Chapter 24

Twenty-Four

By the look on his face, Elspeth didn't need to hear him say so to know that her mother had swept into the priory in the middle of the night, taking Seren, Rose and Arwyn. What she wished she hadn't foreseen was that she'd sent Rhiannon by tumbril to Blackwood.

Obviously, they had been wrong about d'Lucy. He must have agreed to accept Rhiannon as a bride, but, if so, why the tumbril? Perhaps Morwen meant to make a point and humble Rhiannon in the process: that, for all the Goddess' favor, Rhiannon was still subject to her mother's whims.

But if d'Lucy knew of this and approved, he was more of a monster than Elspeth ever supposed. She had abandoned her sister to this man!

It didn't matter that Rhiannon was more accomplished than she was; Elspeth was the eldest, and as the eldest, it was her duty to protect her sisters—a task she'd failed at, quite miserably.

If there was any comfort to be found it was that Rhiannon had been very clear with Malcom: She was going precisely where she wished to go.

And now, apparently, so was Elspeth, for Rhiannon had charged her "champion" with spiriting her north to Aldergh. And though Aldergh was also where Elspeth wished to go, she didn't appreciate being used as a pawn in a game of Queen's Chess.

Nevertheless, none of this was Malcom's fault. He was but answering a call from the Goddess, and perhaps after all was said and done, he would be equally as horrified as Elspeth.

Only after they were far enough away from Amdel, with no sign of pursuit, did he finally slow their pace and produce the grimoire she and her sisters had begun putting together. Small as it was, Rhiannon must have found a way to hide it in on her person. And if Elspeth weren't so appalled over the entirety of the situation, she might have laughed over the manner of Rhiannon's delivery. It was just like her sister to be so theatrical—a small trait she and Morwen shared, along with her temper. Thankfully, that was all they had in common, and the world was a safer place for the disparity.

I'll put a turd in your teeth and turd in your bride's teeth too! she'd screamed. But where in the name of the Goddess had Rhiannon ever learned to speak such blasphemy?

Evidently, there was a lot Elspeth was beginning to realize she didn't know about her sister—perhaps not all of it good.

As for the book… there was little wonder no one suspected it. There weren't many men who could read or write, and fewer women. But, of course, they would think it no more than a heap of filthy rags.

And, it was dirty—stained with so much soil from their garden and all the tints and tinctures they'd created whilst crushing herbs. Malcom had hesitated to put it into his saddlebag after she was through with it, but Elspeth reminded him that he'd ridden halfway from Wales with the book nestled against his bare chest. He laughed, but it was rueful.

Along the way, he slowly confessed everything: He told Elspeth about finding the empty hut where she'd lived with her sisters, scrubbed free of every trace of its occupants; the strange conversation he'd shared with Ersinius; the broken wheel on the tumbril; the unsettling conversation he'd had with Rhiannon—everything.

And if he, too, seemed quiet thereafter, Elspeth well understood why: It was not every day a man was asked to believe the impossible.

How she longed to explain everything she knew about the Craft, but she wouldn't do so, unless he asked. It was not her custom to speak openly about such things—not when her whole life she'd been warned against it and her grandmamau had suffered deadly consequences.

And aye—perhaps Morwen did betray their grandmother, but it was Elspeth who'd told the Scots king's son about hergrandmamau's skills. At scarcely five years of age, she had boasted to that wicked little boy that her grandmamau would cast a spell on him if he didn't stop teasing her, and the wretch had gone to tattle to his father, who then told the Bishop, who then approached Morwen for confirmation. For the price of Blackwood, Morwen then handed her mother over to the Church to be burned alive, swearing her own innocence and devotion to the Church.

But Morwen was no Christian. She was a disciple of the Crone, the witch Goddess whose dabbling in the huddu had been the downfall of Avalon.

Fortunately, her sister was right about this much: So long as Seren, Rose and Arwyn did not challenge Morwen, her mother would no more harm them than she would toss a pot of gold into the Endless Sea. They were but a means to whatever end she'd imagined, and Elspeth suspected Morwen meant to place them all strategically, as she did her gruesome little ravens, each daughter in the house of a lord she could manipulate to her will.

Her mother was naught if not patient and she had been planning this ill-conceived scheme for some thirteen years or more—most likely from the day she'd beguiled their father.

Poor, poor Henry.

But he was not alone; there weren't many men who could resist Morwen's wiles, and those who could, had little chance against her sorcery—dark magik Elspeth had no knowledge of, and therefore little recourse against.

They rode much of the afternoon in silence, and over the course of the following two days, they traveled by day, staying clear of the king's roads, and sleeping by night on pallets, snuggling for warmth.

Malcom didn't try to kiss her again, and neither did Elspeth tempt him—even if she did long to see if she could feel again what she'd felt that night of their vows. But it bedeviled her to know that even ensorcelled, he hadn't wished to bed her.

Breeding, humph! She was not breeding, and quite likely she would never know the joys of children. Come one year and one day, Malcom would cast her away like that turd Rhiannon promised to cast between her teeth.

In fact, some part of her worried that he knew, deep down, that whatever he felt for her, it wasn't real, but the problem was… Elspeth was coming to love him, as surely as her bones ached from so many hours in the saddle.

What was love, after all, but a higher form of magik born of faith, trust and affection?

In retrospect, she realized Rhiannon must be right: Whatever care Robert had had for them was perfunctory—as it was with Matilda.

For all that he'd rebuffed her, Malcom was the only man who'd ever truly supported her, in spite of their differences, and despite his fealty to Stephen—even despite the way she'd treated him on the day she'd first met him.

All this time, he'd fed her, cared for her, worried for her, and he'd offered her the ultimate sacrifice of all… he'd wed her. He'd put his entire life on hold, trusting her when she'd claimed that her sisters were in trouble, and without any proof that he could see, he'd ridden to aid them.

Once the spell faded, would he come to regret it?

Don't think about that, Elspeth.

Don't think about Rhiannon, or Seren, or Gwen or Arwyn.

Put your best face forward, and do what you must.

Of course, it was sage advice, but whence had it come?

Is it you, Rhiannon?

Silence.

Rhiannon!

With a shudder, she recalled the ravens that were released at Amdel. By now, they would have probably reached her mother. But she tried not to think about that either, lest she summon her mother's huddu without intention.

Only considering the grimoire in his saddlebag, Elspeth peered down at the white ribbon that slipped from her sleeve. Yesterday, she'd attempted to return his ring, but he'd bade her keep it, and remembering it now, she felt for the cold knob between her breast.

What is mine is yours,he'd said—did he mean it?

Regardless… until such time as he should cast her away, Elspeth swore she would make him a good, loyal wife. Somehow, she would repay him for all he had done for her.

You are the lady of Aldergh, she told herself. Raise your chin high.

But this was difficult to remember, hour after hour, mile after mile, as Merry Bells ambled ever northward.

The closer they came to their destination the more anxious Elspeth became. Would they accept her as their lady? Would they come to look at her askance for all her beliefs and her kinship? Would they cross themselves in her presence—or gnash their teeth behind her back?

Malcom's brooding silence worried her more.

Swallowing her questions, Elspeth watched as the countryside shifted from lowlands to midlands and then into the rugged uplands of the north. "How long before we arrive?" she dared ask when her backside grew numb.

"Four, perhaps five days. I'm reluctant to push Merry Bells more than I have."

Her bottom ached, but, of course, it must be as it must be, Elspeth told herself. So long as she was with Malcom, she had no complaints over the pace, and she was far less concerned over the journey north than she was over the prospect of leaving her sisters so far behind.

But Malcom's persistent silence was killing her, because in that silence she imagined all the worst possibilities.

Once again, she tried to engage him. "Why do you call her Merry Bells?"

No answer.

"My father called his horse ‘horse.'"

There was a strange quality to his tone—not quite bitterness, though not affection either. "Your father, the king, do you mean?"

"Aye," Elspeth said, noting the condescension. But she didn't believe it was directed at her. It seemed more that he didn't like Henry. "Did you ever meet my father?"

"Nay," he said curtly, and Elspeth wanted to ask him why he loathed a man he'd never met. But now wasn't the time, and she didn't wish to take any chance to lose the only champion she had left in this mad, mad world. After a while, he said, softening perhaps, "If you must know, I named her after a dog. What is a horse, after all, but a big loyal dog?"

"Hmm," Elspeth said. "I suppose 'tis true." And she wanted to tell him that this, too, was a form of magic—the imbuing of a trait from one beast to another, although Malcom didn't encourage any more conversation, so she resigned herself to his brooding silence.

Later in the day, when they stopped to water the horse at a small burn and Elspeth stretched her legs, she tried not to think about the bear growling in her belly or the bruises forming on her bottom.

It was too early to stop for the day, so they were again on the road after doing the necessary, and Malcom traded places with her, letting her ride behind him, so that she was forced to put her arms about his chest. She didn't mind this; she rather liked laying her head on his back and listening to the calming thump thump of his heart.

"I have a question," he said very soberly after they were well on the way, and Elspeth's stomach roiled at his tone.

"What question?"

It took him a long, long while to respond again, and it seemed to Elspeth as though he were searching for the proper words—or perhaps preparing to say something she might not wish to hear. The muscles in her shoulders tightened as she waited. Had the time finally arrived for regrets? She held her breath, waiting…

"How much of my thoughts can you read, Elspeth?"

Elspeth blinked in surprise. "Me?"

"Aye, lass, I wasn't talking about Rhiannon. I know what she can do."

And now, at last, Elspeth understood his long hours of brooding silence. "Not so much as Rhiannon," she reassured him.

"How much?" he persisted.

Elspeth was forced to think about the question a long moment. "In truth, I have never been able to do that with any person save Rhiannon. I always assumed it was her, not me. The most I've ever been able to do is commune with animals, and, of course, they cannot answer me, save by their actions."

"Not with your other sisters?"

Elspeth shook her head, even though he couldn't see her. "Nay," she said. "And neither have they done any such thing with me. It was only Rhiannon who could ever do it—and in, truth, not even Morwen ever pervaded my thoughts."

"Never?"

"Nay. Never," she said, only now realizing the truth of the matter. She couldn't remember a single time her mother had ever spoken through thoughts, and she would have known it because she would have felt her prying.

Elspeth considered this revelation curiously, wondering why it should be so. Her grandmother had had the ability as far as she could remember. With all the tools of their Craft at her disposal—the family grimoire and the scrying stone—it would seem that Morwen should have so much more inherent power. And yet it was only Rhiannon who could do so much without rites. In fact, so far as Elspeth knew, Rhiannon herself had never even cracked the spine of the grimoire. To do so meant pricking a finger for a drop of dewine blood, and all of her sisters had been too young to subject them to such a ritual. Elspeth was the only one her grandmother ever taught to open the Book of Secrets.

"Interesting," he said. "Though it doesn't answer my question, Elspeth. How much?"

Elspeth resisted the urge to reach up and fiddle with the small curls at the back of his nape. She tilted her head, and asked playfully, "Have you been keeping secrets from me, Malcom?"

He was silent a long moment, and Elspeth feared she'd angered him, but he finally said. "Did you not hear me?"

Elspeth frowned, perhaps not understanding. "Well, I did. You asked how much I could glean of your thoughts, and I answered you. Then I asked if you had been keeping secrets from me—and you did not answer."

"I see," he said, seemingly satisfied.

But, of course, he must be worried that she could read everything that passed through his head, so now she explained more soberly. "I can only hear what you wish me to hear, Malcom, the same as with you. If I will it to be so, and you have a reception to me, this is how it goes."

He remained silent, listening.

"In this world, we are bound to one another—all of us. Simple beasts have far less guile and are not so different now from the day they were created. Have you never wondered why during a forest fire, animals flee together, even when the fire is miles away?"

Still, he listened without responding.

"Or, perhaps how birds will fly together seeming to know where their fellows will fly?"

"Messenger pigeons are drawn to whatever place they were born," he argued.

"Of course. But I do not mean them. Rather, I mean, have you never seen them fly in formation? Altogether suddenly they will turn and fly in a different direction? Or even how Merry Bells may seem to know your intentions without your command?"

Still he said nothing, and Elspeth continued. "My grandmamau explained to me that long, long ago—many thousands of years, perhaps—people were far more accustomed to conversing with their minds. Not merely dewines, but everyone. You can imagine the cacophony they must have endured. A constant barrage of words, not merely their own, everyone's all at once.

Still, he listened.

"Well, she claimed folks went mad, rising up against one another. And whether the Goddess decided to save them from their tumult, or whether they eventually learned to block this ability is not known. Perhaps in self-defense, it simply went away?"

Still, he said nothing.

"The only reason I still have the ability is because my people learned to control the skills our Great Mother gave us. But even amongst my own kind, all these many years gone, we are not equally skilled, and some of us are more open to the hud than others."

For such a simple concept, Elspeth realized that the hud was not so simple for others to comprehend. She laid her head on Malcom's back, letting him ponder what she'd already told him. And though he remained silent, he was calmer now; she could tell by the slowing of his heartbeat.

The sun was lowering on the horizon, filling the sky with a warm, dusky light, heralding the approaching Golden Hour—a time she and her sisters had once cherished. Depending upon the nature of a man's heart, it was either the most peaceful hour of the day… or the most treacherous.

"What about Rhiannon?"

Elspeth lifted her head, encouraged by his question. "Rhiannon is one whose skills surpass all others, though in truth, I do not believe Rhiannon knows all she is capable of. And now that I am gone from the priory, I am discovering I, too, have skills I did not realize I possessed."

"Such as?"

"Well… as I said… I have always been able to influence animals, but I suppose the ability to speak without voice is a surprise to me. And, of course, you know I have the ability to heal. I can sometimes manipulate elements as well, but, most gifts are bestowed by the Goddess, and I must speak rites to summon her divinity."

"Rites?"

"Sacred words known to my people. I spoke them the night I healed you."

"But I do not remember you speaking any words when you roused the torches at Amdel?"

Never having really considered why she needed rites for some spells, but not others, Elspeth considered his question a long moment. For most of her life she had simply accepted her abilities in much the same way that one accepted that some folks could croon like songbirds and others croaked like frogs. But though she didn't have any plausible answers, she supposed. "For some reason the kindling of a flame comes easier than most spells. I suppose that some spells require more of the hud than I can summon on my own."

She wanted to tell him about the aether spell, but didn't want to think over the consequences she might still face over that, much less explain how it worked—especially when she didn't know anything with certainty.

But he seemed pensive now, ready to hear more, so she tried to help him understand. "Only think of it this way, Malcom: All spells come from my own inner light. Harnessing it is like focusing sunlight through a glass."

"And your visions?"

"Much the same, but different. Most who are sensitive still use a scrying stone—or fire, or water. Some might descry by touching an object and focusing on something connected to it. Yet others might do so in dreams. But, in truth, I did not know I could have any visions. That night, in the hall was my first, and before then, I had not known it was possible for me to see without rites."

Again, only Rhiannon had the ability for this, and she seemed to need nothing but her mind and her desire to do so. But, in truth, there was little of the hud that existed beyond the natural world, and in theory, anyone should be able to do so. A dream was a dream was a dream, and it was not so difficult to summon, but rather it was the interpretation one attached to the occurrence. Most people simply took such things for granted.

"I don't think it was your first," he suggested.

"Nay?"

"Nay."

And before Elspeth could ask precisely what he meant, she remembered the waking vision they'd shared, and her cheeks burned over the memory.

But then, the more she thought about it, the warmer she grew, and after a while, she felt a stirring in her womb that was exacerbated by the trot of his horse. She wiggled in the saddle, and much to her dismay, it only made matters worse.

"Sweet fates," she said, aloud.

"What?"

"I remember," she said. "I do remember." And, thereafter, she was acutely aware of the heat of Malcom's skin, even through the layers of her clothing. Her nipples ached, and she pressed her breasts against her husband, wanting to command him to stop. But stop what? He wasn't doing anything—she was!

Elspeth groaned, wiggling again, leaning her weight on Malcom, trying to make it stop, praying he wouldn't guess at her troubles.

The horse kept right on trotting—trot, trot, trot.

"Oh, my," she said breathlessly.

"What?"

Without warning, her eyes rolled back in her head, and she clutched at Malcom's arms, gasping softly as tiny tremors rushed through her body. Once they'd passed she swallowed, blinking, startled. Never in her life had she experienced such a keen surge of pleasure, and now her body was… entirely too sensitive, and she didn't know what to say. "Tis naught," she said, in a small voice, embarrassed.

It felt like an eternity passed before he spoke again, and then he said, "Oh!" as though he hadn't any inkling that she'd experienced some miraculous awakening. "I nearly forgot."

Elspeth was almost too dazed to follow.

"Your sister bade me tell you something: She said, ‘I merely called you, I did not beguile you.' Do you know what she meant by that?"

Elspeth blinked.

She did not beguile Malcom?

"Nay," she lied, swallowing as she laid her head back down, closing her eyes, her heart flowering with joy.

All he was doing… all he had done… it was by his own free will and knowing this pleased Elspeth immensely. And sweet fates, her body suddenly felt sated in a way she hadn't ever known before. "I'm sleepy," she whispered, smiling.

"Not that wretched sleeping spell, I hope?"

Elspeth laughed, nuzzling her cheek against his scarlet tunic, only a wee bit regretful now that she'd lost her matching gown. And she dared to jest with him. "Evidently, we are traveling in the right direction."

There was a hint of smile in his voice, but rather than annoy her, it pleased her immensely. "We are going home," he told her, and if, indeed, he was coming to rue the day he'd met her, it wasn't obvious in his tone.

Elspeth dared to hope.

Hours later,she couldn't stop thinking about… thatthing… that delicious thing that happened in the saddle. It was like magik and she wanted to do it again—and again, and again.

Even now, with merely the memory, her body seemed to be on the verge of something spectacular, and it was Malcom's presence that evoked it. She was warm, despite the cool evening, and wished she were lying in his arms.

What, in the name of the Goddess, came over her?

Instinctively, she knew her aura must be burning a bright red, and she was grateful Malcom could not see it. For his part, he sat striking together flint to steel, trying to catch a flame whilst she sat watching, longing to help, but reluctant to do anything unless he asked.

They had spoken more, at length, about the Craft and dewines and the hud, but it seemed to Elspeth that he held this particular task rather sacred—as though his ability to rouse a flame were somehow integral to his manhood. If he only realized what other flame he had kindled—perhaps then he wouldn't be so concerned with the one beneath his flint.

Alas, the onetime she'd attempted to start it for him, he'd cast her a warning glare and said, "I need no magik to feed my belly or yours."

Five days now they'd been traveling, and they'd stopped early this evening to camp in a boggy woodland. Everything felt grey and dewy, as though it had been raining for years. She longed to bring out the sun and burn off the haze, but she knew better than to go about willy-nilly, casting aether spells. Even if it wouldn't revile Malcom, it wasn't in anyone's best interest to thwart the will of the gods. As yet, she still had no inkling what fate would demand for that spell she and her sisters cast in Wales. And so far, she'd not told Malcom about that—or about the auras she could read. It didn't seem to behoove her, considering his concerns.

If he realized she could read his desires, and his fears, and his joys in the air surrounding him, even before a thought ever reached his head, what then would he say?

So, then, she let him strike away at his flint, saying nothing, looking askance, and trying not to notice the deep red hue surrounding him—deeper yet by the second, and she knew very well it wasn't anger.

Well, so he might be annoyed by the lack of fire, but that was only frustration. With her, he had been nothing if not kind and gentle, and the closer they came to arriving "home," the sweeter he became.

He desires me, she realized, with a clarity borne of her sister's message. He truly desires me.

Tonight the evidence was plain to see—a vivid cloud of red that enveloped him wholly. And if she wasn't quite so famished, she would show him exactly how she felt about him. Alas, her stomach growled.

"Art hungry?" he asked.

"Quite," Elspeth said, and she curled up her knees, wrapping her hands about her legs, trying not to think about the butterflies flitting in her belly.

Ever since leaving Amdel, they hadn't had much to eat but chickweed and sorrel and berries, eggs and mushrooms. Malcom hadn't wished to hunt, for fear of borrowing anymore trouble.

Thankfully, he, too, was quite well versed in foraging, but Elspeth could do it better. She knew precisely which plants were edible, and by now, she was beginning to fill her purse.

Evidently, now that they were closer to Aldergh, he felt more at ease to hunt, but no matter how hard he tried to make it work, the sparks would not fly, and Elspeth feared it was because everything was so wet. She herself felt damp to her bones, and she was eager for the coming fire—if only he'd allow her to light it for him.

At last, looking furious—more at himself—he turned to look at her, and said, "Go on. Do it. I know you're dying to."

"Art sure?"

"As sure as I am that I will begin gnawing at Merry Bells herself if I dinna put something substantial in my belly."

Elspeth laughed, sending Merry Bells a thought of reassurance. She closed her eyes, imagining the flash of light before her lids, and whispered:

Fire burn, light bestow, I conjure you, high and low.

She felt a burst of heat, and then opened her eyes to see that Malcom was looking at her, scowling. "You had to speak words this time? I thought you didn't have to do that? Did you do it just for show?"

Elspeth tried not to laugh. "Everything is wet," she explained.

To that, he gave her a dubious nod, arching a brow. "You can't wave your hand and conjure a cony while you're at it, can you?"

Elspeth shook her head, though, in fact, she could.

Well… she couldn't produce one from thin air, but she could certainly lure one to her hands. And nevertheless, she would no more summon some poor beast from its sanctuary, urging it to trust her, only to fill her belly. That would be a grievous sin. There was more than enough to be found foraging, and a few hunger pangs never put anyone at risk of starvation.

With the fire now lit, Malcom grabbed his bow, annoyed, and set out to hunt. "I'll stay close," he reassured, and Elspeth nodded.

Sighing, she got up from the blanket to go after the blackberries she'd saved for later. Of course, she would try whatever Malcom brought back as well, if only to soothe his injured pride, but she would leave most of it for him. She didn't mind a bit of flesh, but preferred not to make it a habit. And while she was looking for the berries, she remembered the book down in Malcom's saddlebag, and fished it out, bringing it back to the blanket and sitting down to peruse it.

With her hand full of berries, trying not to squash them, and the juice seeping from her palm, she laid the berries down, glad for the tartan in case she might stain it. And once she was settled, she opened the grimoire.

A small slip of parchment slipped out from the pages. It was a drawing—a golden two-headed falcon with a maxim that read Altium, citius, fortius.