been a great help to me and the rest of the folk since his arrival. He is...a very special man.”

  Josette's brow creased slightly. “Special...? Perhaps I should meet this man, Emmie.”

  Emmalyn felt a blush creep into her cheeks at her sister's knowing tone. “There he is now,” she said, spying Cabal as h
e paced along the outside wall of the abbey.

  The closer they got, she could see that he was agitated about something, wearing a track into the earth where his boots had tread back and forth apparently countless times. He looked up as they approached and began to hasten forward, only to stop short a moment later when his gaze lit on Josette and her entourage.

  “I am sorry if I kept you waiting overlong,” Emmalyn said as the group of them drew closer. He greeted her with a polite nod, saying nothing as the group of them approached. Emmalyn had never seen so much stress in his features. Cabal's mouth was a tight line, his eyes warily assessing the approaching clutch of guards, his forehead creased with a frown. “Josette, Lady Beaucourt,” Emmalyn announced, gesturing to her sister, “meet Sir Cabal.”

  “Good day, sir.”

  Josette bestowed on him one of her guileless, dazzling smiles, but Cabal seemed wholly unaffected. He offered a perfunctory greeting, then stared at Emmalyn as if he wanted to pull her aside and scold her for her tardiness. Instead, he handed her the coin purse and cleared his throat. “The armorer is holding our supplies, my lady. All we need do is retrieve them and we can be on our way.”

  “I have been trying to convince my sister that she should stay and visit with me, Sir Cabal,” Josette interjected with a sly look in Emmalyn's direction. “She seems to think that she cannot afford so much as a night or two away from Fallonmour. I tried to tempt her days ago with an invitation to attend a grand feast I am hosting at Beaucourt, but not even the promise of the queen's attendance has been enough to persuade Emmalyn to come. Perhaps you can convince her that a short visit away from Fallonmour's worries will do her good, Sir Cabal.”

  Cabal looked from Josette to Emmalyn. “I was not aware that my lady had kin in Lincolnshire,” he said, eyeing Emmalyn suspiciously. “Nor did I know that Queen Eleanor was expected in the area.”

  “I would have told you--” Emmalyn began, but he cut her off with a stony gaze.

  “Perhaps we should stay, my lady.”