Chapter 23

Twenty-Three

Elspeth awoke before the cock's crow.

She dressed again in the pale-blue gown Dominque had loaned her because she felt overdressed in the scarlet. Had the sendal not been so diaphanous, she would have made do with that alone, because, in truth, even the blue gown was more luxurious than any dress she'd ever owned. Made of linsey-woolsey, its design was simple enough, but the seams were delicately sewn, with exquisite appliqué about the sleeves, hem and bodice. Although Elspeth didn't care much for the cut of the bodice itself, it was little more revealing than the scarlet she'd worn. And regardless, it was better than the Llanthony tunic she'd arrived in.

However, it seemed to Elspeth that Dominique's brother shouldn't encourage such immodesty in a young woman. If, in truth, this was now the style, it would be difficult for Elspeth to grow accustomed to it, having lived so long in a priory. Especially now, having been in William's presence and noted his lechery, as far as she was concerned, it was ill-advised to tempt a man she did not intend to wed, and for Elspeth, there was only one man she ever cared to entice.

Malcom.

Where are you?

This was a first for her: pining over the company of a man—and, nay, it hadn't nary as much to do with her sordid predicament as it did a simple, but overwhelming desire to see him—to see with her own two eyes that he was unharmed.

Somehow, over such a short time, she had swiftly grown accustomed to Malcom's company, and the precious moments they'd shared the night before he'd left were sweet enough that she could have languished in his arms.

He'd snuggled himself behind her, holding her close, and she'd fallen asleep with his hand clasping hers. As little as she'd ever trusted anyone except her sisters, she knew the disparity of trust even more acutely now, with the shadow of the lord of Amdel hanging over her shoulder—that man, she did not trust at all.

Intending to make her way into the garden to pass her time, Elspeth didn't wait to be called upon by Dominique or Alyss. She hung her makeshift purse on her belt and tied a single ribbon about her thick hair to keep it from her face whilst she toiled in the garden.

Anyway, she was annoyed. Those two silly chits had imbibed too much the night before and both had stumbled away from the hall, giggling like little girls, leaving Elspeth alone to entertain Dominique's strange brother.

All those presentiments she'd had upon arriving at Amdel had come crashing down, leaving her ill at ease the entire evening, and hardly in any mood for drink or banter. If anything, she'd found herself growing more and more vexed at Dominique for her unwavering naiveté, despite that she realized it was a function of her age. But, of course, she must think everything beautiful, everything magical, and everyone honorable—including her lord brother.

Fie on that man!

Just as soon as William had become preoccupied with a serving woman—so much for his attachment to Alyss—Elspeth slipped away, none the wiser, and ran to hide in her chamber, wishing Malcom would hurry back—and more, that when she opened her eyes, he would be there already, lying beside her.

Not for the first time, she tugged at the ribbon tied around her wrist, pulling it between her fingers, before tucking it away inside her sleeve.

Last night, for some odd reason, she'd been compelled to hide it, despite that she doubted the lord of Amdel would even comprehend what it meant. Handfasting had never been much of an English custom. And regardless, even if he could perceive it, there was no one to say they'd not handfasted long before arriving at Amdel. Even so, she was embarrassed that he so obviously believed Malcom had married her only because he'd "put a babe in her belly." Clearly, he thought her unchaste, and ready to try another man's favor. The very thought of it sickened her belly.

If only he knew: Elspeth had offered herself up for Malcom's pleasure and he'd put her aside without so much as a thought—it was only now that this simple truth began to gnaw at her.

Did she not appeal to him? Was he perhaps struggling with whatever feelings her sister had imbued in him—or did he somehow realize that, without the enchantment, he'd no more embroil himself in this mess than he would have kissed Matilda's feet?

Rhiannon, she said, furiously. Oh, Rhiannon!

Of course, she expected no response, and neither did she receive one.

Still, she was vexed with her sister for having beguiled a man—a good man.

And regardless, had she not taken the chance to do so, where would Elspeth be now? Stranded in the woods in Wales, or caught and returned to the priory to face her mother's wrath?

Ambivalence was her constant companion—but where were her sisters right now?

With every minute that passed, she worried all the more. Had Malcom arrived at Llanthony in time? Did he have any opportunity to speak to them? Would he be successful in saving them? Had Ersinius somehow discovered Malcom's intent and had him arrested? Could Malcom, even now, be caught in shackles? And what about her sisters? The questions were as endless as her worries.

She thought about the dream she'd had of Rhiannon in the tumbril and shuddered.

But perhaps that was only a dream, for Elspeth had never, ever had much of the sight, and there was nothing to say this vision had been aught more than a terrible fantasy wrought by her tired and anxious mind.

And nonetheless, Ersinius was no man to be trifled with. He had friends in very high places, and if he'd found himself headmaster of a priory, not an abbey, it was precisely as he'd intended. There was no doubt he would never wish to have more scrutiny from the Church than he had already. Nor would he care to answer directly to the Pope. As it was, Llanthony was an Augustinian priory answerable to an abbot many, many leagues away, and even the newly appointed Abbey Dore, with its Cistercian allegiance, was of little concern to him.

In truth, Elspeth had long wondered over his true mission in Ewyas, and found herself contemplating, precisely, who it was that Ersinius answered to… perhaps not to Stephen, after all? Or to Matilda, for in spite of the fact that he was quick to take her grants, the only person he seemed to fear was… Morwen.

Don't think of her. Don't give her more power than she already has.

The hour must be near Terce, she thought. By now, the villein would have been up since Prime or Lauds, stoking the kitchen fires and seeing to their chores.

Dominique wouldn't rise until it was time to break her fast. The schedule here was nothing like the priory, and neither did her lord brother seem overly pious. There would be no prayers at the chapel. If Alyss seemed a bit more devout, that was lost on her "guardian." As if she didn't have enough on her plate, Elspeth worried for that girl—and no less for herself.

Those birds Beauchamp kept were inauspicious. They were bred only in one place that she knew of: Llanthony. Brought there from distant lands. If Beauchamp owned one, it was because Morwen had given it to him.

It was with great relief that she heard the horn blow and she ran to the curtained window to look below. A single rider approached, on a shining black mare.

Malcom.

The more heconsidered his encounter with Rhiannon, the more Malcom feared, and it was a gut-wrenching fright he couldn't shake.

He rode faster, pushing Merry Bells harder, even knowing it wasn't in the animal's best interest. Thank God he'd trained her for endurance. But if he didn't drive her to death this day, he swore he'd keep an easier pace once he reclaimed Elspeth—only, please, God, keep her safe.

"Stay with me, lass," he begged the mare, leaning close to her withers. He stroked her lovingly, even as he set his spurs to her flanks.

Naturally, he wanted to deny everything. Malcom wasn't an overly pious man, and neither did he believe in faerie's tales. And yet, it wasn't possible for Rhiannon to have known the name his kinsmen gave him in his youth—hot head. Ceann Ràs. None of his English peers had ever known his Gael name because he'd cast it away like a dirty robe the instant he'd risen as lord of Aldergh. So determined he was to be his own man, and to shed the trappings of his youth, he'd made himself a new man, styling himself Malcom Scott.

Malcom Scott.

Not Malcom Ceann Ràs.

If his peers ever knew him else wise it was only as the Mad Scot—a nickname he'd earned not through the angst-filled fury of his youth, but because he'd fearlessly embraced every challenge set before him by his king. And yet, until now, he'd never known what it was to be afraid because he'd never once feared for himself. This terrible new feeling deep in the pit of his gut—it was not for himself, but for Elspeth, and the further he rode, the harder he rode, the more he sensed the advent of something worse than the war Rhiannon had portended.

Hie thee north.

Call your banners.

War is nigh.

Was Matilda returning with a new army? Was Scotia bound to join the fight? Were the northern barons even now renouncing their oaths?

If only Elspeth hadn't spoken to him in the same fashion, he might have thought himself gone mad as a sack of ferrets. And now, if he believed all that he'd encountered with Rhiannon, he must also wonder how much of his thoughts Elspeth could glean as well.

No matter, he told himself; whatever secrets should be known to her, that unsettling discovery took a low grade to the one he harbored deep in his gut: Somehow, this mistress of Stephen's was far more than she appeared to be. Morwen was a danger to the realm.

God's truth, he had never believed in witches—or dewines, or druids or whatever name they should like to be called—but they appeared to be as real as the sweat on his brow.

When finally he spotted Amdel's turrets looming on the horizon, he felt a rush of relief—though not nearly the rush he would feel once he had Elspeth back in his keeping.

Relieved to find that Beauchamp's men did not hurry out in droves to place him in shackles, he rode straight into the lord's bailey, half expecting to have to draw his sword from his scabbard. He swung his leg over Merry Bells, riding on one stirrup.

When only a groomsman came to greet him, he ushered the lad away, commanding him to leave the horse where she stood because he intended to ride within the hour. The boy bolted away, but not to the stables; he ran quickly to the donjon as fast as his skinny legs could carry him.

Cursing beneath his breath, he left Merry Bells drinking at the trough, loosely hobbled to a post, with the express purpose of going inside long enough to rouse Elspeth from her slumber. He was more than relieved to find her rushing out the door, tripping down the steps in her haste to greet him. She passed by the groomsman and Malcom bolted after her, overjoyed when she embraced him as vigorously as he did her. "Malcom! Oh, Malcom!"

He swept her into his arms, holding her close.

"You're back!" she cried, and for the first time in his life, he was beside himself with glee to hold a woman—this woman. He allowed himself an instant to drink her in, to revel in the feel of her soft, warm body and her familiar scent.

He splayed his fingers through her unbound hair, turning her face up to his scrutiny. The words, ‘I love you' teased his tongue, parting his lips… alas, they were not words he'd ever said. "We're leaving," he told her, instead.

"Now?"

"Aye, now." Far too aware of the need to be away, he released Elspeth from his embrace and took her firmly by the hand.

"What's wrong, Malcom?"

Peering back at the donjon, Malcom pulled Elspeth toward Merry Bells, rueful that he would be putting his faithful horse back on the run. "I'll explain when we're away."

"Malcom! You are frightening me!"

"I'll explain everything when we're gone," he said again.

She tried to free her hand from his. "My dress!" she protested. "It was a gift."

"There's a coffer full of rich gowns at home that belonged to my grandmother. You may do with them what you will, and if they do not please you, I will buy you a hundred more."

Still, she struggled to free herself. "But your silver, your hauberk, your blade?"

"I have plenty of silver," Malcom reassured, refusing to release her. "My armorer will fashion me another. And it was an old dirk; I'll get myself another."

"It was not an old dirk," she argued. "Tis shiny and new and bears the sigil of your house!"

"Our house," he reminded her. "What is mine is also yours."

"Wait!" She gasped, sounding alarmed. "My Llanthony tunic, Malcom! We cannot leave it here, or he'll know."

They reached Merry Bells and even before he lifted her up to put her on the horse, he untied Merry Bells from the post. Then he grasped Elspeth about the waist and set her atop his saddle, praying Merry Bells was up to the challenge.

"'Tis like he already knows," he told her. "You must trust me," he demanded. "As I trusted you." As he'd trusted her sister, though he wasn't ready to say that yet, lest she wish to dally longer to hear more.

She opened her mouth to speak, but said not another word, and Malcom mounted behind her, drawing up Merry Bell's reins. "Hie, lass!" he called. "Hie!"

Outside the chamberroom where Elspeth slept, Alyss knocked gently.

"M'lady?"

There was no answer, so she pushed open the door, calling again for the lady of Aldergh. Only after she entered, she found the room empty—save for the scarlet dress that lay folded on one chair.

Could she have gone to break her fast? But nay. Alyss had come straight from there, having gone to fetch Dominique a slice of bread to settle her belly. After all, that's why she was here now: to explain to Elspeth that her mistress would see her later once the ill effects of their festive evening had passed. The bed was still mussed. The drapes were left open. She went to the window to pull them closed, but first peered down below, and saw that the Lord Aldergh had returned. Confused, she watched as he put Elspeth atop his black horse, then mounted behind her.

Were they leaving? Now? With no good-bye? But how rude.

Evidently, she hadn't liked her gown—the one that Dominique had been saving for her own wedding and so graciously gifted it. Instead, she'd stolen the gown Dominique let her borrow.

"Hmph!" she said and turned about, once again examining the room with the morning sun.

Spotting a glint of silver at the foot of the bed, she bent to pick up the coin, and then spied the gleam of a blade under the bed. She stooped lower to find a pile of garments hidden there. Frowning, she reached under to pull out the pile, examining the garments one by one.

On top lay a costly hauberk, probably worth more than Alyss's entire dowry. The blade itself was expertly fashioned, and she recognized Lord Aldergh's sigil. There were also a few more coins tucked into the folds of an old ruined sherte, but the tunic and breeches were a shock. The breeches were leather, like those a soldier might wear, and the tunic was done in coarse blanchet. It was nicely embroidered with the sigil of the Church, a red cross extending across the front, with four small, identical crosses beneath each arm of the crucifix.

She screwed her face. Had Elspeth come from a nunnery?But why hadn't she said so? Could it be that Lord Aldergh impregnated a nun? How very, very gauche!

Somehow, she sensed William would be pleased to know these things—and perhaps he would reward her well? More than anything in this world, she craved her lord's approval, and so often it seemed she displeased him. Taking the garments and folding them all neatly into a pile, she set the blade on top, but slipped the silver into the pocket of her skirt.

Unfortunately, the pile was too heavy to bear whilst rising from her knees, so she stood up, then lifted up the hauberk, which must weigh no less than a full stone. She folded it neatly on the bed, then bent to pick up the remaining garments and placed them all on top of the hauberk, and then she lifted them all up together, heading toward the door with her arms laden.

First, she would stop by her own chamber to hide the pieces of gold and silver, then she would take the garments to William. If later Elspeth should return for her belongings, she would gladly return the silver, but if she gave them to William they would never be seen again. She knew her betrothed very well. Moving into the hall, she closed the door behind her, intending to return later to clean the room.

They couldn't have traveled morethan a few miles when Elspeth turned to see if they were being followed. The sight that greeted her made her stomach plummet.

A conspiracy of ravens flew from a smoke damaged tower at Amdel, a fluttering of wings so dense it looked like more smoke unfurling. Her breath caught as the mass swelled, lifting and diving in sync then separated after a macabre dance across the dusky morning sky.

Swallowing, she turned to peer into Malcom's taut-jawed face. "Malcom?" she said. "Whatever it is you need to say, I beg you tell me now."