The King's Favorite (Daughters of Avalon Book 1)

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  It didn’t matter; Beauchamp didn’t notice. He must still be thinking about Malcom’s proposal for his sister, because he couldn’t be away quicker. “Malcom,” he said, before departing. And Malcom nodded to the man, thanking him again, and once his back was turned, Malcom ushered Elspeth into their room, before she could think to protest.

  It wasn’t Malcom’s first stay in this particular room, though he examined the guest bower with entirely new eyes, altered by the knowledge that d’Lucy’s sire had breathed his last here.

  He hadn’t realized as much—nor had he known they’d brought the wounded man back here to be tended by Beauchamp’s physician. Of course, Beauchamp was right; it was hardly a place you would tend your enemy—especially one met in combat. And though he was hardly any sort of man Malcom would like to hold in confidence, perhaps he had been too quick to judge? Perhaps Beauchamp was but maladroit, and not so much the demagogue so many thought him to be? He was, indeed, an awkward man, this much was true, but annoyed though he might have been over the affront to his sister, he’d leapt at the opportunity for fellowship, filling Malcom’s ears.

  As they entered the room, Malcom swung his bags onto the bed and turned to Elspeth.

  She looked wearied, and for all the world like a frightened doe, her graceful form tense and ready to bolt. She averted her gaze for an instant, picking beneath her fingernails, and then back, as though she suddenly didn’t know him—as though he’d not slept the whole night through with her head tucked beneath his arm.

  She looked nervous. “Perhaps… perhaps, before explaining to that lord… you might better explain to me?”

  Malcom gave her a quick smile, torn between his longing to hold and comfort her and wanting to shake her. Would she dare ask him for more than she was willing to give?

  Ignoring her entreaty for the instant, he turned to survey the guest room. It was clean and well kept, and he noted the flagon of vin and the copper mugs on a table flanked by chairs.

  Thirsty as a tippler after a night with Seana’s uisge, he made for the vin.

  Lifting up the flagon for a sniff, and finding it relatively inoffensive, he poured a few fingers in each glass—one for him, one for Elspeth. And then, remembering the shite they’d served him last time he’d visited, he lifted up one glass to his lips to taste, before offering it to Elspeth, and then immediately spat it back out, setting down the glass.

  Sweet ever-loving mercy—there, she had her vin aigre, only instead of lacing their washbowl, they’d offered it to drink.

  Damn Beauchamp—just when he was softening toward the man. He smiled with curses between his teeth and gave them soured wine to drink—or maybe he didn’t know good vin from bad. He certainly drank it himself without discretion. “Drink at your own peril,” Malcom suggested, and sighed wearily, considering the discourse with Beauchamp.

  Despite everything, it might in fact prove propitious that they’d ended here today, because he would otherwise never have suggested an alliance with d’Lucy, and Beauchamp seemed quite receptive to the notion—so much so that he would bet the man was off and away, already scheming. All the better for Malcom. He had long tried to convince himself to accept this alliance, but there was nothing to his knowledge that would sweeten any alliance with Beauchamp—not even Dominique’s kindness or beauty. Her brother was a conundrum, for certain. It was impossible to say whether it was true that he was a miscreant, or just a fool with very poor judgment.

  The small table set for them also offered a trencher of bread with two wee pieces of meat and two slivers of cheese—barely enough for one, but it would do. Malcom had had more than enough of the cony, but he couldn’t possibly have missed Elspeth’s reluctance to eat it, so he left her the cheese as well as the bread and plucked up a slice of meat, shoving it between his lips.

  Salted beef, too chewy, over-salted. He swallowed with some difficulty, and made a face, moving to the window. God’s love, if the man couldn’t put a sword through Malcom’s heart for the insult provided, it seemed he would kill them with kindness and vittles.

  Elspeth was still waiting for his answer, he supposed, but Malcom wasn’t feeling particularly generous. He moved to the window, pulling the curtains tighter.

  Aldergh had no drapes, but he was grateful for these, nonetheless, because he was hardly accustomed to sleeping during the day, like some Black Donald with cloven feet. The entire situation left him ill at ease.

  “Malcom?”

  He turned to face her now, and she was looking at him expectantly. “What more would ye ken, lass? Stephen has asked I take his sister to wife, but she does not suit me, and I thank you for holding your tongue.”

  “Of course,” she said. “It was the least I could do.”

  Nay, Malcom thought. The least she could do was speak the truth—all of it. But he resigned himself to her silence.

  On a stand across the room, there stood a small basin for bathing. That too, he would leave for Elspeth and he would wash only after she was through. That way she wouldn’t be forced to bathe in his filth… although, he might need her help to wash and dress his wound.

  “Are you inclined to sleep?” he asked. “Or do you prefer to wash first?” And then he added a bit sourly, “I dinna ken if he laced the basin with vin aigre, but he certainly left us plenty to use.” He pointed to the cups.

  She shook her head at once. “Oh, nay! I could not,” she said, straightening. “Not… here… with… you…” And then she wrapped his grandfather’s cloak around herself so snugly that she might as well have formed a cocoon. Malcom tried not to chuckle, but failed, despite his pique. And hoping to reassure her, he closed the distance between them, until he stood before her, studying her face, wishing he could read her thoughts. There was a wayward curl that defied her make-do braid, and he wanted nothing more than to reach out and brush it away.

  He wondered how she would look in a woman’s garb, with her lovely copper tresses plaited and her face scrubbed pink. “Of course, I would leave,” he said reassuringly. “But if you are inclined to rest, I would like to shut my eyes.” And then he turned and made his way to the chair, and sat, sprawling in the chair as she watched.

  Her brows twitched. “You mean to sleep… in that chair?”

  “Aye.”

  “Oh, but nay! You need not do that! If you but leave me to one side of the bed, that should be enough. ’Tis but that… well…” She looked pained by what she was trying to say. “I thought that… because you said... we were… I was…”

  He arched a single brow. “My bride?”

  She nodded, and Malcom said, “Elspeth, I would never dishonor you. If I seem cross, ’tis only because I have asked for your candor and you refuse to give it.”

  She said nothing, and he looked at her pleadingly. “Am I to go down there and face that man with no more than what you have already given me?”

  Chapter 14

  He sat, staring at her expectantly, and Elspeth flushed so intensely that she was forced to shrug off his grandfather’s cloak and lay it down on the bed, suddenly much too warm.

  And, then, inexplicably—considering that Beauchamp was already gone, and Malcom had already seen her dressed this way—she felt vulnerable and far too aware of the unflattering way she was dressed, perhaps in part due to the fact that she was now expected to play the role of his lady wife. So, then, as surprised as she had been by his declaration, she trusted there must be a reason.

  Betimes people behaved inexplicably, particularly when listening to their gut. She and her sisters betimes behaved irrationally, and it nearly always had to do with a glimpse of the sight, subtle as Malcom’s may have been. Normal people might not have visions as clearly as a dewine might, but they too had instincts that drove them—not that they always listened.

  Obviously, he did not like this lord of Amdel, and perhaps not the sister either. And if the sister was anything like her brother, Elspeth could well understand why.

  She furrowed her brow. Could they d
are fool this lord? What would Malcom tell him? And if anyone should ask how they came to know one another, Elspeth herself would have little to say.

  I peered longingly into his sea-green eyes and heard a call from Ersinius’ men that made me cast myself into his arms. Pshaw! The very thought brought the faintest smile to her lips, but, of course, she daren’t make light of their circumstances. It could all go very, very wrong.

  Malcom sat relaxed in the chair, and now that Beauchamp was gone, his aura returned to normal, albeit with tints of green now. Those who bore any shade of the forest in their ambience could be loyal and generous, but they did not suffer fools very gladly. This rang true of Malcom, even despite that she’d known him such a short a time.

  And nevertheless, both times, when facing Beauchamp’s men and then Beauchamp himself, she’d sensed a darkness in him, and she suspected he could be capable of atrocities just the same as anyone else. The minds of men were often changeable, and the consequences could be disastrous.

  Not for the first time, he seemed to guess what was on her mind. “I’ll tell him as little as possible,” he said. “But how should I say we met?”

  Confused, Elspeth sat on the edge of the bed, crossing her arms, considering the consequences of revealing herself to Malcom. She desperately wanted to tell him everything but dared not… the words wouldn’t come.

  She couldn’t see her own aura, but she had been told hers was pink and green, which was much to be expected for a dewine. Dewines were natural healers, highly intuitive, with a strong affinity for the Craft. Pink was also the color for those who bore the blood of Taliesin. In days of yore, there had been many, many of their ilk, all known to one to another by their colors. Now they were dwindling in numbers. And soon, they, too, would go the way of the faeries—like so much vermin. One after another they were being exterminated. So, now, how could she dare reveal herself to this man? She opened her mouth to speak and swallowed her words.

  “Elspeth…” His eyes beseeched her as he rose up from the chair. “Only give me munitions I will need to aid you.”

  Watching her intently, he came forward, lifting up the cloak she’d discarded on the bed, bringing the garment to his nostrils, and breathing deeply of its scent—her scent, for she’d been the last to wear it. For some strange reason, that simple gesture made Elspeth shiver and it set her heart to pounding. “I… I am sorry,” she said, her brows slanting.

  Alas, he was right. The lord of Amdel would surely expect their company once they were rested, and if Elspeth allowed Malcom to face that man again without greater knowledge of her predicament, they could easily raise suspicions…

  And to that end, she thought perhaps she’d hidden her tunic well enough, though it wasn’t very likely Beauchamp had missed her breeches. So much as she might have liked to toss the entire ensemble into his garderobe, she knew that wouldn’t serve her. The last thing she meant to do was alert anyone from whence she’d come—and, yes, of course, she understood why Malcom needed to know more, but what could she say now that could come close to appeasing him… and still guard her secrets? “My mother would have me wed a man I cannot abide,” she said, at last.

  He arched a brow. “D’Lucy?”

  Elspeth peered up at him in surprise. “H-how… how did you know?”

  He offered a slow smile. “Ach, lass, ye’re not sae difficult to read, ye know. I sensed your distress every time I mentioned his name.”

  Elspeth blew out a sigh, and continued, despite that she meant not to. “’Tis not the lord of Drakewich, but another.”

  “Guy?”

  Elspeth nodded. “Aye.”

  And now he whistled low, then sat beside her on the bed, allowing a moment for what she’d told him to settle into his bones. “I suspected as much but hoped I could be wrong. So then… your mother would have you wed the new lord of Blackwood?”

  Elspeth nodded yet again.

  “And your sire?”

  There could be little harm in sharing this truth. “My father is dead,” Elspeth confessed.

  “So,” he said, trying to make sense of it all. “Stephen has consented to this marriage to d’Lucy?”

  Feeling like a child discovered at foul play, Elspeth nodded yet again.

  And once again, Malcom whistled low, then shook his head. “My Da always said I had a bent for trouble,” he told her. But then he grinned, as though to reassure her and he pushed his grandfather’s cloak behind her, rising from the bed. “Done is done,” he said. “Somehow we will make it right.”

  “Will you leave me here at Amdel?” Elspeth asked, afraid that he meant to wash his hands of her now and abandon her to Beauchamp—and his sister, with whom Malcom was no longer betrothed, thanks to Elspeth.

  “Is that what you would have me do?”

  Elspeth shook her head, as it was the last thing she could want. She needn’t consult any knuckle bones to know that anything having to do with Beauchamp could only lead to disaster. He had that quality about him, and she was still unnerved by the aura of this castle, despite that she didn’t feel so overwhelmed now that she was inside the dwelling itself. And nevertheless, this place—this pile of stones—could only be that way if it had long been the receptacle for evil.

  “Never fear, then. I would not abandon you.”

  Elspeth exhaled a breath she hadn’t realize she was holding as she watched Malcom return to the table and lift up the glass he’d sipped from only moments before. Only this time, instead of spitting out the contents or setting the glass down with a sour face, he tossed the entirety of it down his gullet, and then poured another and drank that one down as well.

  “So, then… what will you tell this lord of Amdel?”

  He swallowed a third glass before answering. “I’ll know when it comes to mind,” he said. “In the meantime, you should get some rest.”

  Stronger than lover’s love is lover’s hate.

  Incurable, in each, the wounds they make.

  —Euripides

  Named for the surrounding woodlands, Darkwood Inn lives up to its name. The number of its years in existence equal the number of years of Stephen’s reign, but it appears far older. The interior pillars are filled with knotholes and greying with age.

  The innkeeper here is the third to serve, and he’s as discreet as he is loyal, toiling behind his bar, waiting for his cue. If he were not loyal, I would suck the life from his body and leave him for a dried-up carcass, in the same manner a locust discards its shell, only to find itself no more than dust beneath the hammer of a fist.

  So I sit here at my favorite table at the back of this familiar tavern, resting, though not ready to choose. Tonight, there are two offerings, both comely, if boring. But then, again, they are all boring to me—Henry, Stephen, Eustace, every man the same but with a different face.

  The last I knew worth his salt was my Emrys, my lover, my dear brother.

  So then, which to choose?

  Which to save for later?

  More to the point, I wonder which of these men might be persuaded to linger, because I fully intend to make another stop on my return to London. Only then, I will be in the company of three of my daughters, excluding Rhiannon.

  I fiddle with the ring about my forefinger, the one I always wear. It was my mother’s ring, though Morgan preferred to fill hers with coltsfoot, so she could see any time she pleased without her scrying stone. I have found another use for the receptacle beneath the obsidian stone. It is rare that I can find time to slip away for a treatment, so I must come prepared. This ring contains the most precious of my grimoire’s recipes—an ingredient for deathlessness, so powerful that a small pinch in my bath will extend my youth. And more than a pinch… well, let us say… I have ideas.

  Using this particular recipe, my great, great grandmother lived to be two hundred and twenty years old. She would have lived much longer had she not found herself an enemy to Orkney’s King Lot. Three generations of Morgans followed thereafter, none worthy of the name…
until me. Pity that my mother’s oversight gave me another name… but tis appropriate, don’t you think?

  Morwen. Maiden.

  I smile serenely, in love with myself and pleased with my progress. I will be a maiden for all eternity, with skin softer and suppler than my daughter Seren’s.

  Alas, poor sweet Seren—I smile more deeply—perhaps my most beautiful daughter will discover a bit of irony in wedding a beast… someone beneath her… someone who offers me great riches and power… but hideous to awake to. I will arrange this. But later.

  Right now, I study my choices: One man wears a doublet, with chainmail gussets sewn into the vest and the sigil of his house emblazoned on the front— two feathers striking through a fleur-de-lis with a maxim that read Altium, citius, fortius.

  Swifter, higher, stronger…

  How swift would he be if I should happen to drop my spell of glamor and show my true self? I laugh inwardly at this… my breasts quaking with amusement, for not even my own daughters could possibly anticipate the truth: I am seventy years old—my mother’s age when she died. And, aye, she had me when she was but twenty, and spat my brother out one year later, before letting her womb rot and die.

  I did the reverse. I let my womb lie fallow until I grew older… wiser…. I had my first-born child at the age of forty-six—older than my lover, and he never knew it. I bore Elspeth to bind him to me, and then, I was weak, allowing Emrys to get me with child—and oh, how my brother loved this news, even as I lamented an end to my plans. But life gives us choices, does it not?

  Alas, my Emrys is gone—his bones resting in a reliquary—and one day, I will hand them to my daughter Rhiannon, because it will please me immensely to show my little girl how the weak should end. I will tell her all about the father she never knew, and how he died, and she will fall to her knees and weep… but I tell you what she will not do: She will not embrace the Death Crone’s rage. This is why my daughters will ever be poppets, made to serve my needs. The thought alone makes me happy—truly happy—for the first time since learning Elspeth ran away.