Chapter 3

Three

"Who's there?"

Malcom clutched Merry Bells' reins, ready to mount, but hesitated. The last thing he wished was for the horse to break a leg in this foul weather. Not only would it pain him to put the girl down, but it was a long, long walk back to Aldergh. But neither was he in any mood to spend a minute longer than was necessary in this ill-begotten territory.

"Who's there?" he asked again, acknowledging the absurdity of his question. If, indeed, he had arrows trained on his head, he was unlikely to know it until he became a pin pillow.

"Come closer."

Soft and whispery, the voice slid through him, like a summer breeze shimmying through birch leaves… but it was strange. It sounded far away, and yet still close, like the memory of a whisper breathed at his ear. Was somebody speaking to him?

Searching the woodlands, like Merry, he scrutinized the environs, peering this way and that, but still he spied no one. But rather than press closer to him, as was her usual response to danger, Merry Bells shifted away, twitching her black ears and lifting her head to peer into a canopy of green.

"What is it, lass?" Malcom asked, following her gaze—and caught sight of a figure swooping down from the trees, a boy, intent on landing in his saddle.

With every nerve in his body prepared for battle, Malcom reacted swiftly, taking the youth by the scruff of the tunic as he landed astride his saddle, then jerking him down, and launching himself into the saddle after him. It was a fluid maneuver, perhaps one to be expected from a man with expertise in mounting on the run, but betimes Malcom underestimated his own strength.

The boy landed face up in the bracken, and then he lay there, stunned, peering up at Malcom with dazed violet eyes. Malcom furrowed his brow.

"Ye dinna believe ye'd get awa' wi' such a thing, di' ye?"

The would-be thief—a skinny, lanky boy—placed a hand to the back of his head, wincing, as he said without remorse, "Nay, but it was worth a try." And then he sat up and groaned, loudly as he freed a ratty knot at the back of his head, and, in the process, released a rich cascade of red-gold curls. The sight of those tresses startled Malcom, so he forgot his ire, and even his question.

It wasn't a boy.

"What in damnation are you doing here, lass?"

The girl's voice was curt. "Must I remind you, sir, that you put me down in the weeds." And then she rose, brushing bits of leaves and twigs from her clothes.

Blinking in disbelief, Malcom watched her with a growing sense of wonder as she peered up at him with almond shaped eyes, completely unafraid, and perhaps even daring him to defy her.

He wondered if she could be Welsh—a scout perhaps? He wouldn't put it past those bastards to employ women in such a fashion. But her clothes were not those of a Welsh dissenter, which was to say, they were not battle-weary rags. As much as his own kinsmen had once been, these people were greatly oppressed. But rather, she was dressed in a courtly fashion, with well-stitched leather breaches and a tunic that bore the standard of the Holy Church—a red cross extending across the entirety of her tunic, with four small, identical crosses beneath each arm of the crucifix. He scratched the back of his head. Fortunately for his sense of modesty, the tunic was overlarge, covering her long, lean legs, else he would have found himself stupid and tongue-tied as well. So then, she must have come from Llanthony. Or perhaps from Abbey Dore and lost her way.

"You may shut your gob now," the girl said. "The look doesn't suit you."

Malcom snapped his mouth shut. He didn't bother asking what look; he suspected he already knew. He was, indeed, gobsmacked by the sight of her.

"Impious little thief," he said.

"Aye, well…" She cast him a mean glance under long dark lashes. "Better I should be an impious little thief than a minion of the Usurper."

And she shied away, giving herself space between them, as though she suddenly feared Malcom might get the gumption to seize her. He found that fact inordinately amusing—particularly so, considering the fact that it was she who'd assaulted him. He would have been perfectly content to walk on by.

She narrowed those shrewd violet eyes. "In any case, what I am doing here is no concern of yours," she said baldly. "The question seems to me: what is a reaving Scot doing in the south of Wales?" Malcom lifted his brows, though he scarce had time to process what she'd said, before she added, "Do your kinsmen not have enough to quibble over scrapping after each other's bones?"

Bloody impudent wench.

Despite that fact, Malcom couldn't help himself. For the first time in a long damn time, he burst into laughter.

He would laugh?

Elspeth screwed her face, feeling a sudden overwhelming urge to rush forward and punch the fool in the shin. His chortling—at her expense—was jovial enough to enrage her.

Sweet fates.She was hardly any shrew, but she welcomed the fury to distract her from her sorrow. In truth, she might have expected ire, or condemnation—or even lechery—but not this.

At the moment, she was so unsettled by his laughter that she could scarcely bear to look at the man. Mother Goddess, how could any man that size move so swiftly?

If only he'd not kept such a tight hold on his reins, or if he'd moved a little slower, she might be on her way by now. Instead, she was standing here like a ninny, trading quips, though not by choice, with a man large enough to comprise two of Llanthony's chaplains.

And yet, make no mistake, the fellow was far from fat. Every bit of flesh Ersinius possessed in his belly would have to be shoved up, forcibly, into his man breasts and then mindfully sculpted in order to be half the size this man was.

At long last, the stranger overcame his hilarity and bothered to ask, "Art hurt, lass?"

Daring to meet his sea-green eyes, Elspeth found him leaning in his saddle, the evidence of his mirth still clinging to the corners of his lips. "I'm unharmed," she confessed. "No thanks to you."

"If I recall aright," he said, his eyes gleaming, "I was strolling by, minding my own affairs. You assailed me."

His Scots accent was subtle, but Elspeth recognized it all the same. He had the diction of one who'd been away from his country overlong, but that did nothing to settle her ire. She had no love for Scots—and even less for reavers. Why should she feel guilty over stealing a thief's horse? "You were not riding her," Elspeth said, unreasonably.

"No," he agreed. "I was not. For a good reason."

Elspeth hitched her chin. "What good reason, prithee?"

"Not that I should owe you explanations for why I dinna ride my own horse, but I dinna wish to have Merry Bells harm herself in this foul weather."

Merry Bells?

Elspeth blinked, then frowned, chastened, though he couldn't possibly have understood why. Naturally, she had already known there would be consequences for the aether spell, but she hadn't taken much time to consider all the many possibilities. That horse's life was no less valuable to the Goddess than her own, and now she worried even more about the Rule of Three, mostly for sisters' sakes, because she had selfishly allowed them to abet her in this failed escape—failed because, only now that she was caught, she realized there was so much more they should have considered. And, of course, with the recent vandalisms, Stephen would send reinforcements. From the beginning, this was doomed. And yet, surely, the Goddess had something better to offer a humble servant than this? The very thought of being trussed over this man's horse and returned to Ersinius like some sack of meal, disheartened her. And then would he hand her over to the Bishop to be made an example of—like her grandmamau? It wasn't inconceivable. No matter that they couldn't prove that mist wasn't an act of God, they would consider Elspeth a poor example to her sisters. If they didn't escort her by blade-point to Blackwood, they might still wish to be rid of her and what better way than to burn her at the stake?

Calm yourself, Elspeth.

I am calm, she lied. I'm calm, Rhiannon!

But in the meantime, the Scotsman continued to berate her. She didn't hear half of what he said, but she focused on his words now.

"The fact that my arse was not planted in my saddle was not an invitation for thievery."

Elspeth would like to have forgotten he was there, but he gave her a thorough once over, and added, "Then again… judging by the fit of your clothes, this wasn't your first thievery. Di' ye burgle some puir sentry too deep in his cups to notice you were nicking his breeches?"

A warm flush crept into Elspeth's cheeks. "Are you through being amused?"

"Not quite," he said, "though I assure you my amusement is far more pleasant than the alternative."

Elspeth arched a dubious brow. He couldn't possibly be such an ogre if he loved his "Merry Bells" so much. And anyway, what sort of name was Merry Bells for a warrior's horse? Merry Bells?

If she weren't so furious, she would have returned the favor by laughing—heartily—rolling over the ground with a hand to her belly.

Indeed, Elspeth wished to do so, but considering how angry and heartsore she was, laughter wasn't forthcoming—unlike this fool, who seemed incapable of wiping the infuriating smirk from his lips, even whilst he berated her.

But then something occurred to her—something remarkable. He appeared wholly unaware of who she was, which meant… he wasn't sent to fetch her.

Relief vied with irritation. For all that he rankled her, Elspeth desperately needed help, and as much as she loathed to acknowledge the truth, she sensed a certain virtue in his aura—and this, after all, was her greatest skill: reading people. Whilst Rhiannon could read actual thoughts, so long as Elspeth remained in proximity, she could read emotions—betimes like an aura, filled with colors.

This man's air was lit pale orange, with just the tiniest hint of blue, like the shades of a low-burning flame. It was perhaps for that reason she'd felt so emboldened to provoke him.

But here, now, they were at a standoff, unless Elspeth relented—which was to say that if she wished to engage his help, she realized she was going to have to be nicer. "So, then…" She swiped primly at her tunic. "You did not say why you are here?"

"Aside from dodging pretty little thieves?"

Elspeth flushed, ignoring the backhanded compliment. It didn't matter to her that he thought her pretty, but her cheeks burned nonetheless.

"I was sent by your king."

Insulted, she pressed a hand to her breast. "My king?"

He showed his straight, white teeth. "Mine, too, whether we like it or nay."

Elspeth blinked, reconsidering the man. So, then, he was a reluctant warrior, serving a king he did not love? Perhaps, indeed, they could be allies after all? But just to be sure, she asked, "Which king?" Naturally, she presumed the most obvious. "The Scots' king, David?"

"Nay."

Her brows collided. "Rhys ap Hywel?"

"Nay"

"Owain Gwynedd?"

"Nay.

"Rhys ap Gruffydd."

"Nay."

"Madog ap Maredudd?"

He chortled again, only this time, it was a deep-throated chuckle that gave Elspeth a discernible shiver. "Nay, lass," he said. "Though I commend you on your knowledge of dissenters."

Elspeth bristled. "Dissenters, sir? You are in Wales. No matter that the Usurper would endeavor to deny it, these men are all kings, chosen properly by their people." The implication was not lost to him—unlike, Stephen, the Usurper. "Every last one with more right to be here than you—but, very well, if not them, who?"

"The only king you've yet to mention," he said, his lips twitching at the corners. "The one who actually rules these lands."

"Humph!" said Elspeth, her hands going to her hips. "Stephen of Blois will never rule these lands!"

He leaned forward in his saddle, as though preparing to confide in her, and said low, "Perhaps, my lady, but my sword is pledged to him nonetheless. And never is a very long time."

Lady? Elspeth suspected the courtesy was but a taunt, meant to needle her. He no more believed her a fine lady than he had any true consideration for his horse. He didn't wish to break his own neck was all. "My fath—Henry would turn in his grave to hear you say such a thing," she said, studying the man with narrowed eyes. It wasn't unheard of for a Scotsman to bend the knee to an English sovereign, but he was not dressed as she might have expected for a vassal of Stephen's to be dressed—completely without regard for his liege. And, if, indeed, he served her despicable cousin, he must be one of those feckless idiots who'd forsworn an oath to her father. Incensed, she clapped her hands together, ridding herself of imaginary dirt. "Anyway," she said sourly, "I thought your king supported my—Matilda—who, by the by, happens to be our rightful queen."

"So, he does."

Elspeth poked a finger at him. "Aha! He is your king!"

"Who?"

"David!"

"Nay, lass." The Scotsman frowned. But he peered down his nose at Elspeth with far less mirth, and Elspeth considered his diminished good humor a small, but decisive victory. "I have pledged my sword to Stephen and I always honor my vows," he said. And that was all. He gave no further explanation.

"You mean to say, you honor your vows when it suits you?" There was probably a good reason his armor wasn't blazoned; that way he could choose his side according to his mood. "I understand," she said, and watched his aura deepen to an angry orange, and despite that, Elspeth couldn't hold her tongue.

"What is it ye ken, lass?"

"You're a reaver!"

Malcom's lips thinned.His previously unanticipated good humor vanished.

Reaver?

Were all Scots considered little more than thieves? By God, she was a lovely little termagant, but a termagant nonetheless. But he hadn't any time or patience for this. Already, the girl had waylaid him long enough. He appreciated the fleeting instant of mirth, but he had a long, long way to go, and an ailing father to see to. Tugging Merry's reins, he said, "Aye, well… tis been lovely, lass. Much as I would love to remain and continue this fascinating discourse, I'm afraid I must take my leave now. Good day," he said.

Wide eyed, and looking suddenly very contrite, the girl stepped in front of his horse, startling Malcom, but Merry Bells didn't protest the hand in front of her nose.

"Wait!" she said. "Where will you go?"

"Home," Malcom answered, and once again peered into the tree-tops, suspicious. Could it be she was waylaying him so her fellow brigands could come relieve him of his valuables? Whilst he kept little silver in his bags, his armor and horse were indispensable. As it was, he'd put far too much time into working with Merry Bells to start over again. The thought of losing her soured his belly. Not quite trusting the girl, he kept the grip on his reins, preparing to bolt, but, for some odd reason, despite his pique, there was something in the girl's stark violet gaze that held him transfixed. Once more, he scanned the tree-tops, looking for compatriots.

Please, please don't go.

That voice… it was the very same voice he'd heard moments ago, like a silky whisper carried by the wind… Was it her? But he never saw her lips move.

Who was she?Despite having pounced on him from the trees, he didn't believe she could be a scout. Her hubris told him she was highborn. But even if she had perfected the haughty demeanor, she lacked the refinement he'd so often encountered in the women from Stephen's court. In fact, there was something about the lass that reminded him quite a bit of his stepmother. Left to her own devices, Page FitzSimon had been a waif with a viper tongue. This girl, dressed in the manner of men, was equally as impudent as his stepmother had been, only with a wit twice as sharp. Yes, indeed, she was exactly like his stepmother, with that stinging pride she wore like a suit of armor, all the while she was frightened and alone. But that wasn't all they had in common… there was something else… something about the tumult in her gaze… a sad, sad depth of despair that called to Malcom's soul.

"Which way are you traveling?"

"North," he said.

Her brows lifted. "Wonderful!" she said with false bravado. "It just so happens to be the way I am traveling as well."

Malcom arched a brow. "What you mean to say is… north is the way you intended to travel after stealing my horse?"

"Aye," she said, with a bit of a blush, and Malcom meant to press her further. In fact, he wanted to ask her if she even knew which way was north because she appeared as lost as any soul had ever appeared. He opened his mouth to goad her—mostly because she deserved it—but then came a sudden chorus of barking hounds, and the girl stiffened, looking for the first time frightened out of her wits. Wild eyed, she peered up into the treetops from whence she'd come, and for an instant seemed to consider scrambling back up, but she met Malcom's gaze. With eyes as wide as saucers and moisture brimming over thick, dark lashes, she begged, "Please."

Confused, he asked, "Please what?"

"Please sir, we are going the same way…"

"Elspeth!" a man's voice called, near enough to be understood. And then another shout. "Elspeth!" The hounds were closing in now, barking in a frenzied refrain.

Gone was any pretense at pride. "Please, please, help me!" she begged. "Please!"