Page 80 of My Warrior
Holden wondered how much longer she could last. He poked at her a few times with his sword and kept his shield low, drawing her hesitant attack further and further afield, until Owen’s eye was drawn well away from the main gate.
High above the glen, peering down at the scene that was like the unfolding of an unfamiliar play, Owen cackled with merriment. This was even better than he’d anticipated. True, his original plans had been turned awry. He’d expected Holden to kill his wife. But this development was quite provocative.
By some miracle, Cambria was about to slay her husband. Owen prayed she’d unmask as he lay dying, so that Holden would go to his grave in eternal shame. Once Cambria was victorious, Owen could rightfully claim Blackhaugh. Best of all, he’d still have that ballock-swelling wench to do with as he wished.
The thought made him quiver. Once she was healed of those bruises and properly muzzled, the Scots wench was comely enough to stretch a man’s chausses to bursting. Of course, he’d have to keep her hidden from Aggie. But if he liked, he could lock de Ware’s bitch away indefinitely to use at his pleasure. He rubbed his groin absently with the thought of such heady power.
Distracted by fantasies and riveted by the curious battle below, Owen didn’t notice when, one by one, a half dozen de Ware knights stole off toward the main gate.
Cambria swallowed back the bitter bile rising in her throat. Something must be terribly wrong with Holden. This predicament seemed impossible. He was the Wolf de Ware. No one could defeat him, least of all her. He was limping badly, but still he fought as a ribbon of blood trickled down his side. Her arm was jarred by a swipe of his shield, and she labored to steady her blade, but she couldn’t summon up the desire to return the blow.
“Just a moment more, Cambria,” Holden rasped, leaning heavily on his shield. “Come on. Where’s that hot Gavin temper?”
Cambria blinked back the moisture blurring her vision. Her poor husband could barely stand.
“Fight me,” he insisted. “Fight me for the generations of your clan who warred, sweated, bled for this corner of the earth. Fight me for your father’s sake, for the sake of the Gavin.”
His words at last stirred her heart. Lifting her chin, she faced him squarely, dredging up her Gavin pride for one last assault.
Sparks shot out from her blade as it met his, and the clang of steel on steel rang on the air like bells tolling a violent Mass. She attacked him with all the might of her wronged ancestors, the blood rising in her like a vengeful sea.
Holden let her come, holding off her vicious onslaught with his shield, until he saw his man wave from the curtain wall. Now he could finish the masquerade.
He launched a final furious attack, his blade flashing like lightning all about Cambria, but never touching her. Then, when he seemed to have gained the upper hand, he let his sword slip from his fingers. It sank in a hopelessly slow arc to the earth.
Too late, Cambria glimpsed the falling blade. There was nothing she could do. Her own blow was already struck. There was no way to stop the descent of her sword toward his body. No time to turn the weapon aside.
CHAPTER 16
Time dragged to a shrieking halt in Cambria’s mind. Her blade seemed to caress Holden as it sliced through his hauberk and across his ribs. She stared, aghast, as he slowly staggered back, the front of his armor defiled by a broadening stain of hideous red. He reached up to stanch the flow of blood with a single mailed fist, and then stood for an awful, eternal, pained moment before succumbing to the forces of the earth’s pull.
When he fell, she cast her sword away as if it were some vile snake. She had been prepared to die, but she’d not been prepared to kill. Her heart wrenched painfully, coldly enveloped in a cloud of profound emptiness and silent despair, until a mournful cry broke through the mists.
It was Sir Stephen, bent over his lord in anguish. “Nay!” the knight raged, his fist accusing the very heavens.
Then he turned to her, resting his full gaze, icy and damning, upon the foe who’d felled his beloved lord. She didn’t cower from his regard, bearing her guilt with numb acceptance. Neither did she flinch when his sword pricked at her throat and his steely fist roughly seized her arm. Her spirit was sick, her will to live vanished. Her soul grew as cold and silent as the grave.
And then a horrible sound rose within her steel helm, a soft keening that blossomed into a wail so deeply despondent that all who were near crossed themselves superstitiously. She wondered vaguely who was making such an anguished noise, wishing it would stop.
Stephen whipped his head around sharply. That voice! He stared at his captive, trying in vain to see through the shadowed slit of the knight’s helm. But even blind, he knew the voice of a woman. The blood stilled in his veins. Suddenly it was clear to him—who the champion must be and why Holden had given those orders.
Before anyone else could catch on to the deception, he had to stop her wailing. With a grimace of regret, he cuffed her, just hard enough to startle the sound from her. Then he hurried to do his lord’s bidding, picking up her sword, leading her away from the field of battle and toward the wood.
From his perch, Owen whined in protest as his Scots prize was abducted under his nose. “Nay!” he shrieked. “You can’t take my…my champion!”
“You have the castle!” her captor roared back. “You’ve won Blackhaugh! The knight is ours!”
“But…” Owen began, and then he decided it was no use. He’d been confounded on two counts—de Ware had never discovered his slayer, and now the wench was lost to both of them. At least, he consoled himself, he’d won Blackhaugh. He also held the hostages, and while Holden de Ware was no longer alive to demand them, someone would pay to see them come to no harm. His mouth watered as he thought about the vast wealth of the de Ware family that had fostered him.
Stephen knew, cleaving to Lady Cambria’s side as she stumbled along, that if he didn’t guide her, she’d wander aimlessly off, so deep was her despair. He pushed aside saplings crowding the path so the branches wouldn’t slap her, though from her eerie, detached silence, he doubted she’d even feel them. They waded through the brambles to a stand of maples whose bright-leaved limbs made a thick canopy overhead.
Stephen cast a wary eye behind him to be sure no one followed. Then he sheathed his sword and led her gently along the overgrown trail. As they progressed through the densest part of the forest, past groves of massive oaks and ancient conifers, he periodically stopped to bend the branches of the trees into the letterH,the discreet mark Holden and his men had used since they were lads. Holden would find them easily.
At last, they entered a clearing in the wood where an old diseased pine had toppled amidst a circle of its companions and a little light filtered down through the interwoven branches. He halted Cambria, grasping her shoulders in concern.
“Lady Cambria?”
She gave no response, and her arms were limp under his fingers. He longed to reassure her—what hell she must be suffering to believe she’d slain her husband—and yet she had willingly engaged in the fight. Besides, it was not for him to conjecture or elaborate upon the succinct instructions Lord Holden had given him. He was to keep her safe and secret, no more. He moved away, kicking in frustration at a tuft of dead moss clinging to the decaying log, and then cleared his throat.
