Knights of de Ware 02 - My Warrior (32 page)

Holden climbed down from his steed, playing for time to think—bending to adjust a rivet here, examining the surface of his shield. All the while, Cambria stood absolutely still, one mailed hand resting on the pommel of her sheathed sword.

He flexed his sword arm, analyzing the situation.

Owen had sent Cambria out as his champion, no doubt assuming Holden would easily dispatch her. But to what end? Murdering his own wife would devastate Holden, ruin him in the eyes of the Gavin clan, and destroy his de Ware reputation. While Holden suffered in shame, Owen would be able to woo the king and perpetrate a permanent claim to Blackhaugh.

If such were indeed Owen’s purpose, it followed then that he had no intention of honoring his word whatsoever. He intended neither to release the captives nor to surrender the castle, no matter who won the fight.

Surely Cambria was aware that Owen sent her to her death. On the other hand, maybe that’s what she wanted. Maybe she intended to sacrifice herself to save her clan.

Damn, he wished Cambria would speak to him—a whisper, a curse, anything. He needed to know what was transpiring in that brain of hers.

Unable to stall any longer, he moved forward and unsheathed. The whisper of steel on leather seemed deafening on the pregnant air. Cambria drew forth her own blade, holding it before her with both hands. For a moment, she stood frozen, like a hart held captive in a wolf’s soothing stare before the kill. Then he brought his blade around easily, slowly, to test her.

Her block was sluggish. Whatever Owen had done to her in captivity had weakened her, and this enraged Holden. How he wished it were Owen before him. He’d cut the savage to ribbons.

Cambria frowned, disgusted by her pathetic block of his blow. Her arm throbbed faintly. The last few days had drained her strength. Now she doddered like a newborn foal. Damn it, she had to do better than this. What if, by some miracle, Katie revived to make use of those keys? Cambria had to summon up the strength to fend off Holden, at least long enough for Katie to free her clansmen. But how could she draw her blade against him when her heart wasn’t in it?

Spoiled goods,
she thought.
Keep the whore.
She let his brutal words fuel her power and lashed out at him with awakened fire.

Holden easily dodged the attack, gently turning her blade aside. She was going to tire herself too soon, before he had time to come up with a plan. He had to think quickly.

A small, subtle movement upon the rise of Blackhaugh Castle distracted him for a moment. Perhaps it was his imagination, and yet…

He maneuvered the battle so he could watch over Cambria’s head through the narrow slit of his helm. Aye, there had been movement! The great iron-bound gates of the castle were gradually opening.

He lightly batted at Cambria’s shoulder with the flat of his blade, and then blocked her sideswipe with his shield. Blinking his eyes to make sure he’d seen correctly, he looked again. A thatch of recognizably red hair poked through the crack of the gates. Robbie.

Fury bubbled up in him like boiling oil. Apparently Owen didn’t intend to fight fairly. He was sending the Gavin rebels out to slaughter him. Did the fool not know the de Ware knights would make minced meat out of the Scots lads? Or was that what he had in mind?

Cambria stumbled forward, and he caught her against his shield so she wouldn’t fall. Then he glanced again at the gates. Cambria’s maidservant, Katie, widened the breach of the door, and a second, third, and fourth face joined Robbie’s. They were unmistakably Garth, Guy, and Myles, looking none the worse for wear. A sudden rush of joy coursed through Holden’s veins. Bless the clever Gavins—while Owen was chortling gleefully above, someone had set his men free.

Holden turned his victorious shout into a snarl of rage and pressed his attack in order to distract any onlookers from what was afoot. Winning the hostages back, of course, did not in itself guarantee taking Blackhaugh without bloodshed, and he refused to spill the blood of innocent victims within the castle walls. He needed to send in a small party of men to reclaim the keep peacefully while Owen was distracted.

Cambria slashed wildly at his neck, and he deflected the blade. The solution came to him all at once. It called for a bit of drama and illusion on his part, playacting more suited to his brother Duncan. But such an unexpected twist might effectively draw Owen’s attention away. It might allow him to get instructions to his knights.

Cambria’s arm flagged again. He had to revive her spirits. His ruse depended upon her strength.

“Cambria,” he said softly, “I love you. More than life. But I want you to fight with me now. Fight with me as you’ve never fought before. Fight for the Gavin, and I swear I’ll help you save them.”

For a moment she stood stunned. He feared she wouldn’t be able to lift her blade again. Then she seemed to grow light, as if a burden had dropped from her shoulders. With renewed vigor, she lashed out at him like a sudden storm, her blade flashing like lightning as it attempted to strike anywhere it could. She advanced on him for the first time, and he retreated a few paces.

Cambria had prepared herself for Holden’s death blow. Scarcely able to gasp enough air in the close helm and with her muscles reduced to disobedient custard, she’d had neither the will nor the power to continue fighting.

But when Holden spoke to her, calling her by name, confessing his love, vowing to save her people, sweet hope filled her like a reviving nectar flooding her veins.

The hurtful words that had seemed so brutal before rang hollow in her ear. Of course. He’d used them as weapons to protect her. She understood that now. His offhand dismissal of her had made it easier for him to pluck her from Owen’s grasp.

Now he wanted her to fight him with all her might. Why, she couldn’t fathom. But she trusted him. When it came to warfare, she’d never seen a warrior with better instincts.

So she renewed her attack, and for a strange moment, seemed to take the upper hand. He cowered back. Then, in the blink of an eye, he lost his footing on the slick, dew-washed grass. By some horrible accident, he slipped onto her outstretched sword.

The blade severed the mail and slid over his ribs at the side. The sensation made Cambria suddenly nauseous. She couldn’t tell how deeply she’d cut him, but when she quickly withdrew her blade, it was stained with blood.

The cut hurt, much more than Holden had anticipated. He let out a cry of pain that was only half-feigned. But then he knew that believability was essential. The sting was a small price to pay for the safety of those he loved. He groaned again in pretended agony, stumbled, and fell heavily. He could hear the astonished squalling from Owen as the bastard’s plans were foiled.

Cambria faltered back, shocked. What had she done? Surely the turn of an ankle couldn’t have upset Holden’s keen sense of balance so completely. He’d virtually fallen on her sword. The thought made her stomach lurch dangerously. With the exception of Owen, she’d never seriously wounded anyone, and the sight of a man crashing to the earth by her hand dazed her. That her victim was her own beloved husband made her sink to her knees, unable to tear her eyes away from the sight of Holden’s blood smeared on her sword.

He was so still. Surely she couldn’t have slain him—the Wolf de Ware, who’d never been defeated in battle. Yet he lay horribly silent on the damp ground.

In the next breath, her view of Holden was blocked by his knights, who crowded around him in amazement and concern. Between their bodies, she could catch glimpses of his limp form as someone loosened and removed his helm. He looked groggy and weak, his lips trembling with each breath that rattled between them. Dear God, he must be hurt badly.

Stephen couldn’t understand at first what it was Lord Holden was saying as he bent his head close. He drew his brows together into a grim frown.

“Do not harm Owen’s champion,” Holden repeated tightly. Then, noting Stephen’s confusion, he said more distinctly, “Owen’s champion—protect Owen’s champion.”

Stephen wondered greatly at the lord’s words. Perhaps Holden was delirious from his wound. He cocked his head to look at Owen’s warrior, who knelt motionless on the sod. Then, turning back to Holden, he cradled his lord’s head in his arms and bent low to hear the balance of his instructions.

“It’s only a needle prick,” Holden whispered, “but you must let it be believed I am grievously wounded, near death.”

Stephen glanced at the slowly widening spot of blood staining Lord Holden’s tabard. He prayed the Wolf was right.

“The Gavins have breached the gates from the inside,” Holden continued. “Six of you steal into the castle and find Fitzroi. I’ll fight until you signal from the parapet.” He paused, gasping as a spasm of pain gripped him. “Then I’ll appear to lose the battle. And Stephen, you must take Owen’s champion into the forest, safe, away from the fighting.”

Stephen nodded, and then helped the fallen lord to his feet, fetched his sword, and replaced his helm. As soon as Holden steadied himself enough to face his adversary, Stephen began to pass a surreptitious message through the ranks, outlining the lord’s plans.

Holden took a shuffling step toward Cambria. “Arise, foe!” he called weakly. “I’m not yet finished with you.”

Cambria felt sick as she slowly got to her feet, as if she’d swallowed a great sack of sand. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen. Once, what seemed like a lifetime ago, she would have been glad for the opportunity to skewer the Wolf and hang him from the highest tower of Blackhaugh, but now she had no stomach for his blood. Marking his flesh with her blade was like cutting out a piece of her own heart. She couldn’t do it. She lowered her sword.

“It’s nothing, Cambria,” he whispered, “only a scratch. One I gladly suffer for the Gavin. We’re honor bound to fight. We can’t disappoint the bastard.”

Though she was sick at heart, she lifted her blade with leaden arms, shuddering as she saw the crimson lacing its edge.

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.

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.