Chapter 2

Two

Neither king nor church held sway in such a time-forgotten place. It was a country unfurling with mists, overgrown with brambles and painted in copious shades of green.

Malcom Scott, first of his name, Earl of Aldergh, vassal to Stephen of Blois, made his way past wizened old yews with twisted, broken backs and white-skinned aspens that shivered as he passed—and perhaps it was the sight of him that made them tremble, for at thirty, Malcom bore the scars of too many battles. His hair, like his sire's, was heavily brushed with silver, and his shoulders, once lean with youth, were wide enough to bear the weight of worlds.

By now, he had managed to betray both kith and kin—and for what? An ill-begotten piece of land in the hinterlands of England? Thirteen years ago, he slew his own kinsman, and what he'd won for this effort was a castel in the border lands and a rising silence from the north that left him cold by night and longing for simpler days. Scowling over a memory of that day so long past—in woodlands distinctly different from these—he peered down at the sigil on his finger, given to him by his mother, the daughter of Aldergh's first lord.

Altium, citius, fortius.

It was Malcom's maxim now.

Swifter, higher, stronger.

And this he was: swifter than his sire, taller and stronger. But as for the noble dictum his maxim proclaimed, Malcom feared he was more the spirit of his grandsire, for in the name of avarice—what else could it be?—he'd committed grievous sins.

Alas, though, if his mother regretted the bestowal, Malcom couldn't say. He'd not spoken to either of his parents in more than ten years and he had a ten-year-old brother that, to this day, he'd never laid eyes upon. But at least his father had an heir. However, having received word of the MacKinnon's failing health, neither king, nor duty could prevent him from traveling north.

Cursing softly beneath his breath, he made his way through brambles, wincing as thorns pricked at his back. At one point, the mist grew so thick he was forced to dismount, and taking the lead rope, he guided Merry Bells, testing every step before the horse. Even then, like bent auld hags with claws for fists, the brambles tore at his sherte and picked at his coif. He'd left the headgear on, as much to protect him from the thorns as he had from Welshmen's arrows.

Behind him, the horse snorted in protest as a branch snapped backward after catching his sherte, and he frowned. By damn, once they were done here, they would be a sore sight for his armorer, who scarce had time to mend his accouterments before Stephen called him back to war. This time the man had his work cut out for him because Malcom took an arrow to the shoulder and there was a gaping hole in his armor where the arrowhead had pierced him. The damage to his flesh was minimal, and fortunately, he'd managed not to succumb to a fever, but at some point, it would behoove him to stop and tend to the wound. He counted it his good fortune that these Welshmen had but intended to frighten them. Otherwise, his body would be rotting at the bottom of a ravine by now. Certainly Daw would never have made it ten steps in his flight and he cursed yet again over the loss of his squire. That lad took to his heels the instant the Welsh fell from the trees and Malcom was pretty certain he'd seen the last of his squire—a young man he'd trained for nigh on two years. Sure, he'd rather Daw be gone and still breathing than dead, but it troubled him how fickle these soldiers had become over the course of Stephen's reign. There was hardly any consequence for waffling when Stephen rewarded his own cousins for treason.

He rolled his eyes over that nonsense. Last year, at the tender age of fourteen, whilst his mother was working her own manner of treason, Henry Fitz Empress had launched himself a coup, waging a petty war that, in the end cost Stephen plenty—not the least of which was his credibility. The Empress's upstart landed at Wiltshire with an expensive army, meant to put Stephen off the throne, and then, once the battle was lost, Stephen paid the lad's debts and sent him home to his mama, with but a slap on the wrist, little more.

Considering that, why shouldn't Daw run? And thank God for Malcom that he hadn't needed the lad. Never in his life had he witnessed men so skilled with bows. These Welsh were masters at melding with their environs, suspending themselves from trees, and leaping down like spiders from webs. As he made his way through the woods in this pea-soup fog, he was painfully aware of the fact that it would be impossible to ascertain whether someone was hovering overhead. Even now, he could have longbows trained at his head…

"We'll be east-side afore ye know it," he assured Merry Bells, and hoped to God he wasn't about to lose another horse. Bloody hell. He'd named her Merry Bells in honor of a good friend's dog—God love the sweet beast. She'd served her master well and Malcom should be so fortunate if his mare had an ounce of Merry Bells' canny and devotion.

Alas, his first Merry Bells didn't live up to the name. She'd been a temperamental animal who'd unseated him during the battle of the Standard. She nearly broke his neck. Unfortunately, she'd died there as well, and so did Malcom's heart, for that was the first time he'd been forced to choose between his Scots' brethren and the oath he gave to Stephen. For his services, of course, Stephen lifted him to Earldom, but that was also the last time he'd spoken to his sire. To this day, he would never forget facing his Da across the field at Cowton Moor and the disappointment and fury in his eyes as Malcom felled a man wearing Scot's livery. It didn't matter that they didn't trade blows that day; it was enough that Malcom had opposed him, and he never saw him again.

The second Merry Bells had given Malcom more hope, but she, too, met her fate on a field of battle, only rather than die as her predecessor died, in the midst of warfare, she'd broken her leg on a patch of ice during a winter siege. With his heart in his hand, Malcom himself took her life, putting the sweet girl out of her misery, but it haunted him still that Stephen's men had butchered her for dinner and gobbled her to her bones. One thing he'd learned; in the midst of a long, hard siege, men themselves became little more than beasts.

This particular Merry Bells seemed more attuned to him, but she was young as yet, and betimes too skittish. The last time he gave her shoes, he'd performed the task himself, and she nearly clipped a slice from his head. Now, again, she snorted in protest over a nasty bramble and Malcom spoke to her gently. "Bear with it, lass. We'll be free of this wet, black hole afore ye ken."

Thankfully, once they emerged from these spiteful woods, they would immediately descend into England and make their way north through far more civilized country. In the meantime, the hairs on his nape stood on end, and he felt eyes on his back…

What hour was it?Had the envoy arrived? Elspeth had a growing sense that any minute now they would come searching for her.

Come sunrise, she'd climbed into this tree to find a safe place to rest and, somehow, she'd fallen asleep in the crook of the elm. Here she sat now, with too little distance between herself and the priory and a pang in her heart that wouldn't diminish. She missed her sisters terribly, and with every ten steps she took, she took two more back, growing confused and enervated. Of course, she blamed it on the long night traipsing about these woods, but she supposed it must also be a consequence of that aether spell. But she couldn't remain here. The veil they'd conjured would soon fade, and no doubt by now Ersinius had loosed his minions.

It was her greatest hope that, whilst she sought herself a safe haven to await her sisters, d'Lucy would find himself another match—preferably one not of her blood. And, in the meantime, she hoped Rhiannon would find a way to extricate herself and the rest of her sisters from the priory, although she hadn't a clue how Rhiannon intended to do it.

I have a plan,she'd said. But what if she was wrong? What if Morwen did, indeed, allow Seren to wed out of turn? What if all this came to naught? What if d'Lucy decided that marrying Rhiannon was worth the price of his Earldom?

More and more, Elspeth was beginning to doubt the wisdom in leaving, and considering these things, and more, she longed to close her eyes and sleep—even now, perched in this tree like one of Morwen's eerie little birds. Holding tight to the branch overhead, she battled her way through the drowsiness, considering Rose's thievery. How was it that her sister could feel so self-assured to hunt these woods without permission, yet so adamantly refuse to leave the priory? She would risk Ersinius' wrath for berries, but not for freedom? How much sense did that make?

And nevertheless, Elspeth was grateful for her disguise despite that the breeches were too snug. Unlike her crude gown, it provided much more freedom to move and climb about, and most importantly, it kept her legs snug and warm in this bone-dampening weather.

Sweet fates.Wasn't it July already? It felt like December! Shivering from the cold, she squinted to peer through the mist and considered scrambling down to get on her way, but then, suddenly, she sensed she was not alone… She felt the presence before she saw him, and braced herself for the worst, trying to gauge how many were coming in her direction. One? Two?

Stay with me," she begged the fog, inching down to spy between branches.

Presently she saw a dark figure lumbering through the woods and her heart leapt at the sight. Only after an instant she could better see that it was a big black horse being led by a man—a tall, strapping man, wearing a Norman-styled hauberk and coif, with leggings and boots as inky black as his horse. Unfortunately, Elspeth slipped from her perch, pinching her fingers on the bark, and whispered an oath. The man must have heard her, because he froze. Panicking, Elspeth whispered a spell she knew by rote:

Spirit of vision, Spirit of night. Cast me a shadow to shield me from mortal sight.

But it didn't work. He was still searching, unfazed by her feeble spell. But, of course, no spell could ever make her disappear. It merely dimmed her presence to the sight and sense of others. But it wasn't working. She was out of practice. Or she must have gotten something wrong.

What to do now?

Take an example from Rose; steal his horse

Yes, of course!

The voice in her head was Rhiannon's and Elspeth smiled, grateful not to be alone—at least, not yet. Fortunately for her—unfortunately for the man—she'd never met a beast who didn't adore her. That man's horse should be little different. She concentrated, bidding the animal nearer, recognizing the instant she connected with the beast, because the beautiful mare shimmied inside her skin, like a cat with pleasure over the stroke of a hand. And then, naturally, she sought Elspeth's gaze. "That's it, sweet girl," Elspeth whispered. "Come closer…"

She wiggled a finger at the mare.