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

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Listening to Cora go on and on about the customs of their house, Elspeth clutched the chatelaine’s keys, praying she would rise to the occasion, because she’d never been taught any of the particulars of managing a household, great or small. There was so much to learn—what food to serve, which supplies to buy, which crops to plant or harvest, what clothes to make and mend, which areas of the house to clean first and last, which supplies to make, and how. Fortunately, she knew well enough how to read and write; the rest she would investigate.

  But she soon realized she hadn’t much to worry over, because despite the lord’s absence, she found the castle to be in wonderful keeping. Fresh rushes were already strewn about the floors, the tapestries were clean and well-tended, and there were no cobwebs in the corners.

  The kitchens, too, were well kept, and the garden was large, if lacking. And this was the one place Elspeth excelled.

  Once the tour was over, Cora sent her giggling daughters away and led Elspeth up the stairwell to the lord’s chamber. There, she proceeded to show Elspeth the coffers Malcom had told her about, each one filled to bursting with garments and jewelry that had once belonged to Malcom’s grandmother.

  “All these are Lady Eleanore’s,” Cora said, opening the largest of the chests and removing a beautiful silver chatelaine’s belt, meant to be worn about the waist.

  Attached to the belt was a small silver coin purse, and a silver clasp for her keys. Elspeth gasped, for she had never seen anything so fine. Nor had she ever had any coins to put in any such purse. She tried to imagine herself entertaining merchants and opening up her lovely little purse, but couldn’t quite picture it. Perhaps she would use it for herbs? It was so much finer than the one she’d fashioned of Malcom’s sherte. But lord, there were so many keys! Brushing a finger across the filigree, she said, “Art certain I should be wearing this?”

  The woman’s head cocked back, like a hen’s. “Why ever not, m’lady? The lord himself bade me give it to you.”

  Elspeth lifted her chin, realizing that must be what Malcom had been whispering into her ear.

  She nodded, accepting the belt from Cora and tried it at her waist. Cora immediately jumped up to help her clasp it around the back. Once done, she sat back down, and left Elspeth to admire her new possession.

  “So lovely,” Elspeth murmured, entirely preoccupied with the shining belt, but then she peered up and gasped aloud at the gown Cora removed from the coffer—a ruby-red brocade trimmed with ermine, followed by a companion cloak to the one Malcom wore. And thereafter, it seemed every dress unveiled was finer than the one before. By the blessed cauldron, it was too rich a bestowal for a girl who’d knelt so short a time ago on dirt floors in order to kindle a fire in her hearth. Rather than wear all these fine gowns herself, it would be so much more rewarding to share a few with her sisters. The very thought of them made her heart sore.

  Where were they now? In London, simpering before the king?

  Lord, but it galled Elspeth to think such things. But she tried not to think about that, or the reason she was here… because of the sacrifices her sisters had made in her behalf—and in particular Rhiannon, who’d so adamantly insisted Elspeth leave. And regardless, seated before such a plethora of riches, she felt acutely the guilt she’d felt over leaving her sisters behind. By all rights, they should be here with her now, sharing in her good fortune. Saddened by the thought, she nevertheless sat, poring through coffers, putting dresses aside to be fitted and altered, thinking how beautiful Seren might look in this one or that one, and all the while she listened to Cora, eager to know more about the man she’d wed.

  “This, too, was Lady Eleanore’s,” Cora explained, handing over a small ring—once again, a match to the one Malcom wore—to the one she now wore about her neck. And she wondered if Malcom knew it existed.

  Taking the small ring from Cora, she slid it onto her finger and found the fit to be perfect. It was a more delicate version than the lord’s ring, still it bore the same two feathers striking through a fleur-de-lis.

  “O’ course, he took it away from her when he sent her away,” Cora said.

  “He?”

  The old maid smoothed a liver-spotted hand across her graying hair. “The auld lord,” she lamented. “If’n ye ask me, the Lady Eleanore was far too good for the likes of him.” She smiled ruefully at Elspeth.

  “He wanted a boy, loathed the child he was given. Certain as he was he could never sire himself a lass, he accused the Lady of infidelity and sent her to live and die in a nunnery, leaving his daughter to roam his halls in tatters—for shame.”

  Malcom’s stepmother, Elspeth presumed. The girl without a name. She fiddled with her new ring, longing to hear more and Cora must have sensed her interest, because she continued with a wistful smile.

  “She was the Lady’s spitting image. Poor little thing, hair so matted ye caudna push a comb through it. I always feared to find birds nesting in that mess.”

  Elspeth drew a lovely rose-colored gown out of the coffer, rolling it across the floor, listening to Cora go on about the birds nesting in Page’s tangles. And then, just to be sure, she found herself asking, “So… you keep birds here?”

  “O’course, lass! Hens, cocks. The lord himself keeps an aviary with peregrines for hunting.”

  Elspeth looked askance at the maid. “Only peregrines?”

  “Mayhap a pigeon or two,” she said, shrugging, casting Elspeth a curious glance. And then her stomach growled, and she said with a bark of laughter, “Most birds we tend here are sitting on trenchers.”

  Elspeth giggled. So, too, did Cora.

  She marveled over the magnificent toiletries, thinking how strange luck should be. Little less than two weeks ago, she’d been worrying over marrying Guy d’Lucy and today she had a wonderful new home to tend to—and incredible gifts to enjoy. But, of course, Cora must assume it was no more than Elspeth’s due as the wife of an earl, but she had no clue how mean Elspeth’s life had been before now. And she wondered idly if Cora would have preferred to have seen all this finery awarded to Lady Eleanore’s daughter. But why hadn’t Malcom given them to her before now? Curiosity got the best of her. “I take it you knew Page well?”

  “Well enough… she was my friend,” the maid said.

  Friend, Elspeth marveled. How curious. Not for an instant could she ever imagine Dominique considering her reticent maid to be her friend. She had called her sister, perhaps, but she’d treated her more like a servant. And yet, not unkindly, for though she clearly had been brought up to consider her station, she hadn’t had a mean bone in her body.

  Elspeth regretted having left so quickly, if only for Dominique’s sake. She’d been so very kind—but forsooth, as generous as Dominique had been, and as lovely as her gifts were, she felt lost now amidst a sea of shining gold and silver and beautiful gowns. She was like a child with awe. “My lord is a generous man,” Elspeth said, surrounded by the proof of it. The old lord might not have cherished or trusted his poor wife, but he had lavished riches upon her whilst she was here.

  The woman smiled fondly. “Aye, lass, but lest ye’ve known him so long I have, ye’ll never know the truth of it.”

  Elspeth lifted her chin, dangling a silver girdle from her fingertips. “How long?”

  Cora gave her a single nod. “Eleven years since he rode through those gates, my dear, but I knew that boy when he was six, brought here by treachery.”

  “Treachery?”

  “Mean old Henry meant to steal him south to court.”

  Startled, Elspeth opened her mouth to speak against the accusation, but closed it again. She pulled out one last gown from the coffer—a sapphire blue with silver appliqué about the bodice—and pretended an interest in the embroidery, running her fingers across the design.

  Her father brought Malcom to Aldergh? At six? Why? And why hadn’t Malcom told her?

  Cora grinned. “His Da came riding up to these gates, bold as you please, demanding the return of his boy.”


  Elspeth fiddled with the sleeve of the gown, pressing out a wrinkle. “But… Henry must have intended him to be his cherished ward?”

  “Pah!” said the maid. “He meant to use that boy to bend the father to his will. But you see how that turned out.” She gave Elspeth a vengeful nod. “Little wonder he met his end the way he did—and no wonder at all my darling Page had no love for the house she was born in.” Reliving the memory perhaps, Cora brushed a finger under one eye.

  Only now Elspeth remembered another conversation… Aldergh belonged to my grandsire, Malcom had said. It passed to me after he died.

  Elspeth had been so focused on the grievous injustice that a woman should be passed over for a man—yet again—that she’d not even considered asking why.

  How did he die? she’d asked.

  How do most dishonorable men meet their end?

  Elspeth folded the sapphire blue gown, setting it aside. “And how, precisely, did the old lord meet his end?”

  The woman was busy refolding gowns and putting them into piles—some to be laundered, some to be fitted, and some to put back in storage. “Ah, well, ye know, I wasn’t there. But I did hear the tale. My lord slew him, put a sword through his cauld heart.”

  Elspeth screwed her face. “Malcom?”

  “Yes, m’lady. He did.”

  Stunned. Elspeth sat back.

  Malcom murdered his grandsire?

  I am quite certain you won your title by honorable means, she’d said so sourly. Only now she understood why he’d been so furious with her, and her heart despaired for him.

  No wonder he now supported Stephen and forswore her father! She loathed to think what he must have endured—with the death of his birth mother, and his abduction by her father—but as much as the discovery aggrieved her, she was glad, at least, to know and understand his past, and she vowed again to be the best wife she could be—no matter his politikal affiliations. If her father’s widow, Adeliza of Louvain, who’d wed Stephen’s ally, could love two men, both with different politiks, so could Elspeth.

  Only now, for the first time in her life Elspeth understood how it might be possible for different minds to ally. Insofar as Elspeth was concerned, it didn’t matter to her who Malcom served. She would find a way to treat him with honor and still find a way to serve her sister as well.

  Sensing the importance of his war council—for what else could it be called?—Elspeth had deferred the evening’s festivities for tomorrow, sending the kitchen’s efforts into Malcom’s council room instead.

  That he wasn’t with her on their first evening returned to Aldergh sorely aggrieved him, but there was little doubt; his heart wasn’t in the mood for a celebration tonight.

  As Rhiannon had claimed, war was, indeed, nigh. It came to him from all sides now, and no doubt there would be hell to pay for absconding with and marrying Elspeth.

  Only now, that was the least of his troubles; as he’d long suspected, the summons north was but a ruse to get him to the table and David of Scotia was now mounting a campaign from Carlisle. He’d sent Malcom’s cousin Cameron along with Caden Mac Swein to persuade Malcom to join his fight.

  It was his intention to bring the entirety of the kingdom of Northumbria under his dominion, and at the instant, he had his sights set on York. Like so many, he feared Stephen meant to abdicate his throne in favor of his son, and he’d made himself clear: He would never ally with Eustace.

  If the father was ineffectual, the son was a miscreant.

  Malcom raked a hand wearily through his hair, because, in truth, though he could be right, so long as Stephen wore the English crown, Malcom swore him an oath of fealty. “So my father is with David at Carlisle?”

  Cameron nodded.

  “Why did he not come himself?”

  Cameron lifted a shoulder. “He’s proud, Mal. As he must see it, ’tis your duty as his firstborn to come to heel.”

  Malcom lifted a brow. “Come to heel?”

  “Tis a matter of speech, Mal. You know what I mean.”

  “Nay. I do not know what you mean,” snapped Malcom. “And it angers me that he had so little compunction over allowing his name to be used to summon me north.” Malcom slammed his fist against the table, and the sound of it reverberated through the hall, like thunder. “How dare he leave me to believe he could be dying!”

  Cameron lifted his shoulder yet again. “If it makes ye feel better, Mal, it wasn’t your father’s idea. It was mine.”

  “Nay! That most assuredly does not make me feel better.”

  Stretching his neck, Cameron poured the last of the vin from the flagon into his own cup. “So then… you’ll keep your vows if Stephen abdicates?”

  Considering the question, Malcom tipped his own glass to peer inside, wishing now that he’d not ordered the last of the serving girls out of the hall. His tongue was parched, and they’d yet to come to any sort of agreement.

  By now, Elspeth must be long abed, and to his mind, this was no way to welcome his bride to her new home. “I am certain it will never come to pass,” he said finally, annoyed, tired, ready to be abed.

  Cameron was clearly not of the same mind. “’Tis blind faith ye gi’ a man who’s already claimed he would do so, and if he manages to convince Theobald to confirm him, he will do it.”

  Malcom shook his head. “The Archbishop will not agree to it so long as the Pope disagrees, and I am certain he is through with the matter. We’ve all seen what his meddling begot him—exile.”

  Cameron gulped down his drink and smacked down his cup. “I disagree. Whatever disagreement lies between him and Stephen, ’tis but this small matter that prevents him from returning to England, and Stephen tempts him. Eventually, he will succumb.”

  Caden agreed. “Eventually, Stephen must forgive and allow the man tae return. One way or another, he’s the only one who can crown Eustace, and I promise ye he’ll never allow Duke Henry to come anywhere near his throne.”

  He was referring to recent whispers that had been circulating—that Matilda would allow Stephen to keep the crown, so long as he might appoint her son as his successor instead of Eustace. But, in this, Malcom was forced to agree. “I warrant his wife would like that less than him. She would cut out his tongue before she ever allowed him to bargain with Matilda.”

  “Ach, cousin, dinna doubt it. She allows that witch leman to warm his cock because she knows Morwen would sooner see her own son crowned. She’s as greedy as her boy. And speaking of that witch,” Cameron continued. “What’s this I hear o’ ye wedding Morwen’s daughter?”

  Malcom narrowed his eyes. “How did you learn so quickly?”

  Cameron tilted his cup, eyeing Malcom with an arched brow. “A wee birdie may have told me,” he confessed.

  Malcom frowned.

  “Christ! Not those birds. Stephen sent pigeons as far north as Edinburgh in search of that girl. Ye’d think her made of gold by the tone of his inquiries. I warrant if ye dinna join David’s fight, ye’ll be answering to your king over this matter afore long.”

  Malcom sighed heavily, wearied over talk of politiks.

  What he would like to say now was that David had never been his king—never—and he would be damned if he’d be made to feel indebted to a man who’d colluded with Henry in his abduction. David of Scotia was no less guilty over that crime, and it was something Malcom was tired of repeating to his sire. Loyalty was not preordained. Simply because he was born in the north did not mean he owed his allegiance to David—or to Scotia for that matter. Right now, he owed his allegiance to Stephen because he’d bent his knee to Stephen, and because he’d sworn an oath to that man’s face. “Elspeth is Henry’s daughter too,” Malcom confessed.

  His cousin’s eyes widened. “Dead King Henry?”

  “Aye mon. Dead King Henry.”

  Cameron scratched his head, looking from Malcom to Caden, and then back again. “Ach, Mal. When your Da says ye dinna mess aboot, ye dinna mess aboot, cousin. Not only is her connectio
n to Henry a means to settle his barons, her mother is—”

  “I know. She’s a witch—you can say it, Cameron. She’s a bluidy witch.”

  “And ye believe it?”

  “What?”

  “That she’s a witch.”

  Malcom nodded. “She’s a witch alright.”

  Caden asked, “And what’s it mean for ye if ye dinna join us? Won’t Stephen demand her return?”

  “Plow her well and get yourself a babe before then,” Cameron advised, laughing mirthlessly.

  Malcom narrowed his eyes. He and Cameron had never had an easy relationship, and there was a good deal Malcom would never forgive the man for. “Never speak that way of my wife. Cousin or nay, I’ll see you drawn and quartered for the offense.”

  Cameron whistled low and sat back. “So ye love her?”

  Malcom nodded. “I do. And what’s it to ye?”

  Cameron and Caden both shared a glance, and then a grin, and Malcom wasn’t sure whether it was a genuine show of pleasure for Malcom’s good fortune, or if he thought it propitious for other reasons. “So tell me about York.”

  Cameron held his gaze. “So you can run and tell your king?”

  “What would stop me from telling him now? What difference will a few details make?

  Cameron gave Malcom an assessing glance, then said, “While you’re at it, tell him Earl Maddadsson sent men from Orkney and Caithness.”

  “What about Sutherland?”

  “Him too.”

  “And what of my father? Suddenly, he’s decided that David is his rightful sovereign and he willingly bends his knee?”

  “Aye.” Cameron nodded affirmatively. “And so comes Broc Ceannfhionn and Aidan dún Scoti. The Brodies, too, are prepared to fight, along with the MacLeans, Montgomerie and McNaught.”

  “And de Moray?”

  Cameron nodded smugly. “Him too, despite his quarrel with Keane dún Scoti.”

  “Well, then, seems to me you have it all covered and what need have you for me? Simply so David might put another Northumbrian castle under his rule? No, thank you, cousin.”