Page 71 of My Warrior
“Owen,” Garth said by way of greeting.
Owen grinned in friendship, the expression forced and oddly foreign. He shrugged. “I caught a Scots arrow.”
Garth glanced briefly at the bandaged leg. He was obviously not much concerned with Owen’s injuries.
“And Holden?” Garth asked, worry etched into his face.
Owen nodded. “He is well. He sent us to let you know the battle was a success. He’ll return shortly. In the meantime, we could use a bath and—“
“Of course.” Now that Garth’s fears were relieved, he remembered his courtesy and invited them within the walls.
No sooner had the doors thundered shut than the Scots drew their blades. Garth gasped as cold steel from more than one sword pressed suddenly and surely against his throat.
“I told you it’d be simple,” Owen chuckled to his cohorts.
“What is the mean—“ Garth began, but the nick of Robbie’s sword stopped him short.
Owen rubbed his hands together with glee. “Now we have only to wait for Lord Holden de Ware to fall into the trap.” At his command, the rebels pushed their quarry roughly into the great hall. “Not cut from the same cloth as your brother, are you?” Owen taunted. He hit mark—Garth’s face reddened in shame. “No need to explain. I know all about that.”
Within the hour, Garth, Malcolm, and Blackhaugh’s few remaining men-at-arms were safe under lock and key. Owen would just as soon have slain them all, for he was sure they could never be trusted to serve him. But he still needed to ally himself with Robbie’s men. In spite of their new loyalty to him, he supposed they wouldn’t look kindly upon the mass slaughter of their clansmen.
Robbie leaned back against the curtain wall, picking meat from his teeth with his fingernail. The once busy courtyard was now ominously still. Occasionally, a hawk swooped down at the castle or a woman skittered fearfully along a wall to pass by the rebels. His men strutted about, planning the overthrow with loud enthusiasm and punctuating their boasts with hearty slaps upon the back.
But from what Robbie could tell, Owen wasn’t concerned with the needs of the Scots rebels. Instead, he seemed preoccupied with the fates of Holden and Cambria. That didn’t sit well with Robbie. More than once, Owen had slipped and referred to Blackhaugh ashiscastle. To makes matters worse, the man was becoming more and more obsessive, possibly in part from the fever he suffered from his suppurating wound. The stupid man, Robbie thought—he’d lose that leg if he didn’t seek help for it. Still, there was something unsettling about the way Owen’s eyes gleamed with feverish light, something that seemed more lunatic than sickly.
In the end, Robbie decided nothing could be done for it. He and his men had passed the point of redemption. Their brash capture of Blackhaugh was a fait accompli, and, right or wrong, they’d have to live with that deed.
The campfire popped as King Edward tossed a stripped boar’s rib onto it, prompting a maidservant to fetch another. Holden looked down at his own half-eaten portion, unable to stomach another bite. The air was redolent with the scents of roast boar, pungent evergreens, and something else, something that made him seethe with silent rage—the stink of court intrigue.
His wife was embroiled in it now, the little fool, and she hadn’t the slightest notion of what she was doing. She was like a tiny water bug caught in an enormous whirlpool.
Cambria laughed again from across the fire. The sound was as dissonant to his ears as the grating of rusty mail.
At least, he had to concede, she hadn’t shamed him by her appearance. She looked absolutely radiant by the waning fire’s glow. The imp had stolen one of his own green velvet surcoats, cleverly slipped it over a borrowed kirtle, and girded it with his best silver chain. He had to admit his wife was resourceful, if somewhat less than scrupulous.
As he peered at her over his cup of ale, she smiled coyly at the king, playfully catching the sleeve of his garment. Holden ground his teeth together and clenched his fists against the urge to grab her and drag her forcibly away.
Guy leaned close to Holden. “She plays with fire, your wife,” he murmured.
“Aye.”
Holden’s fingers threatened to crush his silver goblet. Cambria was indeed playing a dangerous game for a person who’d never been to court, never encountered the intrigues and nuances of political conversation. The meddling wench thought to manipulate Edward with flirtation, to move him to empathy for the Scots. She had no idea what she was doing.
Of course, Edward lapped up the attention she paid him. He even appeared to consider her carefully couched suggestions. But Holden knew Edward. Once the king’s mind was made up, nothing would steer him from his purpose.
“What will you do?” Guy muttered.
Holden bit the inside of his cheek. He didn’t have an answer.
Guy took a large swig of ale, and then set his cup down with a decisive thump. “She’ll brand herself a conspirator against the Crown,” he grumbled, “and take the house of de Ware down with her.”
Holden nodded. Those had been his exact thoughts. He finished off his own ale in a single gulp and rose to approach the king. If he couldn’t silence his meddling wife, then he’d just have to remove her.
He greeted Edward with a bow and his most charming smile. “Majesty, your hospitality has been most warm and welcome. But I fear my old warrior’s bones grow weary. By your leave, I will take my lady and retire for the evening.”
Cambria stiffened as he dug his fingers pointedly into her shoulder.
Edward pouted. “Would you take the spark from our fire?” he asked, pretending offense.
