Chapter 14

Fourteen

He sat, staring at her expectantly, and Elspeth flushed so intensely that she was forced to shrug off his grandfather's cloak and lay it down on the bed, suddenly much too warm.

And, then, inexplicably—considering that Beauchamp was already gone, and Malcom had already seen her dressed this way—she felt vulnerable and far too aware of the unflattering way she was dressed, perhaps in part due to the fact that she was now expected to play the role of his lady wife. So, then, as surprised as she had been by his declaration, she trusted there must be a reason.

Betimes people behaved inexplicably, particularly when listening to their gut. She and her sisters betimes behaved irrationally, and it nearly always had to do with a glimpse of the sight, subtle as Malcom's may have been. Normal people might not have visions as clearly as a dewine might, but they too had instincts that drove them—not that they always listened.

Obviously, he did not like this lord of Amdel, and perhaps not the sister either. And if the sister was anything like her brother, Elspeth could well understand why.

She furrowed her brow. Could they dare fool this lord? What would Malcom tell him? And if anyone should ask how they came to know one another, Elspeth herself would have little to say.

I peered longingly into his sea-green eyes and heard a call from Ersinius' men that made me cast myself into his arms. Pshaw!The very thought brought the faintest smile to her lips, but, of course, she daren't make light of their circumstances. It could all go very, very wrong.

Malcom sat relaxed in the chair, and now that Beauchamp was gone, his aura returned to normal, albeit with tints of green now. Those who bore any shade of the forest in their ambience could be loyal and generous, but they did not suffer fools very gladly. This rang true of Malcom, even despite that she'd known him such a short a time.

And nevertheless, both times, when facing Beauchamp's men and then Beauchamp himself, she'd sensed a darkness in him, and she suspected he could be capable of atrocities just the same as anyone else. The minds of men were often changeable, and the consequences could be disastrous.

Not for the first time, he seemed to guess what was on her mind. "I'll tell him as little as possible," he said. "But how should I say we met?"

Confused, Elspeth sat on the edge of the bed, crossing her arms, considering the consequences of revealing herself to Malcom. She desperately wanted to tell him everything but dared not… the words wouldn't come.

She couldn't see her own aura, but she had been told hers was pink and green, which was much to be expected for a dewine. Dewines were natural healers, highly intuitive, with a strong affinity for the Craft. Pink was also the color for those who bore the blood of Taliesin. In days of yore, there had been many, many of their ilk, all known to one to another by their colors. Now they were dwindling in numbers. And soon, they, too, would go the way of the faeries—like so much vermin. One after another they were being exterminated. So, now, how could she dare reveal herself to this man? She opened her mouth to speak and swallowed her words.

"Elspeth…" His eyes beseeched her as he rose up from the chair. "Only give me munitions I will need to aid you."

Watching her intently, he came forward, lifting up the cloak she'd discarded on the bed, bringing the garment to his nostrils, and breathing deeply of its scent—her scent, for she'd been the last to wear it. For some strange reason, that simple gesture made Elspeth shiver and it set her heart to pounding. "I… I am sorry," she said, her brows slanting.

Alas, he was right. The lord of Amdel would surely expect their company once they were rested, and if Elspeth allowed Malcom to face that man again without greater knowledge of her predicament, they could easily raise suspicions…

And to that end, she thought perhaps she'd hidden her tunic well enough, though it wasn't very likely Beauchamp had missed her breeches. So much as she might have liked to toss the entire ensemble into his garderobe, she knew that wouldn't serve her. The last thing she meant to do was alert anyone from whence she'd come—and, yes, of course, she understood why Malcom needed to know more, but what could she say now that could come close to appeasing him… and still guard her secrets? "My mother would have me wed a man I cannot abide," she said, at last.

He arched a brow. "D'Lucy?"

Elspeth peered up at him in surprise. "H-how… how did you know?"

He offered a slow smile. "Ach, lass, ye're not sae difficult to read, ye know. I sensed your distress every time I mentioned his name."

Elspeth blew out a sigh, and continued, despite that she meant not to. "'Tis not the lord of Drakewich, but another."

"Cael?"

Elspeth nodded. "Aye."

And now he whistled low, then sat beside her on the bed, allowing a moment for what she'd told him to settle into his bones. "I suspected as much but hoped I could be wrong. So then… your mother would have you wed the new lord of Blackwood?"

Elspeth nodded yet again.

"And your sire?"

There could be little harm in sharing this truth. "My father is dead," Elspeth confessed.

"So," he said, trying to make sense of it all. "Stephen has consented to this marriage to d'Lucy?"

Feeling like a child discovered at foul play, Elspeth nodded yet again.

And once again, Malcom whistled low, then shook his head. "My Da always said I had a bent for trouble," he told her. But then he grinned, as though to reassure her and he pushed his grandfather's cloak behind her, rising from the bed. "Done is done," he said. "Somehow we will make it right."

"Will you leave me here at Amdel?" Elspeth asked, afraid that he meant to wash his hands of her now and abandon her to Beauchamp—and his sister, with whom Malcom was no longer betrothed, thanks to Elspeth.

"Is that what you would have me do?"

Elspeth shook her head, as it was the last thing she could want. She needn't consult any knuckle bones to know that anything having to do with Beauchamp could only lead to disaster. He had that quality about him, and she was still unnerved by the aura of this castel, despite that she didn't feel so overwhelmed now that she was inside the dwelling itself. And nevertheless, this place—this pile of stones—could only be that way if it had long been the receptacle for evil.

"Never fear, then. I would not abandon you."

Elspeth exhaled a breath she hadn't realize she was holding as she watched Malcom return to the table and lift up the glass he'd sipped from only moments before. Only this time, instead of spitting out the contents or setting the glass down with a sour face, he tossed the entirety of it down his gullet, and then poured another and drank that one down as well.

"So, then… what will you tell this lord of Amdel?"

He swallowed a third glass before answering. "I'll know when it comes to mind," he said. "In the meantime, you should get some rest."

Stronger than lover's love is lover's hate.

Incurable, in each, the wounds they make.

—Euripides

Named for the surrounding woodlands,Darkwood Inn lives up to its name. The number of its years in existence equal the number of years of Stephen's reign, but it appears far older. The interior pillars are filled with knotholes and greying with age.

The innkeeper here is the third to serve, and he's as discreet as he is loyal, toiling behind his bar, waiting for his cue. If he were not loyal, I would suck the life from his body and leave him for a dried-up carcass, in the same manner a locust discards its shell, only to find itself no more than dust beneath the hammer of a fist.

So I sit here at my favorite table at the back of this familiar tavern, resting, though not ready to choose. Tonight, there are two offerings, both comely, if boring. But then, again, they are all boring to me—Henry, Stephen, Eustace, every man the same but with a different face.

The last I knew worth his salt was my Emrys, my lover, my dear brother.

So then, which to choose?

Which to save for later?

More to the point, I wonder which of these men might be persuaded to linger, because I fully intend to make another stop on my return to London. Only then, I will be in the company of three of my daughters, excluding Rhiannon.

I fiddle with the ring about my forefinger, the one I always wear. It was my mother's ring, though Morgan preferred to fill hers with coltsfoot, so she could see any time she pleased without her scrying stone. I have found another use for the receptacle beneath the obsidian stone. It is rare that I can find time to slip away for a treatment, so I must come prepared. This ring contains the most precious of my grimoire's recipes—an ingredient for deathlessness, so powerful that a small pinch in my bath will extend my youth. And more than a pinch… well, let us say… I have ideas.

Using this particular recipe, my great, great grandmother lived to be two hundred and twenty years old. She would have lived much longer had she not found herself an enemy to Orkney's King Lot. Three generations of Morgans followed thereafter, none worthy of the name… until me. Pity that my mother's oversight gave me another name… but tis appropriate, don't you think?

Morwen. Maiden.

I smile serenely, in love with myself and pleased with my progress. I will be a maiden for all eternity, with skin softer and suppler than my daughter Seren's.

Alas, poor sweet Seren—I smile more deeply—perhaps my most beautiful daughter will discover a bit of irony in wedding a beast… someone beneath her… someone who offers me great riches and power… but hideous to awake to. I will arrange this. But later.

Right now, I study my choices: One man wears a doublet, with chainmail gussets sewn into the vest and the sigil of his house emblazoned on the front— a golden two-headed falcon with a maxim that read Altium, citius, fortius.

Swifter, higher, stronger…

How swift would he be if I should happen to drop my spell of glamor and show my true self? I laugh inwardly at this… my breasts quaking with amusement, for not even my own daughters could possibly anticipate the truth: I am seventy years old—my mother's age when she died. And, aye, she had me when she was but twenty, and spat my brother out one year later, before letting her womb rot and die.

I did the reverse. I let my womb lie fallow until I grew older… wiser…. I had my first-born child at the age of forty-six—older than my lover, and he never knew it. I bore Elspeth to bind him to me, and then, I was weak, allowing Emrys to get me with child—and oh, how my brother loved this news, even as I lamented an end to my plans. But life gives us choices, does it not?

Alas, my Emrys is gone—his bones resting in a reliquary—and one day, I will hand them to my daughter Rhiannon, because it will please me immensely to show my little girl how the weak should end. I will tell her all about the father she never knew, and how he died, and she will fall to her knees and weep… but I tell you what she will not do: She will not embrace the Death Crone's rage. This is why my daughters will ever be poppets, made to serve my needs. The thought alone makes me happy—truly happy—for the first time since learning Elspeth ran away.

Ungrateful little bitch.

She could have had so much. She could have slept in the high priestess's bed. She could have cast her spells into the Witch Goddess's cauldron and she could have ruled Blackwood in my stead.

But nay! Oh, nay! She would prefer—what? A life on the run? With no safe harbor? Ever? Because some day, I tell you, England will, indeed, hand the crown to a lady… and that woman will be me, not Matilda. I have a hundred lifetimes to see it done… little… by little… by little.

One man across the room peers at me now—the one with the doublet—and I am drawn to him. I think about Blackwood. I think about Rhiannon and decide that she's the one who should inherit Blackwood anyway—for her father and for me—although my second eldest first requires a lesson in obeisance.

Annoyed now, I am compelled to retrieve my scrying stone… to look and be sure my will is being done. But I am equally hungry for something else… and the night is no longer quite so young.

The other occupant of the room is a kitchen boy, taking his supper. The innkeeper hired the boy to keep him about as a second choice, but it is my experience that boys like that are never good to keep after a letting. They run their mouths. They run away.

Unfortunately, the other choice seems antsy. Apparently, he's a deserter, who, rather than meet his fate at the end of a sword blade, fled the battle. Luckily for me, the innkeeper has a reputation for helping unfortunates find a way across the narrow sea.

Calais. Calais. The sanctuary of the hapless.

Considering the deserter now, I fiddle with my ring, wondering over the spell I've been meaning to try… and thinking, down in my bones, now could be the time.

Daw is his name.

Daw.

In my native tongue, it means beloved one.

Come here, my beloved, I say without moving my lips.

Blinking, the lad peers up from his tankard, glancing in my direction—fair-haired with bright blue eyes, like a Viking. He'll do, I decide, and push my hood back, allowing him to see me for the first time. But, of course, he cannot resist, for I am a siren. I am a Goddess. I am lust incarnate.

I meet his gaze, and revel in the bright red aura of desire that ignites about him like a glorious flame. He arises from his bench and the youth in him warms my blood. My nipples pucker, and my hand falls beneath the table, sliding beneath my robe; I am famished.

"Hail," he says.

"Halloo, Daw."

In my peripheral, I see the innkeeper comes out from behind the bar and taps the kitchen boy on the shoulder to draw him into the back room as Daw seats himself in the facing bench before me. His cheeks are flushed, and his brow is moist with sweat, but his eyes are filled with lust while mine are filled with bloodlust. My aura draws his in, black swirling tendrils furling about the bright red desire, and sucking it hungrily inside the black.

"May I buy you an ale?" he says, but I know all he has in his purse is a single coin he was given by the innkeeper for cleaning the stable.

"What a dear, dear man," I say with a warm smile.

I shed my cloak now, revealing myself to his lustful gaze. "I am Morwen," I say silkily, and the Crone in me revels behind my shy Maiden's smile.