The mare stood placidly, and if there had once been blood lust in her gaze, it was gone. She blinked serenely, staring at Malcom with calm, ebony eyes.
Once again, Malcom peered down at the barely recognizable body, misshapen in the hay at his feet. But no sooner had Elspeth finished her explanation when they heard the blast of a horn—three short wails.
Malcom’s first thought was that his cousin must have returned—but nay, for that alone, his men would never have presumed a call to arms.
One by one, crimson tents arose on Aldergh’s parklands, mottling the landscape, like blood-spray across their fields.
Recognizing the obvious signs of a siege—troops in formation, supply wagons incoming, and the sound of hammering wood—Malcom watched the event unfold with no small degree of trepidation.
He had been a part of too many sieges not to know what they looked like and sounded like. But this strike had come so swiftly that Stephen must have ordered it the minute he heard news of Malcom’s intervention, all without ever having heard Malcom’s explanations, or bothering with an attempt at negotiation. Considering these truths, perhaps Malcom shouldn’t have been so surprised to find it was Eustace’s banner that flew in tandem with the royal standard.
The King’s son was not an admirer of Malcom’s, and it was no secret to anyone that Malcom believed Stephen afforded his son too much power. Of course Eustace would seize any opportunity to oppose him. But what did surprise him was that Stephen would forsake him so easily, giving leave to his miscreant son to campaign against him, when only three weeks ago, he had stood in his presence, and assigned him the most sensitive task in all the land—the assassination of Brian Fitz Count, the lord of Wallingford.
So, then, was this what eleven years of loyalty had earned him?
By late afternoon, a good thousand men had already gathered over Aldergh’s parklands, with hundreds more filtering in by the hour. For the time being, they remained outside missile range.
At the first sign of hostilities, most of his villein had rushed for the gates. The fortress was now locked and sealed—front and postern gates. Anyone remaining outside would be forced to take their chances. He knew there were a few old folks who would stay with their homesteads and livestock, particularly since, in truth, this was not the enemy that descended upon them. It was their king, and with a simple word, Malcom himself had become an enemy to the crown.
Thankfully, if there was one thing Malcom trusted about the man he’d served more than ten years: This siege would be long and slow, with every attempt made to come to terms.
Alas, if Stephen should insist upon Elspeth’s return, Malcom would never release her without a fight, and if that should be the case, Stephen would find him well prepared.
It wouldn’t be the first time his king gave up on a siege, and Malcom had taken an example from Wallingford, himself, hoarding supplies for years in the event of an advance by Matilda. After all, she was her uncle’s favored candidate for the throne and Malcom’s demesne lay far, far to the north. So far, in fact, that it should have taken weeks for Stephen to gather his men and march north. While it was certainly possible for a small number of riders to reach Aldergh, he would have had to draw forces from surrounding lordships—men that Malcom had once called compatriots.
How swiftly the tides turned.
Whatever the case, the sight before them was proof of two things: Morwen’s ravens were inordinately efficient communicators; and Stephen was, indeed, far too easily influenced by his son.
Shivering beside him, Elspeth rubbed her arms, whispering for Malcom’s ears alone, “She’s out there. I feel her.”
“Aye well, unless she can walk through walls,” he said, “she’ll remain out there. We have supplies enough to outlast them.”
That didn’t seem to ease the frown from Elspeth’s face, but, in fact, the fortress was as impenetrable as she was unsightly, and Malcom had never cared much for aesthetics over advantage. Thirteen long years of warfare had never given him much leave to consider anything but the protection of his people, and, besides, Aldergh was the manifestation of a paranoid man, whose sole purpose in life had been the defense of his lands. Hugh FitzSimon had cared more for Aldergh than he had for his own flesh and blood.
Elspeth hugged herself. “Please, please do not discount her, Malcom. I do not know what she is capable of.”
Hearing the note of fear in his wife’s voice, he spun her about so that she could look into his eyes, and he asked her firmly but gently, “Would you have me return you to your mother?”
“Like so much chattel?”
“Precisely,” he said. “And lest ye tell me you would leave me, I would never willingly let you go.” He offered a sore attempt at a smile. “I did warn you, did I not?”
Her lips quivered in a sore attempt at a smile, and her eyes filled with tears as she shook her head, then nodded, clearly confused. “But if it would keep you and your people safe from harm…”
“Our people,” Malcom reminded as he brushed a finger across the bruise that was forming on her cheek—God’s truth, he wished that Daw were alive, so he could beat him to a pulp. “You are my wife, Elspeth. We took vows.” He showed her the white slip at his wrist—trimmed and tucked, but still there. “I intend to keep them.”
Already, he’d come too damned close to losing her, and he shuddered to think what might have happened had Merry Bells not been so ready to defend her. He smiled. “You are the lady of Aldergh and there is not a man or beast behind these walls who would not die to protect you, as you would no doubt do for them. Would you not?”
Elspeth nodded, a single tear slipping through her lashes, and Malcom pulled her close and turned about to watch the siege unfold. “I am your champion,” he reminded her. “Remember?”
“I remember,” she said softly, and he crushed her against him, praying to God that he would rise to the occasion.
For all her husband’s bold, sweet words, he still did not realize what she had done.
After two days without word from David, Elspeth began to fear the possibility of Cameron’s and Wee Davie’s capture. It seemed to her that no more than thirty minutes could have passed between his leaving Aldergh and Stephen’s arrival, but she prayed with all her heart that Cameron had spied the approaching army and that the three of them had taken shelter without Stephen any wiser.
When three days later there came no messenger, no demands and there seemed to be no sign of Cameron’s presence anywhere near the siege camp, Elspeth began to take heart. Sweet fates, please, please, she prayed.
Alas, after her meddling was discovered, Malcom might wish to return her to her mother, after all, though in the meantime, she fully intended to do her part to keep his household as best she could.
By now, Cora had awakened, but she remained indisposed. Until such time as she could return to the household chores, Elspeth took it upon herself to lead. All day long, she flitted between Cora’s sickroom, tending the maid’s wound and then marching through the keep, with Cora’s daughters en tow. “Art certain mother will be alright?” each girl asked in turn.
“I promise,” Elspeth reassured, but she daren’t explain how and why she knew it would be so: Of course, she had performed a bit of magik to speed the maid’s recovery—not so much as to raise suspicion, just enough to ensure their mother would be on her feet before too long.
It wasn’t entirely a selfless act. As much as Elspeth loathed to confess it, she needed Cora desperately. She was completely ignorant about the running of a household—and lost.
She started with the things that made sense to her: The feast for her nuptials was postponed again. They would need all the supplies they could get for the siege to come.
Of course, Malcom had reassured her: There was plenty enough for everyone and Elspeth need not worry. Even without the livestock from their fields or the season’s yield, they had food enough for more than a year.
Malcom also kept a fair share of cattle, goats and h
ens safely within the castle walls. At the moment, the entire premise was a living crush—animals and people sleeping all about—in the hall, in the bailey, on the ramparts, in the corridors. The only place that was free of bodies at night happened to be the stairs.
During the day, children rushed about, chasing chickens and goats, not entirely aware that this was not a celebration. Elspeth supposed that until the first casualties were lost, they would think it no more than an adventure.
Unfortunately, with so many tasks to manage, she needed every woman she could get. All the men were expected to bear arms in shifts, including the butcher, the barber and the blacksmith.
Elspeth gathered up the children and took them to her solar leaving them in Ellyn’s care while Agnes continued to follow her about. And despite their constant barrage of questions, Elspeth was grateful for the help, because, in truth, when she excelled at one thing, she failed miserably at another.
At night, Malcom tiptoed over sleeping people en route to their bed, and he was gone by morning light, without so much as a complaint, but Elspeth missed him desperately. So, tonight, with her keys jangling on her new chatelaine’s belt, she swept through the kitchen, making certain that supper was progressing, and then, once the stew was complete, she poured a trencher full for her husband, and thinking that once they used up the last of the meat they’d butchered for the feast, she would see to it that they kept the remainder of the livestock for milk, cheese and eggs. It wouldn’t do to be killing their best means for supplies. And anyway, they didn’t need meat; she knew a hundred ways to flavor a good porridge to please the palate.
She made her way across the Bailey, with the trencher in hand, careful not to spill it. It wasn’t until she was near the stairs that she noticed the stench that filled the air, and her heart wrenched. Dropping the trencher, she ran toward the parapets.
For nearly an hour, Malcom watched as fields were set ablaze, surrounding the castle with burning crops and black smoke that puffed into an ever-darkening sky. But, then, rather than dissipate, those clouds seem to be gathering on the horizon, tumbling and turning.
All this time he’d been preparing for a good, long siege, but now he realized an attack must be imminent—all without ever having sent a single messenger, or any attempt at negotiation.
Furious now, incensed by the betrayal, he ordered pitch vats to be established at intervals along the wall. These would be used for men scaling their walls or battering with rams. Fortunately, they had more than enough missiles to launch a sustained attack. Armload after armload, his men brought and stacked supplies between machicolations. He’d slept little more than an hour or two at intervals, and the stress was beginning to darken his mood until it was black as the clouds gathering in the distance.
It was near dusk, when a messenger finally arrived—a boy, no older than Wee Davie. For a terrifying instant, that’s who Malcom thought it must be as the boy ran stumbling across a fallow field. He stood below the gates, and Malcom had a sudden vision of himself at six, watching from the bailey side as FitzSimon bargained with his father. Only this time, it was Malcom on the parapet as the boy—a fair-haired child Malcom recognized from one of the farms—shouted up at him, puffing his chest with pride.
“My lord Aldergh,” he announced, between breaths. “In the name of our king… you must surrender.”
That was it. No opportunity for Malcom’s side to be heard. No recommendation for a meeting. Eleven years of service gone in a blaze of smoke.
Black, hot fury shot through Malcom’s veins—anger unlike anything he’d experienced in his life.
At the instant, he sorely regretted sending his cousin away. At least then, he might have had the backing of his kinsmen. Now, he was alone, floundering in a sea of cottongrass and heather. But come what may, he would never give up his bride. By God, she’d sent one of Malcom’s own men into his home to harm Elspeth—her own flesh and blood.
Malcom had little comprehension over what that woman must have done to mild-mannered Daw, or how she’d forced his hand, but if she wanted an answer, Malcom knew precisely what to give her.
He ordered one of his men forward, whispering into the man’s ear. The man rushed away to do Malcom’s bidding. Only then did he step forward to address the child.
“I’ll gi’ ye my answer, lad—as a gift for the lady Morwen.”
The boy nodded eagerly, awaiting his charge—and this too, infuriated Malcom. It was inconceivable that any man should use a boy so rudely. Thankfully, he took comfort in that no honorable man would ever harm an innocent child. The rules of engagement commanded a messenger’s safe passage.
Once up on the ramparts, Elspeth approached her husband with trepidation. Making herself as invisible as possible so as not to distract him.
The gates creaked open, and the portcullis rose barely high enough to push a box outside. Elspeth watched as the child came forward to take his burden, then, very innocently, peered up and waved before hurrying away.
No doubt, he felt important today—a messenger for his king and his lord.
Along with the rest of the men at arms, Elspeth watched with bated breath as the boy ran the long distance to the king’s camp—about four hundred meters—during which time the silence on the ramparts grew thick enough to cut with a blade. What must have been minutes felt like an eternity.
And then, suddenly, before anyone could wonder over the king’s response, the child came rushing back, only this time, there was terror in his gait. Whatever they’d said to him must have frightened him because he ran fast and faster, all the while those smoke clouds on the horizon began to roil, moving closer, swirling, closing in. Elspeth watched the advance with a growing sense of trepidation…
Only once the child was halfway across the field, the cloud formation dove on him, and suddenly Elspeth knew—too late for the boy. He dove to the ground, throwing up his hands to cover his ears and head. Alas, they could hear his screams of agony from whence they stood.
“What in God’s name is that?” asked one of the men at arms.
“Ravens,” whispered Elspeth.
By the thousands, they came swooping in, the sound of their rushing black wings like a raging wind, and their squawks inspiring terror.
Something terrible awakened inside her, as Elspeth realized that even if they loosed every arrow in their possession, they would still be lacking.
Sprawled out in the field, the child no longer struggled. His body lay as still as Daw had been after Merry Bells was through with him. All together now, the dense cloud of birds swooped up and moved closer, closer… closer…
If only she could stop them. If only she had some means to prevent them from coming inside the castle walls… if only…
Tell her… she must raise her hand… and believe.
Elspeth blinked, suddenly understanding.
Believe, she thought she heard Rhiannon say. Believe.
Only fearing the consequences of revealing herself, Elspeth hesitated, looking first at Malcom, begging with her eyes, and somehow, somehow, he must have sensed her regard and he slowly turned and gave her a nod.
Believe.
Elspeth had never considered attempting such a feat. She had never imagined any time when she should have to try. But if she did this… if she did this… there could be no doubt about what or who she was after she was done. She was a witch. A dewine. A sorceress.
So be it.
Come what may—if they should hang her from the ramparts for this spell, it still must be done. She felt a surge of power rise up from parts unknown, tingling her skin, rising, rising, until she was a burst of energy, ready to ignite. And then suddenly, she had a terrifying sense of blinding white as she splayed a hand and whispered over the incoming roar.
By the power of earth, fire, air and water, my Goddess, I beg thee protection.
By the power of earth, fire, air and water, my Goddess, I beg thee protection.
By the power of earth, fire, air and water, my Goddess
, I beg thee protection. By all on high and law of three, it is my will, so may it be.
The onslaught stopped.
A hush fell over the demesne.
Some of the birds slid from the sky, as though they’d encountered an invisible, immovable force. Not a single one came closer than Elspeth bade them. They dropped from the sky to the ground, forming a perfect line of black about the castle.
With a shuddering breath, Elspeth met her husband’s gaze, and the look in his eyes was full of—not admiration, but horror. Lowering her hand before anyone could see what she’d done, she stood, as everyone else stood, stupefied, watching the remaining ravens swoop up and retreat.
Chapter 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.
She had summoned it—a shield to keep the birds at bay, and the evidence of her intervention surrounded the castle. Thousands of black birds lay piled like dry-stacked stone no more than ten feet from the castle walls.
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