Chapter 18

Eighteen

The vision of Rhiannon lingered, folding itself in and out of Elspeth's consciousness and space. Her sister's rueful amber eyes peered out between metal bars…

The piercing scent of sal ammoniac wafted into Elspeth's dream and she stirred, opening heavy lidded eyes, only to shut them yet again, and once again, the scent of sal ammoniac swept beneath her nostrils, removing the veil of slumber once and for all. She sat upright, crying out. "Rhiannon!"

"Nay, lass, 'tis but Alyss," Malcom said, urging her to lie back down, and then he told the anxious maid, "That will be all for now, Alyss. Thank you."

"I will be near should you need me, lord," Alyss said, and pinching her vial of sal ammoniac between her fingertips, she rushed away, casting Elspeth a worried glance.

Alas, Elspeth was far too unsettled to put the girl at ease. The door closed, and her hand grasped Malcom by the arm, pleading. "I must go back," she said, and suddenly, per force, she inhaled a calming breath and closed her eyes, shutting out the fear.

No, no, no, she thought.

Why did you do this to me, Rhiannon?

She was ensorcelled—rendered helpless. Every time she even thought about returning to Llanthony, she wanted only to sleep—and sleep some more.

And yet… it was a strange lethargy that crept over her body, not her mind. She was very much aware of every sound and scent surrounding her… the flickering of the torch in its brace, Malcom's unique male scent… He touched her hand, folding it neatly into his own, and Elspeth tried to squeeze it. "Elspeth?" he whispered, shaking her awake.

Elspeth's eyes fluttered open, focusing on the man whose glittering gaze she was coming to know so well—and then suddenly, she understood: Look to your champion, Rhiannon had said.

Malcomwas the only one who could help her now. Thanks to her sister, Elspeth couldn't go back to Llanthony, and, if she tried, she would make the journey like a sack of grain, useless to everyone. But he could.

Malcom could go there. She reached out, grabbing him by the tunic, clutching him desperately. And yet, frustrated and frightened over the consequences of telling anyone her deepest secret, Elspeth pressed her head back into the pillow, released him, and tried not to weep. Unbidden, she remembered the day her mother had abandoned them at the priory. Elspeth was eleven, Rhiannon was nine, Seren was only seven and the twins were six.

"See you do not reveal yourself, or you will endanger everything I've worked for."

"Aye mamau."

"Someday I will reward you, but only if you are good."

Elspeth had wondered then what terrible thing had she and her sisters done to be ushered out of their beds in the middle of night and hurried to some remote place where no one could ever find them. But, of course, her grandmother had been a kindhearted lady. If she could be punished so horrendously in front of so many gleeful people, what chance had Elspeth and her sisters?

Betimes, Elspeth could be wicked, so her mother said. She did things she wasn't supposed to do—like sneak into the kitchen for bits of food for her sisters and fire the torches in the nursery because Seren was afraid of the dark.

"You are the eldest. 'Tis your responsibility. I have assured one and all that my mother's wickedness has not spread to me or my daughters. Do not be tempted, Elspeth. Be certain your sisters are never tempted."

"Aye mamau."

And still she persisted. "Remember what happened to your grandmamau? This, too, will be your fate, and my fate, should you ever dare to defy me."

"Aye mamau."

"You will burn," she'd continued angrily. "They will tie you to a wooden stake in front of all those laughing people, and no matter how you weep, they will burn you till your skin turns black and blisters off your bones."

"Aye mamau."

She squeezed Elspeth's hand very cruelly. "Do you mean to bring your sisters harm?"

"Nay, mamau.

"Do you want to burn?"Elspeth didn't answer quickly enough, and she squeezed her hand tighter and harder. "Do you?"

Elspeth swallowed, remembering her grandmother's screams.

Nay Mamau!"

And all this while, as Elspeth was so diligent about keeping her sisters from indulging in the Craft, her mother was practicing the worst of the hud du.

Morwen was no White Witch. She was a child of the Death Crone whose beauty was only a glamour. She was a monster—a heartless, greedy beast. And this was an untenable position to be in—to have glimpsed such terror, and to know that a pythoness held her sisters' destinies in her hand. Sweet, sweet fates! How could she ever have abandoned them? She was the eldest, and as the eldest she was responsible for them. She should have never allowed Rhiannon to convince her to leave. And now she wondered how much Rhiannon had known of their mother's crimes. Her sister had been so desperate for Elspeth to go, but she must have believed she had it all in hand—or at least that's what Elspeth hoped. Only now she wondered: Was it her intention all along to save them, and face Morwen alone?

Swallowing her grief, Elspeth understood now that their mother would stop at nothing to see her will done—including invoking the most hideous hud du. She had seen that clearly enough, and since none of her sisters would ever dare pay any such a price for the use of dark magik, none of them had any true recourse to fight Morwen alone.

Now Elspeth was at a loss as to what to do. And it wasn't enough to simply warn them. She must find a way to remove them from the priory before Morwen arrived to claim them, and to do so, she must trust in Malcom's good will—a man she had never set eyes upon before two days past.

Look to your champion…

Clearly,she was tormented, Malcom realized as he watched the play of emotions cross Elspeth's features. But why?What could he do to help? More than any other time in his life, he felt driven to serve. Anything—literally anything he could do, he would, and he must.

But hadn't he proven as much?

Inexplicably, his own father could be dying, and, yet, he was here, with her…

Nay, it wasn't merely that he was enamored of her look, even though he was. And what a vision she was lying in that cloud of scarlet, her crimson dress pillowing beneath her.

"Elspeth," he said gently. "Do you know what ails you?"

She nodded, and Malcom suffered a moment of dread as he recalled her sleepy demeanor over the past few days. It was as though she'd suffered some sleeping sickness.

He had taken her brusque manner as a matter of consequence of their meeting, but, in truth, he was no less ill-mannered when he awoke in the mornings. And now it seemed to him that she was perpetually waking, and she was either ill, and she knew it… or… maybe… breeding…

Carrying d'Lucy's bairn?

Christ, no, please!

Of course, neither option appealed to him, and if the latter were true, he would be forced to reconsider his position. For all he knew, d'Lucy was an honorable man—as honorable as he could possibly be as a commander of the Rex Militum. He was more honorable than Malcom, in truth, because Malcom was certain the man had never murdered his own grandfather.

And regardless of who might be the better man, far be it from Malcom to keep any man from his own bairn—not even if the mother should be Elspeth… not unless she had a very good reason.

And then another thought occurred to him: What if the child wasn't d'Lucy's? Betimes women were cloistered when a child was conceived without benefit of marriage. Was this even possible? He'd heard so many tales of ladies who'd been cast away by their families or kept hidden until the unwanted child could be born.

But none of that made sense, because all five sisters were sequestered together, not only Elspeth. They couldn't all be breeding. And yet, as much as he loathed to ask, he felt he must. "Is it possible you could be with child?" he asked, holding his breath for her answer.

"Nay!" she cried, and Malcom was instantly relieved to see her color. "I am not," she said, with such consternation and surety that he felt reassured.

But something was wrong. He could see it in the depths of her bonny eyes and sense it in her demeanor. "You can trust me, Elspeth. I have pledged myself to aid you."

He spoke his next words from the depths of his heart. "I will be your champion," he said, and then again, to be sure she knew he meant it. "I will be your champion, Elspeth."

For all the sins he'd ever committed, Malcom was determined to do right by this woman. Leaving her to fend for herself was simply not an option, nor did he trust Beauchamp with her welfare. And still she seemed unwilling to speak.

"Elspeth?" he pleaded.

She turned watery eyes to his shoulder, avoiding his gaze. "I'm afraid," she said, and then swallowed. "What ails me… is naught so simple as a babe."

And her gaze lingered over the spot where Malcom's wound had once been… and it struck him then… the impossible truth.

Elspeth healed him. How was that possible? It was as though she'd done so by witchery.

And the answer entered his head, unbidden. Because that was the answer: witchery.

He'd met a woman in Scotia once; her name was Una. Much like Elspeth, there had been something surreal about her—nothing he could put a finger to name, but if you were around her for any length of time, strange things occurred: rising mists, objects appearing in one place when you left them in another, and generally small things that defied explanation but were too mundane to worry over. Ever since meeting Elspeth, there had been a number of unusual occurrences—like the clearing of that fog in the woods, and the simple fact that she had predicted it so easily—as though she had known… or perhaps even conjured it.

But, of course, those things could easily be explained away as luck or coincidence… except the wound on his shoulder… and if wished to pretend it didn't happen, he had the damaged hauberk and sherte to prove otherwise.

She seemed so reluctant to continue, so Malcom reached out to clasp her hand. "Tell me what ails you, Elspeth…"

You would not believe me.

Malcom blinked, hearing that voice again… that strange voice he'd heard that morning in the woods—a soft murmur that sounded more as though it were a memory of a whisper at his ear. He did not avert his gaze. "I would," he said, responding, as though she'd spoken.

Surprised, her gaze snapped up to meet his. Her pupils widened, then darkened, and for a long, long instant, the silence in the room was deafening.

At long last, she turned away from him, and said, "Morwen… she's my mother. She's?—"

Malcom sat straight, daunted though he hadn't anticipated it. "I know who she is," he said. And still, as stunning as her disclosure might have been, he never expected what she revealed next.

"My father is King Henry."

Malcom blinked. "Dead King Henry?"

Elspeth nodded, furrowing her brow, her lips thinning with displeasure. "My sisters and I have been sequestered for thirteen years, forgotten, until now that my mother has use of me."

Henry, Henry?

Not that Malcom meant to give her pause, but he allowed his hand to fall away from hers, only considering the king who'd once abducted him from his home as a wee boy of six. Henry Beauclerc was the reason Malcom agreed to fight Matilda. He could not in good conscience back a king—or queen—who would stoop to such an ignoble deed as to wrest a child from his home and use him for politikal means. It was also why he'd never felt any compunction over not serving David. The two kings—brothers by law—had schemed to put Malcom into Henry's court so they could barter with Malcom's father. Say what they would about Stephen, the man had a far nobler sense of justice, even if his virtue might, in fact, be responsible for prolonging this untenable war. But, least he didn't have the blood of women and children on his hands.

Elspeth's confession explained so much: her betrothal to d'Lucy, as well as her aversion to Stephen… and now he recalled what she'd said that morning he'd met her in the woods: My fath—Henry would turn in his grave to hear you say such a thing. She had evidently meant to say my father. Malcom had been too dull-witted to catch her slip. But, of course. Why else would five girls be ensconced in a well-endowed priory in Wales—a monastery run by King Henry's old chaplain?

"And your sisters?"

She nodded again, though now she would not face him, perhaps afraid to meet his gaze. "We are all daughters of Henry," she confessed. "Daughters of Morwen. Daughters of Avalon as well." And then she buried her face in her hands and wept.