Once Upon a Knight

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  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.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  There was no mistaking her sister’s artwork.

  Rhiannon’s drawings were done with a practiced hand. It was her work that graced the pages of their grimoire—all the sketches of flora and fauna, detailed to the smallest degree.

  If Elspeth needed more proof than the words with which Malcom had returned from Wales, she had it now in the sketch done by her sister’s hand, scribbled in ash and sealed with wax.

  How long had she known?

  Obviously, her sister had had a vision of Elspeth’s future, and now that Elspeth realized, she, too, could see more clearly…

  Their bond was irrefutable by the simple fact that Malcom could hear her, and that he so easily had championed her. He was her soul mate bonded to her by the Goddess—and she understood now that he must feel it as well, or else he would never have wed her so swiftly, without dispensation from the Church, or consent from his king. Without any hesitation, they had bound themselves together as man and wife in the oldest imaginable ceremony, practiced by lovers since time immemorial.

  But, now, Elspeth wondered: Could Malcom also be the key to all their futures? Was it possible Rhiannon had seen this, as well, and this was why her sister had insisted so vehemently that Elspeth must leave the priory?

  All things were connected, Elspeth realized.

  Where a butterfly fluttered its wings, that’s where the mighty gale was spawned. Consequently, it was the angry flap of a mean hen’s wings after swallowing a seed that birthed a sea swell tremendous enough to sink the entire Island of Avalon.

  Thinking about that, later that evening, she lay next to Malcom, facing his back in the darkness, listening to him breathe, remembering the delightful feelings she had experienced whilst riding behind him in the saddle. Her cheeks burned over the memory, but if she could experience that with nothing but his proximity, spurred by the sound of his voice and the warmth of his body, what more could she feel? Even now, her skin warmed as she considered what to do…

  Up in the sky, the moon was but a sliver.

  Do it, Elspeth.

  Tomorrow they would arrive at Aldergh, and, if Malcom would accept her, in truth, she wanted to give herself to him, body and soul. She would like to arrive as the lady he’d raised her to be. With little innocence in her intentions—she draped her arm about him, wiggling closer…

  “Malcom,” she whispered, and dared to slip a knee into the warmth between his thighs.

  He stirred, but did not immediately respond, and Elspeth knew instinctively there would be no better time than now, whilst the breeze smelled so achingly sweet and the crackling of the flames reminded her of Beltane fires.

  She wasn’t a child any longer. She was four and twenty. She understood what passed between men and women. It was impossible to sleep within hearing distance of Morwen and not glean these things, even as a child. But the more Elspeth thought about it, the more she wanted to know Malcom… as a woman should know a man… as a wife should know a husband. And someday, she wanted to carry his babe in truth.

  Pressing closer, reveling in the warmth of his skin, desire roused in her body, warming her to her womb. She felt an ache deep down, imagining him pressing her down into the blanket, flesh to flesh, mouth to mouth, body to body… soul to soul.

  “Malcom?”

  Dare she wake him?

  But what if he denied her?

  Again.

  At the moment, she didn’t care. Her body felt as though it were afire, her breasts aching for his touch.

  Intuitively, she needed a deeper bond with this man lying so close beside her. “Malcom,” she whispered insistently, and this time he opened his eyes, turning to face her on the pallet.

  “What is it, lass?”

  They were face to face now… breath to breath… and Elspeth’s heart beat so fiercely that she thought it might burst from her breast. Her mouth felt parched, her lips too dry to speak. Her arms ached to hold him…

  “Malcom… if you will have me… I would be your wife, in truth…”

  “Elspeth?” he said hoarsely, and her name seemed to be a question. Inhaling a breath for courage, Elspeth slid closer, and then, emboldened, she covered his body with hers, not entirely certain what to do, listening to the siren’s voice all women possessed. Short of breath, needing something she knew only Malcom could give her, she lifted a hand to her breast…

  Malcom watched her with hooded eyes, the veil of sleep vanished. Bold and unashamed, she loomed over him, her body arching for his touch, looking like a goddess incarnate.

  “I would be your wife in truth,” she said again, and it was as though she beguiled him with her soft, sweet words, because Malcom’s cock rose to nestle greedily between her thighs, like a poppet-master with a marionette.

  Somehow, he managed to clear the fog from his brain. “Elspeth,” he said. “I warned you once… I would not turn you away next time.”

  “I do not want you to turn me away,” she said silkily, bending to cover his mouth with her soft, sweet lips. And giving truth to her words, her fingers slid from her breast, down to his belly, teasing him like a woman who knew what she wanted.

  Somehow—by his own hand or hers—the laces fell away from Malcom’s breeches. He shrugged them off, heat simmering through his loins, and seized her hand, wanting her to understand beyond a shadow of doubt what it was he would have of her. He slid their joined hands down to the part of him that most needed her caresses, pressing it firmly against his shaft, begging her to understand.

  To his surprise, and delight, she closed her hand about him, and the feel of her warm fist racked him with shivers.

  Ach, God… it had been so long since he’d lain with a woman—and Elspeth… she was his wife.

  Night after night, he’d lain beside her, exercising incredible will not to touch her. Tonight his efforts would come to naught.

  Any mind he had to release her flew out of his head as he lifted her skirt, sliding his hand beneath her gown, caressing her warm, soft thigh. And before he could think to prepare her, she settled herself over him and Malcom cried out with pleasure as her warm, sweet body embraced him like glove meant only for him.

  “Elspeth,” he said again, with a guttural moan, but gone now was the shy, retiring lass. Now she was in control.

  And then he felt it and knew… She was a virgin. Her maidenhead was intact.

  With some effort, he stilled her hips
, searching her lovely face, painted amber by the light of the fire. He brushed a thumb across the soft hairs of her mons, teasing her soft wet flesh, even as his fogged brain commanded him to stop.

  She was his wife, he reminded himself and this was naught he should deny himself. But he wanted her to understand that what came next was binding. But even as he tried to warn her, her gaze filled with unbridled desire, and her body came alive with a purpose all its own, tempting him to lose his mind.

  Rolling instinctively to regain control, Malcom carried her with him, so that she lay beneath him. He peered down into her beautiful violet eyes, willing her to understand all that was in his heart. “Elspeth,” he said gruffly. “If you stay with me, I will promise you my heart and soul.”

  “I wish to be your wife, in truth,” she said again, insistently, and Malcom’s heart flowered with joy. Eager to lose himself in the promise of her arms, he thrust her gown aside, regretting the time and place and slowly pushed himself inside her. Groaning with pent up desire, he swallowed her soft cries with his mouth. And then, all thought was banished as she moved beneath him like a siren, taunting, teasing…

  She reached for him, wrapping her arms and legs about his middle greedily and Malcom abandoned himself to her.

  By the light of a Bright Moon, they made love by the fire, binding themselves together.

  “You are mine,” he said sweetly, and promised, “I am yours…”

  The following morning, it surprised Elspeth to learn how close they were to Aldergh. Perhaps intending to surprise her, Malcom hadn’t said a word. They arrived midmorning to much hustle and bustle.

  The castle itself reminded Elspeth of the rough and rubble Roman fortresses so predominant throughout the country of her birth. Only the landscape here was different—flat-topped hills in the wake of the Pennines, covered with cottongrass, purple moor grass and heath rush.

  Along the journey north, they had skirted about the mountains. However, now they found themselves nestled along the foothills generously peppered with oak and maple groves.

  With its soaring corner towers and a massive curtain wall, the castle itself seemed impervious to intruders, and with bulwarks like these under his rule, it was no wonder Stephen managed to hold onto his throne. Whatever ground Matilda might gain, there would always be strongholds like these to prevent her from seizing the rest, and unless she turned the hearts of these men, her cause would be lost. Merely gazing upon her new home gave lie to any hope she had for her sister’s triumph. But now, how could she dare hope for Matilda’s victory when winning meant a defeat for Malcom?

  Reining in Merry Bells, Malcom sat for a moment, perhaps to allow Elspeth time to take in the remarkable sight of her new abode.

  Merry Bells seemed to scent where she was, because the horse danced beneath them like a child filled with excitement. Elspeth herself took in a lungful of air, scenting the heath rush.

  Malcom said after a moment, “God’s truth… I never grow tired of seeing it from this vantage. ’Tis hardly a thing I ever dreamt I would do as a boy.” And the look in his eyes held a certain wistfulness.

  Of course, she could see why he would be proud; even Blackwood wasn’t so sizable. If there was aught about her family’s ancestral home that surpassed this stronghold, it was merely its position so high atop the Black Mountains. Also like Blackwood, this was no upstart castle; it was built for the ages, added upon little by little, until it seemed particularly… monstrous—a miscellany of construction, with red stone and yellow. A band of red brick in the Roman fashion wove itself along the entire edifice, continuing from the wall into the two multangular towers that stood on either side of the fort. The rough and rubble wall itself had putlog holes to provide for the platformed floor inside and she knew this because it mirrored the construction at Blackwood—even down to the arched entryways.

  “My grandfather added the moat,” he said, pointing it out. “I expanded it and constructed the new bridge. The corner towers were two; I built the third and fourth.”

  “Tis…” Elspeth nodded, uncertain what to say. It certainly wasn’t beautiful by any means, but it wasn’t poor. “Tis…”

  Malcom laughed. “Tis ours,” he said, finishing for her at last, as he tightened the arm about her waist, reassuring her. “It seems formidable from this vantage, but I can assure you that you will have every comfort within.”

  That was not what Elspeth was concerned about at all. She had lived crudely for most of her life. Whatever creature comforts she would enjoy inside her new home, she would appreciate beyond measure. But whilst it didn’t have precisely the aura Amdel had, it was still… unnerving.

  For the most part, she couldn’t quite tell whether she had this strange hesitancy because of the castle itself, or whether it was her terror over being judged by its people.

  Early this morning, they had awakened together, arms and legs entwined, and Malcom had kissed her firmly upon the lips, then as though he were a practiced lady’s maid, he’d helped Elspeth dress. And if that were not enough, he’d combed the mess of her tangles with his fingertips, and then plaited her hair in much the same fashion she’d had done the night of their vows. For all that anyone could tell, she was a proper lady arrived at her new home—a lady dressed in fine linsey-woolsey, and once again, she bemoaned the fact that she’d left the scarlet at Amdel. How striking it would have been to arrive home dressed as the lord and lady in matching finery.

  In the distance, Elspeth heard the creaking and groaning of metal as the heavy portcullis rose. Even without banners, they knew their lord and were prepared to welcome him.

  “The portcullis itself is rather ingenious, he said. “Normally, in times of war, you would cut ropes to close it quickly. But my grandfather employed engineers to design a clasp that would release with the turn of a latch. As far as I have seen, it is not a well-used design.” He leaned his chin on her shoulder, pointing to the left of the castle. “There’s a postern gate as well, but I keep it sealed.”

  Elspeth nodded. “So, did your grandsire inherit the estate?”

  “Nay,” he said. “He did not. Though I cannot glean more than that it was once a Roman bastion, built around the same time as York. But, unlike York, this fortress was destroyed before the Roman’s departed. It was my grandsire who seized upon its potential and with your father’s blessings, he created this monstrosity.”

  Aye, so that was the word Elspeth might have used: Monstrosity.

  Instinctively, her fingers moved to her braided necklace and she drew it out of her gown, clasping the signet ring. “He must have been a great man,” she said, for lack of a better thing to say. If his grandsire had answered to her father, it was because Henry had considered him worthy.

  “Hardly,” Malcom replied. “But he made up for it in the end.”

  “How so?”

  “By dying,” he said, and snapped Merry Bells reins.

  Elspeth frowned. It wasn’t the first time he’d suggested his grandsire’s disfavor, but Elspeth held her tongue, leaving this discussion for another day. Now was not the time to broach unhappy memories. They were home now, at last. Sweet fates, but she was nervous.

  The gates opened wide to greet them. But, unlike at Amdel, there were smiles aplenty for them once they crossed the bridge.

  “Welcome home, my lord!”

  “Welcome!”

  “Malcom! Malcom!” they shouted.

  Hues and cries sounded from every direction, and by the time they reached the inner bailey, Elspeth could hear them already lowering the portcullis. The villein—not just the soldiers—filtered in to greet their newly returned lord, accompanied by women and children.

  Malcom dismounted, patting Elspeth’s thigh, bidding her to wait, and if she sensed curiosity in the sundry faces that surrounded her, it was momentarily overshadowed by their hearty welcome for the lord himself. Clearly, they cherished Malcom.

  “Di’ ye bring me a Welsh bow—like ye said, Mal?” It was a small boy dressed like
a page with flaxen hair, and bright green eyes who’d elbowed his way through the crowd, and Elspeth knew a moment of surprise, because he looked to be the spitting image of Malcom.

  Malcom grinned. “I did, Wee Davey, but you’ll have to wait to get it.” He patted the boy on the head as the lad clapped his hands gleefully.

  Another man came forward. “Tis a bloody good thing ye’ve returned, my lord. There’s an envoy from Carlisle.”

  “Envoy?”

  “Cameron, with news,” explained the man.

  “You gave us a scare, m’lord,” complained a well-rounded woman. “We worried when Daw came crawling’ home w’oot ye!”

  Malcom started. “Daw returned?”

  “Aye, my lord, evening past. But he seems worse for the wear. Bertie is tending him.”

  Malcom nodded. “Good, I suppose,” he said. And then he raised a hand to hush everybody all at once. He peered up at Elspeth, winking at her, then reached up to bear her down from the saddle and set her down so she stood beside him. “I have news of my own,” he announced, taking Elspeth by the hand, and raising their joined hands for all to see. “I am returned a man wed. I present to you your lady of Aldergh!”

  There was a moment of stunned silence, and then slowly, very slowly, one by one, as though realizing it wasn’t a jest, the crowd began to clap. And if their initial quietude was anything at all, it seemed to be a case of genuine shock because the smiles that ensued appeared to be genuine.

  “You will heed her every word,” he said, “and you will come to love her as I do.”

  Elspeth blinked in surprise, having never heard him speak those words. He looked at her, and smiled, and the boyish curve of his lips, like the sparkle in his green eyes, nearly buckled her knees.

  “All hail my lady of Aldergh!” shouted Wee Davie, with such unbridled joy that Elspeth burst out with a giggle, and the crowd followed the boy’s lead. “All hail my lady of Aldergh!”