“Well, lass… that’s what I am trying to determine.”
Elspeth rubbed sleepily at her cheek. “Whether I am your worst enemy? Or where you might prefer to deposit me?”
Malcom chuckled low. “Both,” he confessed, though, in truth, he had already begun to settle his heart on taking the lass all the way home to Aldergh. Strange that, but he felt a growing sense of obligation to her, and though he would do precisely as she bade him, he was beginning to loathe the idea of abandoning her to anyone else’s care. He had come to think himself her champion.
He sighed and scratched at the back of his neck, irritated by the biting midge.
Best case scenario: They would take a short respite, water the horse, eat perhaps, then nap, and awake early enough to arrive at Drakewich before dawn. Alas, that would mean asking Elspeth to nap on the cold, damp ground, and to persevere when she might not have the fortitude. She had been so weary all day long, and he rather missed her fury, because at least it kept her awake—not that he minded her lying against his shoulder. He could easily grow accustomed to the curves of her body, and he had begun to daydream about what it might be like to have himself a wife—daydreams he’d not ever entertained despite alliances proposed. Hoping for a little persuasion, he told her now, “Well,” he explained. “I had hoped to ride as far as d’Lucy’s.”
She stiffened. “D’Lucy?”
“The Earl of Drakewich,” Malcom explained, wondering over her reaction. “But we’ll not make it that far this evening. Instead, we could call upon Amdel.”
Was it his imagination? Or did the girl seem to relax in his arms.
“Amdel?”
“The seat of William Beauchamp,” Malcom explained. “’Tis another thirty minutes northeast.” He didn’t bother to add that they were still skirting the same man’s land—the one he’d claimed to detest. But despite his mild dislike of the man, his reluctance to call upon that demesne had less to do with any personal feelings he might have for its lord, and more because of his sister.
“Is he perhaps loyal to Stephen?”
“Aye, lass, he is.”
Elspeth nodded and said, “But, of course.”
It was becoming clear to Malcom that she had no love for their king. Nevertheless, she left it at that, and said nothing more. Malcom did not press.
Alas, he wished he did not but could well understand her woes. There were still many people who feared Stephen would never be strong enough, or wise enough, to forge a lasting peace. Already they’d suffered more than a decade of war, and England was little closer to peace. If Robert of Gloucester hadn’t died, or if Matilda had more money in her coffers, or even if Duke Henry had won a victory at Wiltshire, they would still be trading blows.
And despite the strides they’d made in the right direction, there could still be war to come, for he’d heard say that Stephen’s own brother, the Bishop of Winchester, was busy courting Matilda—a fact that boded no good, because it was the Bishop who’d handed Stephen the treasury and no doubt, he could take it back as well—diminished though it might be after thirteen years of warfare. And perhaps this was as it should be if, indeed, Stephen meant to crown his son. No honorable man under Stephen’s banner trusted King Stephen’s only son. But that was neither here nor there. Until such time as Stephen abdicated, Malcom was sworn to serve the man.
Alas, for the moment, they could travel no farther. At long last, he hoped he could persuade Elspeth to reveal something of her plans. She must have intended to go somewhere when she fled. He had business in Scotia, but he would try as best he could to see her safely to her destination. “I suppose we should discuss how far north you mean to travel… unless you mean to go as far as I will go.”
* * *
Elspeth frowned over the question.
Sadly, she hadn’t any place to go. Blackwood was no longer the refuge of her kinsmen. London was her mother’s domain. And the priory was no longer a safe haven—if ever it had been. She wasn’t foolish enough to believe she could make it alone in a hostile land, but if she could, she would fly to Matilda.
Only now she realized that perhaps she and her sisters should have thought better of this plan before Elspeth fled the priory, with no more than the clothes on her back—not even her own at that. But if there was one blessing to be found, it was this: Wearing the layers of a man’s clothing, she didn’t feel so acutely aware of every muscle in Malcom’s body. Her thin, undyed wool gown would have spared her little, and, as it was, she was much too aware of every twitch.
Of course, at the time, anything—including death—had seemed better than finding herself wed to Guy d’Lucy. Now, however, her choices seemed limited, and, despite that it may have spared her some embarrassment in such close proximity, her choice of clothing seemed unfortunate, for how could she arrive at Amdel—or any place else—wearing men’s attire? Never in her life had she encountered any woman wearing men’s garb—not even her sister Matilda, who dared so much. Surely, it would raise suspicion. And what then? What if this lord of Amdel should demand to know from whence she’d come? What would Elspeth say? What would Malcom say?
And then, it occurred to Elspeth that they hadn’t ridden so far since he’d threatened to put her off his mount. “Is this the same lord you claimed to despise?”
He took a while to answer, but said, “Aye.”
Why? She wondered. Was he loyal to her sister? Could she dare to hope for such a stroke of good fortune? In such case, no matter how grateful she might be to Malcom for having abetted her escape, she would have to speak up and ask the man for sanctuary. She hoped that would be the case and she was glad now that she hadn’t disclosed more of her circumstances to Malcom. In her father’s house she’d been protected; under Stephen’s reign, she was mostly ignored; now that she was away from the priory, she must be so careful who she allowed too close. It was never far from her mind that women were put to the stake for less than what she and her sisters had done.
And yet, if, indeed, this lord of Amdel was a loyalist for her sister, would Malcom dare consider stopping for the evening? Wouldn’t he prefer that inn to an enemy’s abode? Or even a campfire out of sight?
Rhiannon, she begged. Help me, please.
Silence returned to her—an empty, weighted silence that fell like an anvil pressed against her ribs making it difficult to breathe and making her long to weep.
And sleep.
Why couldn’t she shake this languor? She was like a sleepy babe, content to while away the day in her mother’s arms, waking only when necessary.
Once again, she tried to read Malcom as her sister might have done, but his thoughts eluded her. It was just as well, because that type of connection could never be made without consequence. As it was, she was terrified he might discover who—and what—she was, and then everything could change with the snap of his fingers. The consequences could be far, far worse than merely being left alone to walk, and perhaps this was why she’d felt most comfortable with her ire?
Still considering his question, she remained tongue-tied—unsure how to respond. After all, what could possibly be her final destination?
After a long, long while—longer yet than she’d spent deliberating—he finally said, “If you wish it, I would give you sanctuary at Aldergh.”
Surprised by the offer, Elspeth drew in a breath. She turned in the saddle, attempting to meet Malcom’s sea-green eyes. “You would?”
He pulled at the reins, bringing Merry Bells to a halt. “Aye, lass. I can see you’re in need of succor and I would give it without question.”
Confused by his generosity, Elspeth said nothing. Already, she owed him so much, and she must find a way to repay him if she could.
In the blink of an eye, he slid down his horse, alighting on his feet, releasing the reins as he peered up at Elspeth, and for a long, tense moment, Elspeth was acutely aware that she could so easily fly away and leave him stranded—on this land belonging to that man he detested—just as he had threatened to do to her.
>
If she dared to do it, she would have his saddlebag for the effort, and no doubt a few coins as well. And perhaps then she would have enough to book passage to Rouen, where she’d heard her sister had gone, but Malcom had done naught to deserve any such treatment. So she could not do it.
But somehow, though she could not read his mind, he must have read hers. His bright green eyes glinted, though not with mirth. And nevertheless, he handed Elspeth the reins to his horse—only daring her to go. And furthermore, he turned his back on her, moving to his satchel.
Hie now, a little demon taunted. Go, now whilst you can. But this, too, was not Rhiannon. It was her own little demon clinging to her shoulder, trembling in fear.
Elspeth lapped at her lips gone dry. “You… you have been kind to me. Perhaps you could tell me… Malcom…” She peered down at Merry Bells’ reins in her hand. “Why would you embroil yourself in affairs not your own?”
She heard that he opened his satchel and felt his glance on her back as she fiddled with Merry Bells’ reins. “Because you asked for help and I would never shun a woman in need—but,” he said, in a voice that sounded quite stern, “I would have you ask for succor with your own two lips, rather than assume ’tis what you require.” He continued to rummage through his saddlebag and drew out something rather large, then came about and stood before Elspeth with a ruby-red cloak in his hands. “A wise man once told me ’tis wiser to ask than to suppose.”
“What man?”
“My Da,” he said and offered her the cloak.
For a befuddled instant, Elspeth was torn, still considering snapping the reins and ordering the horse to bolt, but then he thrust the cloak at her, and she dropped the reins and took his offering, only briefly meeting his gaze. “Tis a… fine… cloak,” she said, squeezing the material. “Fit for a king.” It was, in truth, more splendid than any cloak she’d ever seen, and she wondered if even Matilda, as the widow of a Holy Roman Emperor, had ever owned something so fine.
Ersinius did not, and he lined his coffers with all the gifts he received. So, then, who was this northern lord who could afford such finery?
“It belonged to my grandsire,” he said, as though he’d read Elspeth’s mind. But she knew he could not, because she would have felt him prying—just as Merry Bells had felt her.
“He must have been a wealthy man,” she said.
“So he was, but wealth alone is not the full measure of prosperity.”
She nodded agreement and smiled. “More wise words from your Da?”
The color in his cheeks heightened. “Nay, lass, those are mine.”
Now, it was Elspeth’s turn to chuckle, but his next words silenced her.
“Would you ask me for succor, Elspeth?”
He was staring at her now, arms crossed, and a shrewd look in his eyes that made Elspeth think he expected some favor for his “succor.” But of course—had any man ever done aught for a woman simply because? She folded her hands into the rich fur of his cloak, warming them against the cool air, reluctant to throw the garment over her shoulders—not until she knew precisely what he would have from her. “And you have conditions, of course?”
“Of course.”
Elspeth looked at him crossly, instantly regretting not having taken his horse and fled. “Well?”
Without a word, Malcom reached up, putting both hands into the air in supplication, asking her to willingly dismount. Trust me, she thought she heard him say, though his lips never moved. But that was preposterous. There was no way this man—this Scots—could have any knowledge or skill for the hud. And yet, wasn’t it true that her grandmamau had said all men and women had some ability to harness the hud. Regardless, much as his horse must have felt when Elspeth summoned her back in the forest in Wales, his arms held the same ability to coerce her. Hating herself for acquiescing, she fell into Malcom’s embrace, allowing him to pull her down and put her feet on the ground. Alas, she didn’t expect to find her legs so unsteady, and she wavered, tumbling into his embrace. “I beg pardon,” she said.
“You have sea legs,” he teased.
Elspeth held on to him, embarrassed. “I have never been to sea,” she confessed.
Only once after she was steady, he released her and confessed, “Neither have I.” The confession wrangled a smile from Elspeth, although it vanished the instant he reminded her, “As to my condition…” He looked at her soberly. “If I am to put my neck at risk of the gallows, I must know from whom you flee.”
Without realizing she’d held her breath, Elspeth exhaled in relief and said with surprise, “Is that all?”
“Truth is the only payment I require,” he said, lifting a brow. “Unless you have something else of value you wish to trade?”
Elspeth blushed hotly as he released her and moved back again, to his saddlebag, drawing out a smaller length of cloth, and tossing it over his shoulder. He sauntered past, grabbing Merry Bells’ reins and started to walk away, leaving Elspeth to follow. “There’s a stream nearby,” he said. “If ’tis your wish, you may refresh yourself. When you are ready, we’ll call upon Amdel. There is a woman there who would give you aught you need.”
Woman?
What woman?
Curious now, Elspeth rushed after him, frowning, but this time, it wasn’t precisely annoyance that turned her lips. She watched Malcom walk away, and suddenly had a thousand questions rushing to her lips—evidently, quite some more than he had for her, even after having warned her that he expected her candor.
“Be sure to use the cloak,” he said. “And when you have a moment, turn the tunic inside out. Or everyone will know you are from Llanthony. I dinna care overmuch though it seems to me you do.”
Elspeth stopped in her tracks, startled.
Chapter 9
“How?” she sputtered. “How did you know I am from Llanthony?”
Malcom didn’t turn to look at her, because he was still sore over the fact that she’d considered breaking faith with him—again—even after he’d proven such a willingness to help.
“Ach, lass, it takes no seer to reckon you stole your guard’s clothes.”
“Though why Llanthony?” she persisted, sounding befuddled—as though the mysteries of life were hers alone to decipher. “’Tis not a women’s cloister.”
“The cross on your tunic,” Malcom explained. “Llanthony happens to be the only monastery for leagues, save for Abbey Dore, but Llanthony is closer. And, since, as you say, ’tis not a women’s cloister, it would make an ideal place to hide a woman who’s otherwise not meant to be found.”
“I see,” she said, sounding nonplussed.
Surmising he must be correct, based on the tone of her voice, Malcom continued. “As to the matter of your clothing… I dinna ken too many lassies who don men’s attire and perch themselves in trees. Therefore, you must have been hiding. And since you were so ready to risk life and limb to steal my horse, it stood to reason you must be running away. ’Tis but a matter of deduction.”
Elspeth fell silent too long, and Malcom glanced over his shoulder to find her standing still, wringing her hands through his grandfather’s cloak, her brow furrowed, deep in thought.
“Am I right?” he pressed.
She started after him. “Tis much more complicated than that,” she said. “But, aye.” She sounded wounded by the next thing she asked. “And would you truly have taken my life merely for stealing your horse?”
Malcom shrugged.
“Even after discovering I am a woman?”
Malcom shrugged again. “I have dismembered wee boys for less,” he confessed, though it wasn’t entirely true. He’d merely meant to frighten one of his fostered boys after he stole another fellow’s dagger. And, having compelled the lad to put a hand on the table so Malcom could exact his “justice,” Malcom fully intended to miss, but the boy moved his hand. Alwin lost two fingers that day, but he never again stole from his fellows, and thereafter, he’d learned to swing an axe with far deadlier results tha
n most of Malcom’s seasoned men-at-arms. These days, Alwin was far more to him than just a man at arms. He was Malcom’s steward, and Malcom trusted him with the keys to his house.
“Why freshen before calling?” Elspeth inquired, and the question rankled Malcom more than it should. In truth, it irritated him that she would presume to ask for details when she was so unwilling to provide any of her own. “I should think our host would be pleased enough to provide the courtesy of a bowl of water with vin aigre.”
Malcom would prefer washing in an ice-cold stream over a bowl laced with soured wine. But he didn’t respond, and he kept on walking, the morning’s good humor entirely diminished—even despite their recent truce.
And to make matters worse, his shoulder was hurting, and the wound was bound to raise questions. This was the primary reason he preferred to wash himself before facing Beauchamp. And yet it was not the only reason, and neither was it any of her concern that merely by virtue of the fact that he would arrive bearing a female guest, he would be forced now to declare one way or another for Beauchamp’s sister. Once he denied the girl, Beauchamp was bound to be angered, and he was as shrewd as he was dishonest. If Beauchamp sensed a means to profit from Malcom’s misfortune, he would surely do so. Were Malcom alone, as he was meant to be, he would have taken respite here in the woods, and left Beauchamp to wait for an answer. But that was no longer an option. It was either call upon Amdel or take Elspeth to that inn, and Malcom had only stepped into that hellhole but once—and that was one too many times. He’d known more than a few men who’d claimed they’d meant to shelter at Darkwood en route from court, and curiously, knew at least two who were never heard from again—not barons or earls, merely vassals whose horses and purses were fat enough to make them worth the while of burgling, but who might not be so quickly missed.
However, if not Amdel or the inn, Elspeth would be forced to sleep on the hard, cold ground—right next to him, because he hadn’t but one blanket. And so much as he believed he could enjoy the last of these options, he was equally certain Elspeth would not. She was no nun, so she claimed, but she was also no camp follower, and there was something about the lass, despite her current manner of dress, that made him feel she was gentle-born.
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