Chapter 30

Thirty

"Elspeth, love… I swear to you… I am but grateful."

Elspeth sat despondently at the lord's table, stabbing at her trencher with her jeweled poniard—another gift from Malcom's grandmother's coffers. She wasn't hungry.

No matter how hard he tried to convince her, she would never forget that look of terror in her husband's eyes.

"I care not what you think you saw," he persuaded her. "It was naught but awe for what I witnessed with my own two eyes."

"You, and everyone else," Elspeth said ruefully, knowing only too well that once the danger was past, she would become subject to their fears. Visions of her grandmamau's burning tormented her and no matter that she was astounded by her own power to fight Morwen's magik, she feared the price yet to be paid. Gratitude only went so far. Today magik was evoked against magik. It was impossible not to know this instinctively, even if these people didn't immediately comprehend from whence it had come.

It had come from her.

Shehad summoned it—a shield to keep the birds at bay, and the evidence of her intervention surrounded the castel. Thousands of black birds lay piled like dry-stacked stone no more than ten feet from the castel walls.

She tried to find the will to eat, to regain her strength, because her body felt limp with exhaustion, and she doubted she had any strength to climb the stairs to bed, much less fend off another of her mother's attacks. The spell she'd cast—nay, not a spell, but a plea to the Goddess—had sapped every bit of energy from her body, and now, she felt like a dirty, limp rag… waiting to be discarded.

Malcom pushed her hair out of her face. "No one saw anything, Elspeth. They were too busy fearing for their lives."

Finally, with a plea in her eyes, she peered up at her husband, daring to hope.

"Tis true," he swore. He tipped up her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. "I have not heard not one word spoken against you, my love, and if anyone saw what I saw, I will make certain they understand… their lady works wonders in the name of love."

Elspeth flung her arms around him and said, "I love you so much, Malcom. I am so blessed to be your wife and no matter what happens know that I count myself blessed for having known you." Alas, there was a niggling sense of terror still growing deep inside her, for she had betrayed Malcom, and would he still feel the same about her once he knew?

"I love you, too," he said, kissing Elspeth on the head.

Elspeth held him tight, so afraid to let go, lest he change his mind and send her home.

Finally, he peeled himself away. "Why don't you go see to Cora… and then, if you must, join me on the ramparts."

Elspeth nodded and dried her eyes.

It wasnear dawn when she joined Malcom on the parapets. From her vantage between machicolations, she could see the child's prostrate body still lying in the field, and the sight of it made her long to run out and clasp him to her breast.

Poor, poor child.

It was a grim reminder that her mother would dare anything, and they waited with bated breath to see what more would come.

As for Stephen, there was no word from their King, but his camp remained. All those bright red tents remained squatting at the foot of their hill, the once billowing cloths as still as stone. It was almost as though there was no life in that quarter, but it was an illusion, Elspeth realized—a glamour placed by her mother to hide the scurry of movement between tents, and the night-long councils. There was little doubt in Elspeth's mind that if she was so surprised by the power of the spell she had conjured, her mother was equally startled, and would certainly be taking measures to veil her plans from prying eyes—Elspeth's eyes.

This morning, it seemed death had prevailed. The stench of it was overpowering.

By the first rays of the morning sun, they could bear it no longer and men lit pitch-soaked arrows and aimed them into the carnage of shining black wings, lighting a bonfire that was slow to ignite, but once it caught flame, it sent dirty, stinking flames into a grey morning.

Half the fields were scorched. The other half lay fallow. The roads in and out of the parklands were blocked. The colors of the morning were gray, brown and black—the colors of the land and sky and the aura surrounding Stephen's camp.

Fortunately, Morwen did not repeat her attack, and no doubt, that unexpected feat of magik, fueled by her rage, had depleted her precious birds. It would take her years to breed so many.

When he saw her, Malcom took Elspeth by the hand, tugging her close, and drawing her under his arm. She could feel his exhaustion in the weight of the arm he'd placed about her shoulders. "Go to bed, love. You should sleep," he said, and then he frowned, realizing only now that her handfasting ribbon was gone. He lifted her hand, examining her wrist. "You took it off?"

Elspeth nodded, thinking perhaps now would be a good time to explain what she had done. At least then, if he was going to be angry, she could bear the worst all at once—or then, finally, perhaps, he might prefer to be rid of her, and send her back to her mother in tears.

She opened her mouth to speak but then he shushed her and said, "Go to bed. We'll talk when you're rested."

"I would go if you go," she entreated, brushing a hand across the small cleft in his chin. Her heart broke for the turmoil she spied in his eyes. "What good will you be to your men without sleep, my love. I feel certain my mother has exhausted her efforts for the time being." Certainly she had, if Elspeth's exhaustion was any indication. She was weary to her bones. A bit of sleep would do them both good, and this siege promised to last long enough to warrant keeping them on their toes.

He sighed, drawing her into his arms, holding her tight. Elspeth laid her head on his chest, and said, "We go together, or I stay. But you know they would summon you at once should they need you."

It was a long, long moment, before Malcom said, "Very well. Go. I'll follow. I need only let my men know where I'll be."

Elspeth nodded. She kissed him on the cheek, and then turned and made her way down the ladder. She was halfway down when there was a sudden horn blast…

She heard Malcom's cursing. "For the love of?—"

"What is it?" Elspeth demanded, her heart filling with dread as she scrambled back up. Goddess, please, no more birds! Her legs trembled as she re-ascended the ladder, and, she tried to summon the last of her reserves as she climbed.

Wide eyed, Malcom turned to take her by the hand and drew her up and back onto the ramparts.

Elspeth's heart leapt against her ribs at the sight that greeted her…

Beyond the burning mass of dry-stacked birds, beyond the blackened fields, beyond Stephen's encampment, thousands of armed men approached in formation, flying banners of every color—many, many unrecognizable to Elspeth. They approached from the north, west and east.

David.

He'd come… and despite that she knew she would have to answer for her meddling, Elspeth nearly swooned in relief.

David had come!

Within moments, tents began to collapse, deflating one by one, and the siege army began to disperse, like ants scurrying at the poke of a stick. Malcom turned to look at her, and said with an unmistakable note of relief, "Elspeth… by chance, have you something to do with this?"

Eyes wide and stinging, Elspeth nodded.

And rather frown, Malcom grinned at her. "God's truth, 'tis the second most welcome sight I have spied in all my life."

Elspeth felt a rush of relief. "What would be the first?"

If possible, his grin widened until she could see all his straight, white teeth. "Any day I set eyes upon my beautiful wife," he said, and pulled her into his arms, kissing her soundly.

Let them be hunted soundly. At this hour Lies at my mercy all mine enemies. —Shakespeare

"Let's go!"snaps Eustace. "Or better yet, stay," he says rudely. "But if you do, you will find yourself in David's hands and I warrant he is no disciple of witches. Need I remind you how he persecuted your mother?"

Despite the command, I linger, furious over the turn of events. So, they say, "Never kill the messenger." And 'tis an unspoken diplomacy of war. But I say, "If the messenger be my own, I should do what I will."

Somewhere out in that field lies a little boy, eyes plucked out of his skull…

No one thwarts me.

No one.

And yet, for the love of my own daughter, this north man has dared. After all is said and done, I will crush his bones like dried leaves beneath a pestle, and my daughter will weep tears of blood.

As men rush to heed Eustace's commands to abandon this ill-planned siege, I bide my time, once more opening my "gift," if only to remind myself.

A severed head, barely recognizable with death-glazed eyes peers back at me. Daw.Well played, I think. Well played, my Lord Aldergh. And Elspeth, too, well played.

"My father will be furious," worries Eustace.

"Perhaps," I say, with a shrug, and now I rise, knowing full well that, for the time being, we are done. The battle is lost. The war is not.

And yet… and yet… a mother's pride wars with rage, because I had no idea my eldest bore such unbridled power. And what must this say for Rhiannon? So, now, I must ponder the answer to this question, even as I prepare for the next encounter, because this is not over.

It is far from over.