Malcolm'S Honor (Historical, 519)

by Jillian Hart

  They had escaped the moment Hugh had dropped hold of their reins to raise his sword in battle. Whoever challenged the king’s knights could only mean more complications. ’Twas rumored few could outfight Malcolm the Fierce. Alma had refused to flee, but Elin could taste freedom. She did not trust even the king’s knight to be true.

  So she’d caught hold of the old woman’s reins and galloped off into the night, unnoticed as the clash of steel and the roaring cries from bloodthirsty men rang in her ears. Only a fool would return.

  Now, when she reached the last bend in the road, silence met her. Dark shadows revealed the forms of men kneeling in the way, forming a ring around a death-still body.

  Unnoticed, Elin dismounted. Her limbs quaked with the act of walking back into the hands of her captors, whether they took her in good faith or bad, yet all she could see was Hugh. Too pale of face meant he had lost too much blood. She had seen that ashen sweat before in the gravely injured, as she had the shallow breathing and loss of consciousness.

  There was little time if she held any hopes of saving his life.

  “Are you men knotty-pated dolts? Hugh is cold. Fetch me some blankets. You, the tall one. Make a fire over there by the bank. Quickly now. Do not sit there staring at me.”

  The dark knight rose from the fallen Hugh’s side. “Do as she bids, men.”

  He lumbered close, the jangle of his mail loud in her ears. He turned his forceful gaze upon her. “Have you healing knowledge?”

  “More than most.” She refused to tremble beneath the power of his scrutiny. “I need water boiled. You will see to it?”

  “As you wish.” He nodded and was gone, barking orders. Authority rang in his voice, in his manner. He was not just a man of war, but a commander of men.

  She knelt beside the injured knight, clutching the few crocks of herbs she had in her possession. She reached beneath her mantle for the knife and bared it.

  “Look! She has a weapon!” a man cried, and hard fingers imprisoned her wrist.

  “Are you mad? Unhand me!” She looked up into eyes of the one who assisted le Farouche.

  “Nay, I will not have you slit his throat, you witch.”

  “I am more likely to slit yours.” She still gripped her knife and fought with muscle and strength to keep the much larger knight from forcibly lowering her arm.

  “Release her, Giles.” That dark voice was rich with both power and amusement. “I trust her to see to Hugh.”

  “She is a sorceress, sir, if she thinks she can bring back the dead.”

  “He is not dead. Yet. Merely unconscious. Leave me to my work,” Elin demanded, her temper ready to flare. She had not returned for abuse, but to help the knight who had been kind to Alma.

  “I share your suspicions, Giles.” Teasing laughter filled that dark voice. “She does possess the unruly manner of a sorceress.”

  Elin did not think she could hate le Farouche more than she did at that moment. She had given up her freedom and mayhap her life for a hired killer’s jesting? Fury drove her, and she tore her hand free before the knight, Giles, released her, earning his surprise and a nod of approval from le Farouche.

  Fie! As if she needed his approval.

  “You.” She pointed her blade at Malcolm. “Help me with his armor, since you are the only man without work to do.”

  “You despise my idleness?” He chuckled, deep and as intriguing as midnight.

  “That and more. Now, quickly. I must see the wound. Use my blade.” She jabbed the knife toward him, hilt first.

  His big blunt fingers curled over the steel weapon, engulfing it. The thick blade appeared like a toy against his powerful bulk. She shivered and bowed her head. She had watched him slash the life from men she’d known much of her life, men who had protected her while she rode the countryside gathering her herbs.

  Now, gazing up the length of the dark knight, she knew some measure of fear. She felt the weight of his gaze, read the cynical darkness in his eyes, hated the strength in his craggy body. The latent power to kill rested in the thickness of his arms and shoulders, chest and thighs.

  He both took her breath away and made her blood run cold. He was a beautiful masculine form. He was a destroyer of life. The irony beat at her. Truly this was the epitome of man—a beautiful destroyer—and the reason she both feared and hated men so.

  “Do you think me a witch?” she demanded.

  She watched Malcolm’s impassive face, well molded with high cheekbones and a straight blade of a nose. “Nay, else you would have uttered spells and curses when I captured you. Instead, you relied on more honest weapons.”

  Her knife in his hand glinted once in the starlight, illuminating briefly the man kneeling beside her. His head bent with his work. She could see his black hair curling at his nape, could see the fine lines etched around his dark eyes, caused by time and war and too much sun. He was rumored to have fought in the Outremer, as her brother had. ’Twas unbelievable. This dark knight, as frightening as death and midnight, had fought for Christ?

  Impossible. He had the coldness of a mercenary, the mockery of a knave and the… She hesitated, watching him separate the unconscious Hugh from his chain mail. He had the hands of a healer. They were strong and gentle, as if he was well acquainted with death and life. Nay, it could not be. Not this man.

  The scent of freshly spilled blood reminded her of her purpose. She bent to remove the lids of her unmarked crocks and, because of the darkness, sniffed each one. She recognized the sharp smell of marigold. And then the sweet odor of camphor.

  “Blankets.” Giles returned, careful to keep his distance.

  She took the wool coverings he offered and was not amused when the knight stepped back. Out of fear? Revulsion? She noticed now that others did the same, suspicion written on their shadowed faces. The same suspicions she always raised when she acted differently from the obedient baron’s daughter they expected. Fie on them! As if she could sit at embroidery all day without going insane. Men did not do it. Why should she?

  “Do you wish him covered?” Malcolm’s voice drew her back to the task before her.

  Now that Hugh was free of his armor, she could begin her work. “Aye. First I want him off this cold ground. Spread out one length of wool, and you and I together will lift him onto it.”

  “You and I?” He crooked his brow skeptically.

  “How stupid of me to forget my lack of muscle! I will just have to try all the harder. Now, grab his head. Lift him gently on count of three.”

  “Let one of my knights…”

  Elin was used to the foolish beliefs of men. She grabbed Hugh’s ankles firmly, eyeing the stain of blood from his neck to his groin. A mortal wound. Sadness filled her. At least Hugh was unconscious and out of his misery. ’Twas always her patient’s pain that caused her the most sorrow. “One, two, three,” she counted, and lifted.

  As le Farouche hurried to secure Hugh’s head, knights rushed to Elin’s side, obviously doubting her strength. But she lifted Hugh almost as easily as the fierce knight did, and when they laid the injured man on the warm blanket, she saw the approval in Malcolm’s eyes—eyes like night without shadows. Light from the nearby fire chased away the deepest shades of darkness, giving more shape and substance to the knight. Dried blood marked his face in two places, above his brow and on his swollen lower lip. He was injured, but she read in his actions, on his face that he thought only of the one gravely wounded.

  “Looks like a deep gash to his abdomen. ’Tis not good.” She probed the wound with careful fingers. Blood rushed from the raw cavity. She scented severed intestines. “Alma, I shall need bandages and a good light.”

  “Giles,” Malcolm ordered. “Bring a torch.”

  In seconds a torch on a long handle was impaled in the ground at her side, revealing without remorse the neat and terrible wound. “I need to stop the blood first.”

  “There’s naught you can do.” Worry and regret weighed down le Farouche’s words. “Unless you t
ruly are a sorceress.”

  “I have been called worse.” She thanked Alma for the needle and thread. The old woman hurried away to make ready bandages and to check on the water’s progress. “Take my knife and cut his flesh here. And here.” She pulled at the raw skin at the edges of the wound.

  “I’ll not worsen it.”

  “Then I will.” She snatched at the knife he held, but his fingers of steel would not release it. “I do not know if I can save him,” Elin confessed. “I have lost men injured far less seriously. But if I cannot bind the entrails and stem the source of blood, there will be certain death.”

  “You cannot be a healer. No one claiming to cure would carve a deeper wound.”

  “Then let your friend die. But know this, le Farouche— Sir Hugh’s death will not be on my conscience, but on yours.”

  Chapter Three

  Hugh would soon be dead, Malcolm knew, but the maiden’s challenge goaded him. Regardless if he allowed her to continue her ghastly work, his conscience would never forgive this senseless death. He had failed to protect the young knight, a responsibility he felt toward each and every man who fought at his side, who willingly risked their lives at his command.

  The old woman ambled forward with a trencher of steaming water and a pile of torn undergarments. “Shall I soak the bandages?”

  The girl nodded. She looked like a witch—not knobby nosed and wart ridden, but different from most women. Strong willed, the way a man was. And strong of body. He’d had difficulty keeping hold of the knife when she’d tried to take it from him, and ’twas amazing how easily she lifted half of Hugh’s weight. A sorceress, Giles had declared.

  Hugh lay dying, his face a deathly gray. Soon he would bleed to death. Malcolm would have to trust her. His experience told him to be wary of women holding knives, women who gazed at him with that confident knowledge of a battle-experienced leader. Her strength beguiled him, contrasting sharply with the fragile cut of her face, at once beautiful and innocent; to her lithe grace and womanly curves. Truly such a sorceress could enchant a man. Or worse.

  Yet she gazed at him with human eyes, waiting patiently for control of her knife. He saw in those blue depths a wise purpose. She had healed others gravely wounded before. He could read her confidence in her stance, feel it like an imminent storm on the wind—half instinct, half experience, but certain.

  He’d seen evil, and it was not Elinore of Evenbough.

  He released her knife. “Do what you must. But I will have you know Hugh was my friend.”

  “I will do him no harm, fierce one.” She was young to be so confident, but her words eased his fears. She tapped herbs from a small crock into the steaming water and then dipped her blade into the mixture. “I learned my meager healing arts from a wise woman. She was skilled in anatomy and cures.”

  Malcolm’s stomach turned as Elin slipped the blade into the red-edged flesh and tore widthwise across the gaping slash. The skin opened wider, like a hungry mouth. Blood rushed with renewed fury, and he almost stayed the girl-woman’s hand.

  “I was not surprised to return and see your knights victorious.” She soaked strips of cloth in the trencher, then stuffed them into Hugh’s wound. They became colored with blood. “Tell me what fearsome enemy of the king’s you have overpowered now. An old man? Mayhap a lame woman? A goat?”

  “Take care, dove, else you shall offend.”

  “’Tis good to know I come close to succeeding.”

  He snorted. What manner of woman was this Elin of Evenbough? He believed women should be tamed like a good horse, bridled and saddled and prepared to answer a man’s command, and this girl was not. Yet he couldn’t deny a grudging respect for her. She did not flinch as he did at the sight of the wound. He was used to inflicting them, not studying them.

  “See, there is much damage.” She removed the cloths and probed the pink cavity with knowing fingers. “I note two tears, here and here. Look how deep they are.”

  “I prefer not.”

  She laughed. “Can it be such a great warrior has a weak stomach? Aye, ’tis not pretty to see the damage done by a man’s violent sword.”

  He heard the censure in that and chose to remain silent. She had returned of her own accord—why, he could not fathom. Surely not to heal a fallen man, one she had not thought twice about kicking like an angry donkey. Yet Malcolm could not deny her touch was tender and her intent to heal sincere. She stitched and cleaned, studied her work, then stitched some more. Beads of sweat dotted her forehead and dampened the tendrils of gold gathered there, curling them, though the night was cold.

  He could not deny how hard she worked. And for what? This daughter of a traitor ought to be bound like her father to a tree. She ought to fear for the crimes she faced. And yet she saw only Hugh and uttered commands to the old woman as if she were a king at war.

  Light brushed her face, soft as the fine weave of her gown and cloak, stained by travel. ’Twas a pretty face, not beautiful, but striking. She had big, almond-shaped eyes, blue like winter, direct, not coy. Long curled lashes, as gold as her hair, framed those eyes. He admired her gently sloping, feminine nose. And her mouth! God’s teeth, ’twas bow shaped and as tempting as that of the moon goddess herself.

  Then Elin sighed, a soft release of air, all emotion, all sadness. Her unblinking gaze collided with his directly; there was no flirting, no shyness, no feminine submission. “I fear there is more damage than I can repair, but the wound, both inside and out, is closed.”

  He swallowed. “Hugh will die?”

  “There’s no fever yet.” She laid a small hand to the unconscious knight’s forehead. “A fine sign. Now we must pray he is strong enough. I will do all I can.”

  “You will, because I command it.” She may have returned of her own volition, but Elin of Evenbough was his prisoner still. He would not fail his king.

  A smile tugged at one corner of her mouth, and that defiant chin firmed. “Again you try to terrify me, a woman half your size. Always the valiant warrior.”

  Anger snapped in his chest and he held his tongue. She challenged his authority; she rebelled at something deeper. He was, as she said, twice her size and twice her strength. And he had her knife—her last one, he guessed—in his keeping. The only weapon left her was her tongue, and he could withstand those barbs. And if not, he would gag her, as he had her betrothed, the treacherous Caradoc.

  “Old woman.” He caught the crone’s gaze, and she trembled at the attention. Though old and stooped, she possessed a strong set to her jaw, too. “See that your charge tends the injured men, mine and those captured. But not her father. Let the man suffer like the men he left to die.”

  “Yes, Sir Malcolm. I will see the rebellious one obeys.” Head bowed, she scurried away.

  Malcolm stepped away into the darkness. The wee hours of morning meant there would be little, mayhap no sleep for him before dawn. And then another day of raising his sword for the king.

  Elin of Evenbough had the freedom to speak as she wished, whether innocent or criminal. But Caradoc was right. Malcolm was a peasant born, a barbarian king’s bastard, and both peasant and bastard he would always be. A savage hired merely because he was useful. Useful until another took his place, his livelihood or his head.

  He thought of Caradoc’s threat, thought of the unrest of ambitious knights wanting to lead, thought of Elin’s courage in returning to aid her captors.

  Lavender light chased the gray shadows at the eastern horizon. ’Twould be another day without peace, without rest, watching his back for treachery and the road ahead for danger.

  The lot of a knight was a hard one, but Malcolm was harder.

  “Caradoc!” Elin dropped to her knees before the bound man, neighbor and friend to her father. “I do not believe my eyes. What have you done? Challenged the king’s knights and lost?”

  He colored from the collar of his hauberk to the roots of his dark hair. “Aye. Your father—”

  “You are in league with my fa
ther?” she yelped, lowering her voice so it would not carry to the watchful knight keeping guard. That Giles, he looked untrustworthy, far more threatening than poor spying Hugh had ever been.

  “Nay, I am no traitor. I would never turn against the king. I came for you.”

  “Me?”

  “My future bride.” Triumph glittered in his cold eyes.

  “’Tis news to me.” She fought to sound unaffected. Surely this man dreamed! By the rood, she would no more marry him than Malcolm le Farouche.

  “Your father and I had exchanged words on the matter.”

  “We are not betrothed and you know it, Caradoc.” She swiped a clean cloth through the steaming trencher.

  “We could be.”

  “You only covet my father’s holdings, else you would not risk your life, your freedom and your barony.”

  “Your father offered you to me.”

  “I am not a cow to be bought and sold.” She brushed at the bloody but shallow cut beneath his jaw. “Look at this wound. Put there by le Farouche’s sword.”

  “Loosen my bonds and I will kill him for you. For your honor.”

  “Do not do my name that injustice. You would kill him for your uses, not mine, if you could.”

  “He defeated me unfairly.”

  “Most likely the unfair warrior was you.” Elin knew Caradoc, not by rumor, but from experience. He despised her, as she did him. Worse, she was afraid of him. Hard and dark were his eyes, not lethal like Malcolm’s, but colder still, like a man who killed for pleasure.

  As she thought of Malcolm, she looked up and saw him, a fierce knight shrouded in darkness and shadow, standing away from the shivering light of the fire and torch, alone with the night. He had removed his helm, and the wind moved through his long tresses, which were as black as the night. His gaze fastened on hers, and she read his suspicions like a thought in her own mind. As if he were part of her, or she part of him.

  Traitor. Malcolm thought her guilty of her father’s crimes. She shivered inside as he strode toward her. He moved like a predator, with silent, powerful strides, until he towered overhead, all tensed male might.