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

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Malcom approached cautiously, though he needn’t have; dressed in his finery, the men all hailed him—three in total, only one a swordsman.

  The swordsman was the one who greeted Malcom, but he scratched his head, looking askance as though he were hoping for something more. “Art come from the priory, m’lord?”

  The prisoner behind the bars met Malcom’s gaze—a woman, dark haired, amber eyes—and he believed he detected a hint of a smile. Malcom daren’t allow his gaze to linger. He nodded to the swordsman. “The good father said you’d found some trouble.”

  “I’d say. Damned old paddy. I’ll warrant ’tis seen more bodies dragged to the gallows than any other. If I had my druthers, I’d slay the witch and set the wagon afire. Better yet, I’d fix her a stake, and burn her right here, use the wood for kindling.”

  Frowning, Malcom dismounted, positioning Merry Bells precisely where the path diverted, sloping downward, fully expecting to have to make a run for it. He removed his sword from the saddle scabbard, sliding it into his sword belt as though it were a matter of habit. He patted Merry Bells, then casually walked over to examine the wreck, paying little attention to its passenger.

  The spokes on one wheel had somehow split—all of them. Simply put, the wagon needed a new wheel. “There’s no repairing this,” he said. “You’ll need a new trundle.”

  “Aye, m’lord, but I already knew that, and so I said.” And once again, he peered down the footpath, scowling. “Where’s Randel?”

  Malcom forced a smile, patting his belly. “Lingering to fill his gut with fish, I suppose. He’ll be along soon,” he said, realizing it must be true and that he must have missed Randel at Llanthony. The messenger must have been coming as Malcom was going.

  Satisfied for the instant, the swordsman nodded, and then explained how the accident occurred. They were moving along nicely, without much trouble. Suddenly they struck a stone that wasn’t there before. The damned thing appeared out of nowhere. He was sure the witch had placed it there because Randel swore it wasn’t in their path before. Every week, carts and horses and people filed down this road, and clearly this had never happened before. They heard the crack and the wagon nearly tumbled down the hill. They should have let it go, he groused. The passenger was naught but a filthy witch, best left to the lord’s judgment.

  Malcom met the prisoner’s gaze and found her eyes twinkled with barely concealed mirth.

  Do not address me, Malcom Ceann Ràs.

  Startled, Malcom looked away, surprised by her use of a name he’d been given by his kinsmen—a name he hadn’t heard in far too long.

  He turned to look at the man beside him, to be sure no one else had heard. But nay, the man was prattling on and on. Malcom cast another glance at the girl in the tumbril. Beneath the dirt, she was pretty, and he could detect a resemblance to Elspeth, but her color was darker, and her eyes, when she looked at him, seemed to cross unnaturally. She shook her head slowly and Malcom averted his gaze, pretending to examine the broken wheel. He stooped to wiggle a spoke.

  Do not linger, Lord Aldergh. You haven’t time. Randel will return anon.

  Startling him again, the girl suddenly squawked an ungodly sound, hurling a cloth object at him, smacking him so hard that Malcom’s head popped to one side and he stabbed himself with a wheel spoke. “Be damned!” he said, with genuine annoyance.

  “Never mind that stupid bitch,” the swordsman said. “She’ll get what she deserves.”

  Frowning, Malcom drew a hand across his cheek, where the spoke had stabbed him and came away with a trace of blood. God’s bones, by the time he returned to Aldergh, he would bear a whole new round of scars.

  Take that book to Elspeth. By it she will know you speak true. Tell her this for me: I merely called you. I did not beguile you.

  Quite unused to this manner of speaking, and uncomfortable with the scrutiny of these men, particularly under the circumstances, Malcom peered down at the small bound volume that lay discarded on the ground.

  It appeared to be naught more than a lump of dirty cloth. But he hesitated a moment too long.

  “What is that?” asked the swordsman, bending to lift it up.

  Malcom swept it up before he could touch it. “Whatever it is, ’tis mine now,” he said, lifting his gaze to the man. “Bloody she-wolf.”

  “Indeed,” said the swordsman. “Bitch bites like a wolf as well. You should take that to Ersinius and be done with it. Everything she touches is evil.”

  Malcom’s gaze scanned the faces of the other two men, and did, indeed, spy one whose cheek bore the mark of a full set of teeth.

  He deserved it.

  Malcom concentrated on speaking to her the way he had with Elspeth. I don’t doubt it.

  There you are, she said, her tone smug.

  Take the grimoire to my sister, Malcom Ceann Ràs. Tell her our mother came sooner than we anticipated. She has our sisters, but worry not. So long as she believes them to be compliant she won’t harm them. Rather, you must return quickly to Elspeth, hasten her north. Amdel is no place to keep her.

  Malcom had no need to ask how she knew where he’d left her sister—or even how she’d known his name. If, indeed, Elspeth’s abilities unnerved him, her sister’s unnerved him all the more. The very air here was filled with her presence, as though her spirit loomed larger than life.

  You must go… now… Beauchamp is sworn to my mother.

  Morwen?

  Aye.

  Stunned, Malcom remained stooped by the broken wagon wheel, bemused. He examined the book in his hand, and then, as though it were an afterthought, slid it into his tunic, letting it fall to his waist, catching on his sword belt. Only now he realized how stupid it was that he’d left Elspeth alone, with naught more than a dirk for protection. Indeed, he must go. But, he couldn’t abandon Rhiannon.

  I go where I need to go, she said.

  Inconceivably, Malcom argued with her—in his head. These men are no match for me… He realized he didn’t know her name.

  Rhiannon, she said. They are no match for me either, Lord Aldergh. Who do you think broke their wheel?

  Of course, Malcom didn’t answer. And if the men wondered why he remained stooped so quietly, staring at a broken wheel, they said nothing, and he knew instinctively that Rhiannon was telling the truth. Only fearing Elspeth would never forgive him if he abandoned her to these lackeys, he couldn’t bring himself to leave her. He examined his surroundings, considering how best to engage these three men. Only one of them was armed.

  He waited so long, a procession of monks, all bearing buckets with dying burdens came up over the rise, marching past. Pretending to consider the tumbril, Malcom waited for them to pass, all the while fiddling with the broken wheel.

  “Afternoon,” said the swordsman to the monks.

  “God bless,” said the monks.

  “More fish?”

  “Aye, sir. Carp and pike.”

  “Pity they’re still flailing or I’d steal a bite.”

  The monks all chortled and walked on by. The swordsman returned his attention to Malcom. “As you say, m’lord… there’s naught to be done with that. I’ve no idea why you were sent when I specifically told Randel to tell them we needed a replacement and a wheelwright.”

  Malcom raked a hand through his hair. “If you give me the prisoner, I will take her off your hands, save you the delivery.”

  “Nay, m’lord. Where would you put her? I’d not have you lose an ear to the filthy bitch, and then have it said I did not do my job.”

  Malcom nodded, considering that if he took out the swordsman, the other two would prostrate themselves easily. The tumbril was another matter entirely. As old as it appeared, the bars were each at least a centimeter wide, and as corroded as they might appear, he was fairly certain that the most he would get by wrestling with the rusted metal was a case of Holy Fire.

  I know what you are doing, Lord Aldergh. I will not allow it. If you release me, they will arrest you. If you
kill them, they will know it was you, and what recourse will you have when you face my cousin in defense of my sister? This game will be long, my friend. There will be time enough for heroics before all is said and done. Go now, she demanded. Before the chance has fled.

  No sooner had she finished speaking, when she shrieked insanely, kicking a leg out between the bars, narrowly missing Malcom’s jaw. “Away, fool! Or I’ll put a turd in your teeth and turd in your bride’s teeth too!”

  Startled, Malcom cast the girl a beleaguered glance. He stood, confused though he oughtn’t be by now. The past two days had borne more things than ever could be explained. Still, it took him a moment to regain his bearings and then he said to the swordsman, “Regrettably, you are right.” Rubbing the back of his neck, he cast a weary glance at Rhiannon, and then back to the swordsman. “If only I’d realized, I would have brought you lads a bit of ale to pass the time.”

  “No worries, m’lord. God will provide his own rewards.”

  Malcom nodded, then, reluctantly, went after his horse. He mounted, then peered at the girl one last time. Art certain, Rhiannon?

  I go where I need to go, she said again. I go where I will best contend with my mother.

  And nevertheless, he hesitated, knowing full well that Elspeth would demand to know why he’d left her.

  Tell her what I said. She will not like it, but she will understand. Please tell her for me… when she fears most what to do, she must raise her hand… and believe.

  “Very well,” he said, scratching his head. “Hold tight, lads.” He gave them a nod. “Help’ll be along soon.”

  “Thank you, m’lord. Don’t worry about us. We’re on to Blackwood soon enough.”

  “Very well,” Malcom said, once again, ruefully, then snapped Merry Bells’ reins. And the last thing Rhiannon said to him filled his heart with relief, then dread.

  Your father is not ill. But hie thee north. Call your banners. War is nigh.

  Chapter 23

  Elspeth awoke before the cock’s crow.

  She dressed again in the pale-blue gown Dominque had loaned her because she felt overdressed in the scarlet. Had the sendal not been so diaphanous, she would have made do with that alone, because, in truth, even the blue gown was more luxurious than any dress she’d ever owned. Made of linsey-woolsey, its design was simple enough, but the seams were delicately sewn, with exquisite appliqué about the sleeves, hem and bodice. Although Elspeth didn’t care much for the cut of the bodice itself, it was little more revealing than the scarlet she’d worn. And regardless, it was better than the Llanthony tunic she’d arrived in.

  However, it seemed to Elspeth that Dominique’s brother shouldn’t encourage such immodesty in a young woman. If, in truth, this was now the style, it would be difficult for Elspeth to grow accustomed to it, having lived so long in a priory. Especially now, having been in William’s presence and noted his lechery, as far as she was concerned, it was ill-advised to tempt a man she did not intend to wed, and for Elspeth, there was only one man she ever cared to entice.

  Malcom.

  Where are you?

  This was a first for her: pining over the company of a man—and, nay, it hadn’t nary as much to do with her sordid predicament as it did a simple, but overwhelming desire to see him—to see with her own two eyes that he was unharmed.

  Somehow, over such a short time, she had swiftly grown accustomed to Malcom’s company, and the precious moments they’d shared the night before he’d left were sweet enough that she could have languished in his arms.

  He’d snuggled himself behind her, holding her close, and she’d fallen asleep with his hand clasping hers. As little as she’d ever trusted anyone except her sisters, she knew the disparity of trust even more acutely now, with the shadow of the lord of Amdel hanging over her shoulder—that man, she did not trust at all.

  Intending to make her way into the garden to pass her time, Elspeth didn’t wait to be called upon by Dominique or Alyss. She hung her makeshift purse on her belt and tied a single ribbon about her thick hair to keep it from her face whilst she toiled in the garden.

  Anyway, she was annoyed. Those two silly chits had imbibed too much the night before and both had stumbled away from the hall, giggling like little girls, leaving Elspeth alone to entertain Dominique’s strange brother.

  All those presentiments she’d had upon arriving at Amdel had come crashing down, leaving her ill at ease the entire evening, and hardly in any mood for drink or banter. If anything, she’d found herself growing more and more vexed at Dominique for her unwavering naiveté, despite that she realized it was a function of her age. But, of course, she must think everything beautiful, everything magical, and everyone honorable—including her lord brother.

  Fie on that man!

  Just as soon as William had become preoccupied with a serving woman—so much for his attachment to Alyss—Elspeth slipped away, none the wiser, and ran to hide in her chamber, wishing Malcom would hurry back—and more, that when she opened her eyes, he would be there already, lying beside her.

  Not for the first time, she tugged at the ribbon tied around her wrist, pulling it between her fingers, before tucking it away inside her sleeve.

  Last night, for some odd reason, she’d been compelled to hide it, despite that she doubted the lord of Amdel would even comprehend what it meant. Handfasting had never been much of an English custom. And regardless, even if he could perceive it, there was no one to say they’d not handfasted long before arriving at Amdel. Even so, she was embarrassed that he so obviously believed Malcom had married her only because he’d “put a babe in her belly.” Clearly, he thought her unchaste, and ready to try another man’s favor. The very thought of it sickened her belly.

  If only he knew: Elspeth had offered herself up for Malcom’s pleasure and he’d put her aside without so much as a thought—it was only now that this simple truth began to gnaw at her.

  Did she not appeal to him? Was he perhaps struggling with whatever feelings her sister had imbued in him—or did he somehow realize that, without the enchantment, he’d no more embroil himself in this mess than he would have kissed Matilda’s feet?

  Rhiannon, she said, furiously. Oh, Rhiannon!

  Of course, she expected no response, and neither did she receive one.

  Still, she was vexed with her sister for having beguiled a man—a good man.

  And regardless, had she not taken the chance to do so, where would Elspeth be now? Stranded in the woods in Wales, or caught and returned to the priory to face her mother’s wrath?

  Ambivalence was her constant companion—but where were her sisters right now?

  With every minute that passed, she worried all the more. Had Malcom arrived at Llanthony in time? Did he have any opportunity to speak to them? Would he be successful in saving them? Had Ersinius somehow discovered Malcom’s intent and had him arrested? Could Malcom, even now, be caught in shackles? And what about her sisters? The questions were as endless as her worries.

  She thought about the dream she’d had of Rhiannon in the tumbril and shuddered.

  But perhaps that was only a dream, for Elspeth had never, ever had much of the sight, and there was nothing to say this vision had been aught more than a terrible fantasy wrought by her tired and anxious mind.

  And nonetheless, Ersinius was no man to be trifled with. He had friends in very high places, and if he’d found himself headmaster of a priory, not an abbey, it was precisely as he’d intended. There was no doubt he would never wish to have more scrutiny from the Church than he had already. Nor would he care to answer directly to the Pope. As it was, Llanthony was an Augustinian priory answerable to an abbot many, many leagues away, and even the newly appointed Abbey Dore, with its Cistercian allegiance, was of little concern to him.

  In truth, Elspeth had long wondered over his true mission in Ewyas, and found herself contemplating, precisely, who it was that Ersinius answered to… perhaps not to Stephen, after all? Or to Matilda, for in spit
e of the fact that he was quick to take her grants, the only person he seemed to fear was… Morwen.

  Don’t think of her. Don’t give her more power than she already has.

  The hour must be near Terce, she thought. By now, the villein would have been up since Prime or Lauds, stoking the kitchen fires and seeing to their chores.

  Dominique wouldn’t rise until it was time to break her fast. The schedule here was nothing like the priory, and neither did her lord brother seem overly pious. There would be no prayers at the chapel. If Alyss seemed a bit more devout, that was lost on her “guardian.” As if she didn’t have enough on her plate, Elspeth worried for that girl—and no less for herself.

  Those birds Beauchamp kept were inauspicious. They were bred only in one place that she knew of: Llanthony. Brought there from distant lands. If Beauchamp owned one, it was because Morwen had given it to him.

  It was with great relief that she heard the horn blow and she ran to the curtained window to look below. A single rider approached, on a shining black mare.

  Malcom.

  The more he considered his encounter with Rhiannon, the more Malcom feared, and it was a gut-wrenching fright he couldn’t shake.

  He rode faster, pushing Merry Bells harder, even knowing it wasn’t in the animal’s best interest. Thank God he’d trained her for endurance. But if he didn’t drive her to death this day, he swore he’d keep an easier pace once he reclaimed Elspeth—only, please, God, keep her safe.

  “Stay with me, lass,” he begged the mare, leaning close to her withers. He stroked her lovingly, even as he set his spurs to her flanks.

  Naturally, he wanted to deny everything. Malcom wasn’t an overly pious man, and neither did he believe in faerie’s tales. And yet, it wasn’t possible for Rhiannon to have known the name his kinsmen gave him in his youth—hot head. Ceann Ràs. None of his English peers had ever known his Gael name because he’d cast it away like a dirty robe the instant he’d risen as lord of Aldergh. So determined he was to be his own man, and to shed the trappings of his youth, he’d made himself a new man, styling himself Malcom Scott.