Chapter 20

Twenty

Driven by something he could not explain, Malcom returned to the bed, putting a hand to Elspeth's cheek as he asked, "Could you see me as your lord husband, Elspeth?"

"What are you asking, Malcom?"

Of course, he was asking her precisely what it sounded as though he were asking. He would protect her in truth. He would give her his name. If, for whatever reason he did not return from Wales, he wanted Elspeth to have somewhere to go.

He stared at the girl he'd known for so short a time, suspecting that nothing that had transpired since the morning he'd met her was an accident. He was meant to be with her, and if he did not believe this, he would not have claimed her as his wife. Those words had slipped from his tongue as easily as soap from wet fingers. So, yes, he wanted her to be his wife. On a whim, listening to his gut, he got up and pulled the ruined sherte from his saddlebag. He tore the hem into one long strip, then ripped that strip in half. Then, with both ribbons in his hand, he moved to the bed and sat so that he faced Elspeth. "I would give you the protection of my name," he said.

"What—"

He put a hand to her lips to hush her. "Listen to me, Elspeth. Only hear me out. I am a man unwed and now unbetrothed. I have spent the past ten years denying every bride's name put before me, and I have found fault with every lady with no just cause. When I so easily claimed you were my bride, those words came unbidden from my tongue, and I can only think 'tis because it is meant to be so." She stared at him, blinking, and he asked her again. "Could you see me as your lord husband?"

Wide eyed, Elspeth shook her head, but he sensed it was her confusion, not a denial, so he reached out to take her hand. "Be my wife. Wed me here and now."

"Malcom… I don't understand."

Malcom laid one of his ribbons over her wrist, leaving it unbound as he explained. "It is my people's custom to handfast. Whilst these vows must never be spoken lightly, they are lawful and true, and they are recognized by king and Church, so long as both husband and wife acknowledge they are bound." He handed her the other ribbon, entreating her to take it, and she did so, her eyes round and bright as heather.

"It was the same with my people in the old days," she confessed, holding her part of the ribbon before her, and neither did she shrug the one from her wrist. Malcom found himself desperate to convince her. "Men and women have been bound this way since long before there were priests in our land."

Elspeth held her breath.

Somewhere, deep down, a tiny bubble of joy formed—relief, but joy as well, though not merely because she would have a true protector. She did, indeed, feel bonded to this man—in ways she couldn't explain. But… what if this was all Rhiannon's enchantment, and he would come to regret it later? And yet, for her part, she could never regret doing aught to help her sisters. She would lay herself prostrate before king and country and readily sacrifice herself to save their lives.

But… this… this was hardly any sacrifice. Malcom was a man any woman would be pleased to wed—even Dominique had said so. And despite that Lady Dominique had accepted their news so easily, it was clear to Elspeth that the girl had very much relished the thought of a marriage to Malcom. She'd hoped so much that she'd gone so far as to sew him a tunic as a wedding gift… and then she so selflessly gave it to Elspeth to give to him.

Perhaps he mistook her silence for reluctance because he endeavored to convince her. He held up his ribbon. "This would bind us as man and wife for one year and one day. If you find yourself regretting the marriage, I will release you from your vows without question."

Married. Here? Now?

In the unlikeliest of places?

The notion was unthinkable. How could she have ever aspired to such a thing? Had Rhiannon known this would happen? Swallowing, Elspeth asked, "Are you not worried your king will be angry?"

"Are you?"

Elspeth shook her head quickly, for nay, she was not. She had no concern at all for what her cousin might or might not think of her. But that Malcom would do such a selfless thing for her—bind himself to her as a husband when it served him not at all. It made so little sense—no sense for him, but it solved so much for her.

And, of course, she was not a very good liar; if he would leave her in this place with Beauchamp, it would help to know they were truly wed. "Art certain?"

He smiled darkly. "As certain as any man could be who would wed a witch, though we haven't time to debate this, have we?"

Elspeth's face fell, so did her hopes. He'd said it as a jest, but it wasn't particularly amusing—not to her, not when the very notion of a witch brought out the worst in others.

Malcom reached out, lifting her chin. "In one year's time, we'll each have the means to end this, should we wish to," he promised. "But in the meantime, if aught should happen to me whilst I am gone, you should take this…" He removed the signet ring from his finger and handed it to Elspeth. "Take it to my kinsmen in Chreagach Mhor and they will know what to do to help you claim what is rightfully your due as my lawful bride."

Stunned, Elspeth took the sigil ring from his fingers, displacing the ribbon from her wrist. But Malcom lifted it up, handing it back to her, leaving the onus on her.

"If tis what you truly wish, I am grateful," Elspeth said gently. "I, too, promise to release you if it be your wish."

He smiled again. "Unless you have beguiled me, Lady Elspeth, I cannot see it will be so."

But that, in truth, made Elspeth long to cry. He was beguiled, though not by her. And yet, she could not turn him away when she needed his help so desperately. She nodded, knowing that once the time arrived, she would set him free.

He started to bind her wrist and Elspeth shook herself free. "Oh! Wait! Wait!"

If, indeed, this was meant to be, she would have him remember this moment as fondly as he was able. Remembering the tunic Dominique sewed for him, she scrambled from the bed to retrieve it from the chair where she'd placed it. And, as strange as it felt to be giving him a bridal gift from the woman he was supposed to have wed, she unfurled it to show him.

"A gift for you… from Lady Dominique." A match to the dress Elspeth had worn tonight, and it was only now that she saw them together that she realized they were meant to be a pair. She was wearing Dominique's wedding gown. "It seems oddly fitting you should wear it now."

Malcom lifted both brows but took the garment from her hands. He considered it briefly before setting it back down on the bed, and for a long moment, Elspeth feared he would rescind his offer, in favor of the woman who'd fashioned such a generous gift.

But then, he removed the tunic he wore, and traded his plain one for Dominique's finely sewn regalia. Once he had it on, he smoothed a palm over the embroidered front and said with a sheepish grin, "If I did not know better, I would think this preordained."

Aye, that, or her sister's spell had robbed him and Lady Dominique of their future together, but Elspeth dared not speak those thoughts out loud, lest he change his mind. He offered her his wrist and she accepted his offer, lifting up her ribbon to bind it around his wrist.

"Do you enter this union freely, bringing truth, love and trust?"

There was nothing in those words that gave Elspeth a moment's pause. "I do," she said, as she then wrapped her ribbon about his wrist, binding it with a knot. And then afterward, she offered up her own wrist, and asked, "Do you enter this union freely, bringing truth, love and trust?"

Malcom lifted up his ribbon from the bed, wrapping it gently about her wrist and then tying it firmly with a binding knot. "I do," he said.

Fear makes the wolf bigger than he is.

—German Proverb

"Buryhim deep so he cannot claw his way out," I say, sensing Bran's presence. The raven is watching from his perch nearby, cocking his sleek black head at the gathering in this copse. "Not so deep you'll crush his bones, please." But I wonder: Will he suffocate? Fresh from my bath, the cool night air teases the still-damp wisps at my nape as I consider this possibility.

Mordecai suggests, "We can put him in a box?"

The innkeeper peers back at me in question, shovel poised in midair. "I've still the one ye asked me to build," he says timidly, and I smile, because it is his casket, made by his own hands—a task I set before him some years past to make a salient point.

"It'll do," I say, and add very sweetly, "You'll have plenty of time to build another."

"Aye, m'lady. Should I go get it?"

"Nay, my dear. I'll send Mordecai."

But I have no need to speak the command. Without a word, Mordecai turns and heads toward the stable, his gait unhurried. He knows the digging will be slow with only two men. It is not as though this is his first time.

"Aye, m'lady," says the gravedigger, and without another word, recommences shoveling. Following his lead, the kitchen boy lifts his shovel as well, and the two men fall into a rhythm as ancient and titillating as a Beltane song.

Whoosht. Thwack. Crunch. Whoosht. Thwack. Crunch. Whoosht.

Their shovels, both in cadence, glimmer where the metal is worn to a shine—costly tools, used too oft to settle for cheap wood.

By now, the gravedigger has grown accustomed to this task, but tonight will be different. I want this man to remain alive, and more; I want him to be so very grateful for the gift of his life that he will serve me in perpetuity. I think of him rolled in his shroud, laying in a box, beneath the dark, cold ground, and I smile, reveling in the fear I know he will feel as heap after heap of soil is tossed upon his grave. Darker, and darker. Darker and darker.

Whoosht. Thwack. Crunch. Whoosht. Thwack. Crunch. Whoosht.

I fan myself over the thought, realizing that he must think himself dead already, because his muscles have been paralyzed to the point his lungs will not soon fill, and his heartbeat is so timid that his extremities are growing cold as the ground surrounding him.

I fiddle with my ring, thinking it past time to hunt more newts and moon snails. If this works, I will, indeed, have succeeded in creating the first of my meirw byw—my living dead. Men whose lives will be indebted to me and only to me. Men who will remember the utter and overwhelming terror of their own deaths and remember… always remember…

It is I who will resurrect him.

It is I who will return him to the cold, dark ground if he should defy me.

Of course, he'll never know 'tis a ruse. He will remain in that state of suspended animation until I return for him, aware of every lengthening second down in that deep, dank hole.

Whoosht. Thwack. Crunch. Whoosht. Thwack. Crunch. Whoosht.

I will be his delivering angel. I will be the one who returns him to the light, gently brushing the worms from his shroud. And he will love me, even as he fears me.

I shall be his Maker.

I spy fear in the eyes of the kitchen boy and realize he's seen too much. What a terrible pity. Alas, he refuses to look at me even though I stand half-clad, with my breasts high beneath my gossamer gown and my dark hair shining beneath the pale halfmoon. I sigh loudly. And soon enough, when Mordecai returns, wheeling over the casket, I wave him forward, and whisper quietly into his ear. "Let the boy finish, then dispose of him. I shall have no need of him, after all."

"Won't you be returning to your room for a bath, m'dame?"

"Nay," I say. "There isn't time. I would fetch my daughters and return before the poison fades."

"Very well, m'dame," he says. "I will see it done." And then he turns to leave as I hear a squawk from the nearby trees.

"Oh, and Mordecai… please see that Bran is fed."

As though he anticipates the feast to come, a shadow passes over the moon as my familiar, my sweet raven, Bran, soars overhead, wings outstretched.

Blooded biscuits are his favorite and there will be plenty to share.