Page 73 of My Warrior
“Sheisoutspoken, Majesty,” he agreed, trying for a casual air as he sipped his morning wine, “but I assure you, she merely wags her tongue about fanciful notions, as a woman will, and calls them fact.”
The king nodded, but didn’t look entirely convinced.
Holden hated lying to him. Indeed, he believed nothing of the sort. Cambria’s opinions were as valid as any. It was true that for the Scots, putting Balliol on the throne was an abomination. But telling Edward so would profit nothing. And now he had to persuade the king that such notions were simply idle chatter on Cambria’s part.
“She battled with the sword forthrightly enough,” Edward challenged, his eyes never leaving his own goblet.
“She has some background in warfare,” he countered, “but I fear her father was neglectful of her studies in diplomacy and courtesy.”
Edward pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I trust, then, you will endeavor to educate her in the subtleties of court behavior, the dangers of wagging tongues, and so forth?”
Holden restrained a sigh of relief. “Aye, Majesty. Already I’ve sent her home, and she no doubt stings from that rebuff.”
A smile teased the corners of Edward’s lip. “No doubt.” He stood and turned to go, then caught himself. “Have you found the traitor spy yet, de Ware?”
“Not yet,” Holden answered tightly. “We think he may have joined the Scots rebels.”
“Hmm, slippery eel.” The king’s eyes glittered with a trace of mockery. “Do you need…help, Wolf? I can lend you some of my men if you…”
Holden straightened. “That won’t be necessary, Majesty.”
“Well, when you do find him, bring him to me, will you?” He drained the last of his cup. “It’s always best to make an example of traitors.” Bitter pain flickered briefly in Edward’s eyes, and Holden wondered if the king was remembering Roger Mortimer, his mother’s lover, whom he’d executed a few years past for treason.
“Aye, Majesty.” He inclined his head in farewell as the king turned to leave.
“By the way, I’m glad it’s you who will tame the Scots wench,” the king said over his shoulder, surprising him. “She’s a spirited mare. You’ll calm her spirit without breaking it. Good luck, de Ware.”
Holden looked after the king in wonder. Sometimes His Majesty could be quite insightful. Then again, hadn’t Edward just said he was pleased that Holden would be the one to…tameher? He barked once in laughter at that thought. Edward was mistaken there. Cambria Gavin would never be tamed.
For three days following Edward’s departure, Holden’s men maintained a watch over the land in the event renegade Scots again made attempts to challenge the English occupation. But time dragged its heels, and Holden grew as impatient as a boy hauled to Mass. He was bored by the inactivity, curiously restless. And his relentless pacing through the camp annoyed his fellow knights, who claimed they knew the name of his torment better than he did.
It was her, he finally admitted. It was that stubborn, soft, raging, gentle, reckless, beautiful Scots witch. And he was little better than a yoked ox wearing a rut around a mill wheel as he lumbered helplessly around her memory. She antagonized him, certainly, drove him half-mad with her intrigues and insults. But he’d begun to grow accustomed to this new field of battle. His mind was primed for the fight. He missed her, his little warrior, and although the thought was selfish, he began to regret sending Cambria away.
It was while he was idly grooming Ariel, imagining in vivid detail his return to his wife’s side, that a young messenger arrived, agitated and out of breath.
“Lord Holden?” the boy gasped.
Holden turned. The message in the lad’s eyes was unmistakable. For a moment, his heart stopped. Every sense was as keen as a new-honed knife.
“Cambria,” Holden breathed.
It was a statement, not a question, and the messenger looked puzzled for a moment. “Aye, my lord. How did you know…?”
Dread stabbed its icy blade into Holden’s chest, twisting mercilessly at his heart.
“Sir Owen has her, my lord,” the boy told him, “at Blackhaugh.”
“Owen is at Blackhaugh?”
“He’s taken the castle. He said I was to tell you—“
Holden heard nothing else. Shite! He’d sent his wife into the arms of the enemy.
“My lord?” The boy looked up at him expectantly.
Holden clenched his jaw, becoming a cold-blooded warrior. His eyes grew alert, resolute, and as dispassionate as the wolf’s on the hunt.
The messenger drew back a pace and made the sign of the cross. Holden armed himself, filled a satchel with meager provisions, and mounted his stamping charger. Then, leaving instructions with his men to break camp and follow as soon as they could, he rode off in a spray of dirt and pebbles that sounded eerily like the rattling of dry bones in a grave.
