Once Upon a Knight

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  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 oth
ers 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… that thing… 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 s
urrounding 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?”