In truth, Elspeth suspected they’d been in cahoots from the beginning, and if that were true, her mother might also be responsible for her father’s death. After all, it was Morwen who’d introduced Henry to those eels, and it was she, as his mistress, not his wife, Adeliza of Louvain, who’d been with him on the day he’d died. If it be the last thing Elspeth did, she intended to discover what treachery befell her father… and perhaps not today, or tomorrow, but someday, her sister would return to England, and she would not stop until she wore their father’s crown.
In the meantime, Elspeth’s loyalties must remain absolute. She didn’t know how or when, but she fully intended to join her sister’s crusade, and considering that—and the fact that she would be remiss to reveal herself and take any chance of failing Matilda—she continued to clean Malcom’s wound, wiping away the last traces of blood and grime.
So, nay, she decided. She would not heal him now. First, she would advise him to cauterize it. “You are fortunate,” she said, after a while. “The wound is deep, and it festers a bit, but it will heal. I would put a hot blade to it as soon as you can.”
He sought her gaze, his blue-green eyes gleaming. “We haven’t any fire,” he said. “I did not mean to kindle one… not if we intend to call upon Amdel…”
It was a question, Elspeth realized.
Evidently, he was leaving the decision up to her. If she wished for him to seek refuge there, he would do so. She handed him back the towel, but she did not mean to say what she said next. “Kindle a fire. I will help you cauterize your wound.”
Chapter Ten
There was a wealth of meaning in the look they shared. Malcom took the blood-soaked rag from Elspeth’s hands, grateful for her ministrations. “Art certain, lass?”
She shook her head, but said, “Aye.” And despite the mixed message, Malcom wouldn’t argue. He no more wished to call upon Amdel than he cared to lick Beauchamp’s arse.
“A fire it is,” he said. Let it be done. He would build a fire, here on chartered lands, and leave his business with Beauchamp for another day—that suited him fine.
And nevertheless, although he was relieved by Elspeth’s choice, some part of him mistrusted her reason why. Already, she’d attempted to steal his horse, not once, but twice; he could but surmise she meant to try again. And regardless, he would take that any day over sharing a cup of gritty vin with Beauchamp.
For the sake of modesty, he rose and put on his gambeson, intending to wash the sherte in the burn—just in case Elspeth changed her mind. If later he were forced to face Beauchamp, he’d prefer to be wearing a wet, clean sherte, over one stained with his own blood.
“Art hungry?”
“What about your wound?”
“Not now.”
She frowned at him, and more than ever, Malcom wanted to ask: Who was she, and why was she so reluctant to confess anything to him? Why now had she decided to avoid Amdel?
However, for the moment, until he knew what she intended, he didn’t want her anywhere near his bare flesh with a hot blade. God’s truth, no matter his opinion of Beauchamp, he didn’t know very many ladies who’d give up the chance for a bath and a change of clothes—particularly since her manner of dress did not suit her. The breeches were far too tight, and the tunic was overlarge, and she’d fidgeted uncomfortably all-day long. Perhaps she’d taken his warning about Beauchamp to heart, but then again, what did he know? She might easily have more to lose than he did by allowing herself to be discovered by someone like Beauchamp. He sighed, and considering the answers to these questions, Malcom chose a spot to construct the fire—a location well concealed from prying eyes. So far, it boded well enough that Beauchamp’s men had yet to confront them, and it was growing late enough to hide the smoke from their fire.
Once the flames were burning evenly, he hobbled Merry near the burn, where she could graze and drink freely, and then he left his strange new troupe to hunt for supper.
It didn’t take long to find suitable fare. He settled on a small hare, but immediately rued the decision to make camp so close to Amdel. Certainly, it wasn’t anything so significant as deer, but it was nevertheless game belonging to the crown. He had been very careful to travel outside Beauchamp’s parklands. Strictly speaking, these lands were part of Henry’s charter, but Malcom realized very well that it wouldn’t prevent Beauchamp from assuming the role of an injured party, as he had with d’Lucy—and he might do so if Malcom were forced to repudiate his sister. As reluctant as the man was to part with his little sister, he seemed greedy for an alliance. But Malcom wouldn’t fool himself over the reason why. Beauchamp couldn’t give a damn about Malcom per se; he was far more interested in allying with a member of Stephen’s Rex Militum—an elite division of the King’s guard tasked with securing the king’s justice. Any member might have served him well enough, but to his utter displeasure, most of them had far greater influence than Malcom. They would have too many options at their disposal to bother allying with a baron, whose favor remained in question.
But rather fortunately for Malcom, Stephen’s heart was not in the enforcement of Henry’s charter. It was just that since he’d abandoned his post in Wales, he worried Beauchamp would take the matter to Stephen, and if he did so, Malcom might be forced to answer for far more than poaching. His assignment in Wales was left incomplete, and Stephen might even be annoyed enough to enforce Henry’s Forest Law to its fullest degree. He was proving quite good at redirecting his displeasure. What was more, if Stephen should ask why Malcom had left his post… well, he was, indeed, a poor liar. If, in truth, the summons to Scotia was a ruse, Malcom stood to lose everything he’d worked for over the past eleven years. All his many sacrifices would come to naught.
He exhaled wearily, for at times like these, he so much lamented his fealty to England. Life in Scotia had been much simpler. And nevertheless, shoving the past out of his head, he wondered again who might sequester a lovely lass—and four sisters—in a remote priory in the Black Mountains of Wales. And, furthermore, why did she take such a fright every time he mentioned d’Lucy’s name?
In truth, Malcom couldn’t imagine anyone, save a loyalist to the Empress, who might take offense to the Graeham d’Lucy. Graeham’s brother was another matter entirely. Blaec, like his cousin Cael, inspired fear, and Malcom himself wouldn’t relish meeting either of those two fellows on a battlefield. However, Blaec was a second son and had nothing to offer a woman of substance. Cael, on the other hand, was in a position to benefit from a well-placed alliance. For his service to Stephen, he was recently awarded a Marcher demesne. But while Cael was hardly a man to be trifled with, Malcom did not believe him so villainous as to merit the fear he sensed in Elspeth.
But the more he thought about it, the more sense it made that Stephen would offer Cael a high-born wife to substantiate his claim so deep in the Marches. So if Elspeth was offered to Blackwood—why? Who was she? And more importantly: God save Malcom, because Blackwood was the last man in the realm he would have liked to have had as an enemy.
Brooding over the possibilities, he returned to camp to clean and dress the hare, relieved to find that everyone remained.
Tossing down the cony on a stump near his pit, he sat, drawing the blade from his boot, taking note of what everyone else was doing. Merry Bells was still hobbled by the burn. Elspeth had evidently taken it upon herself to wash his sherte and hang it to dry. And, then, having discovered the bedroll behind his saddlebag, she’d untied it and laid it down near the firepit. And furthermore, she’d taken to heart his advice about her tunic. Whilst Malcom was gone, she’d turned the garment inside out. Right now, she sat on his blanket, inspecting the damage to his hauberk.
“I don’t suppose you have extra rings?” she asked after Malcom was seated, careful not to meet or hold his gaze.
“Nay, lass,” he said. “I do not.”
And still, she fiddled with the hauberk, while Malcom threw himself into the task of cleaning the hare, cutting the skin at the back of the
cony’s neck, then, holding the carcass by the back of its legs, and gathering the soft skin to tear it off—like his father taught him.
It was at times like these he felt closest to his Da, remembering the times they’d gone hunting and fishing together. He missed those days, more than he cared to admit.
As for Elspeth, he was pleased to see she had skill at tending fires, because the one he’d built was burning stronger now, and was trimmed with fieldstones. Putting lie to his previous summations about her, that was not what he would have anticipated from a highborn lady.
Now, once again, as he watched her fiddle with his hauberk, examining the small links, he suffered the same thoughts he’d had earlier, and an altogether different and more potent heat stirred his loins. Bedamned. There was something entirely too intimate about their time here together, putting thoughts into his head he shouldn’t be having. For the moment, she was his ward, but that would change the instant she decided to open her mouth and tell him what he needed to know.
“It can be repaired,” she said, offhand, and the sight of her trying to mend his accoutrements hardened him fully for the second time in the span of a single day—a state of arousal he’d enjoyed less and less over the past years. Lifting a leg to hide the evidence, Malcom leaned an arm atop his knee, and settled into the task of skinning the cony, hoping it would cool his ardor.
“Easier said than done,” he said, trying not to notice the provocative way her tunic rode up her thighs, revealing her too-tight breeches.
Bluidy hell. He might armor elsewhere, if she should happen to notice he’d formed a tent in his breeches. Sighing again, he tugged at the skin of the cony, trying not to notice the delicate way she was fingering the small loops of his mail. And, perhaps, he took out some of his frustrations on the cony, lopping off the animal’s feet, and then its head. He proceeded to gut it, the task effectively cooling his ardor. And nevertheless, whilst he worked, he came very aware that Elspeth had stopped what she was doing and now she was watching him intently. Glancing up to find her mouth twisted with disgust, he lifted the bare-bodied cony. “Hungry?” he teased.
She shook her head, but Malcom knew it to be a lie. Her stomach gurgled nearly as loudly as the brook, and he chuckled. “I presume you’ve never killed or cleaned your own dinner before?”
Casting the hauberk aside, she abandoned the puzzle of his sherte, and said, “Nay.”
“I promise it will look more appetizing after I’m done.”
Her hand went to her belly. “I might never forget the sight of it now.”
Malcom worked quickly, realizing the process unsettled her.
“My sisters and I… we… I… never… well… what I mean to say is we were more familiar with gruel than we ever were with… that.”
“Cony?”
“Aye.”
“More’s the pity,” Malcom said with a wink, thinking about the stews auld Glenna had prepared for him back home. Like his mother, she could whip up a fine kettle with anything she was given.
Of course, it wasn’t as though Elspeth hadn’t sometimes wished to kill a hare or two—particularly when they munched on her garden. But that was disgusting.
Up until now, they’d traveled over much of the day without ever stopping for respite, and she realized only belatedly how hungry and thirsty she was. But, to be sure, she thought his choice of food rather crude. Whilst she and her sisters ate whatever was put in front of them at the priory, their meals had rarely consisted of animal flesh. If there be one true sin, it would be the unnecessary taking of a life, and therefore, where it concerned a body’s sustenance, it was well enough to harvest what could be wrought from the earth—mostly tended by their own hands.
Betimes they’d foraged for berries, ate bread and cheese, and rarely a bit of fish. After all, some flesh could not be avoided with the monks in such a proud state over their new hatchery. They’d also kept hens, and these were mostly raised for eggs, and goats for milk. But whilst Elspeth was no stranger to the butchering of animals for sustenance, this was not something she had ever become familiar with until she’d spent time in her father’s court.
Her father’s tables had been replete with flesh—great sows still bearing sad heads, pheasants posed as though they could still take flight. Long stretches of intestines were filled with crushed organs, betimes blood staining the trenchers they ate from. It always made Elspeth sad to see all that carnage, but that’s where Morwen probably developed her taste for blood.
But, indeed, she was hungry. And since Elspeth was not the one who’d killed the poor beast, she wouldn’t turn it away, and neither should it go to waste. It was one thing to be the one to kill it, another thing to eat it, she supposed. And neither was it a sin to kill sparingly for food—so long as one gave atonement and thanks and took no more than was necessary. After all, theirs was not a religion, and contrary to what folks might believe, neither did they worship demons.
In fact, her grandmamau had taught her that all gods were one god, born of the same Great Mother, from whose womb sprung the world itself.
For that matter, Taliesin’s works had been well aligned with Holy church, and, in his day, his counsel had been sought after by the Holy Roman Emperor himself.
Their priests and priestesses were not unlike Christian priests, who in their hearts and minds were merely closer to God. Indeed, Elspeth might even call herself a Christian, save for the way they’d treated her and her sisters at the priory. And yet, despite this, she followed many of the tenets of Holy Church, because the teachings were scarcely different from the teachings of the Goddess—and the one most profound was: Do good, harm none.
The darker arts were something else entirely. In the performance of hud du, some of those spells were cast with sacrificial magic, which in itself was a blasphemy to the Goddess—and perhaps this was why the eating of flesh was discouraged.
She watched Malcom pull off the cony’s fur and averted her gaze, unable to stomach so much blood, and feeling flush, she lifted the back of her hand to her cheek.
So much for worrying that Malcom would take a fever; she was the one who was warm! And not for the least of reasons, he was seated there before her, despite the cool evening, wearing only a sleeveless gambeson over a tight pair of breeches. For all that she could see, he might as well be nude.
She tried not to notice, but his muscles were wickedly sinuous, tightening and twitching all the while he worked his ornate little dagger over the hare. Merely the sight of it was enough to leave her face burning as hot as the coals in his pit—and perspiring despite the coolness of the air.
Much as it had been this morn, his aura was a pale orange, with hints of silver. All living, and even non-living entities, radiated colors that revealed more than words alone could say. Whilst the most prominent color in Malcom’s aura remained orange, and this revealed a generally kind-heart and honest nature, it could also mean that betimes he was quick to lose his temper. He could be passionate in all things, and whatever he set his heart to, that’s where it would remain unto death.
Fortunately, Elspeth hadn’t noticed any trace of black in his aura, and, no doubt, this was why she’d felt so at ease to goad him. Everyone had a thin, dark vein now and again, but she knew to be wary if it was present all the time. Ersinius’ was perpetually black, though she didn’t need to read auras to know that to be the case. His actions spoke for themselves.
As she sat watching Malcom work, she was chagrined to see that a deep red began to rise. This was the color of desire. He desires me, she realized. And more to the point: She desired him. How this was possible after such a short time, Elspeth didn’t know, because she had never in her life experienced any such connection. And yet whatever it was that called to her—perhaps their shared vision—she felt a stirring in her belly like the fluttering of butterfly wings and a prick in her nipples that made her long to suckle his babes. Thankfully, he could not read her as she could read him.
Her gaze moved to his lips, and
she flushed, averting her gaze. “So… how far is Aldergh?” she asked casually, hoping to occupy her mind with something other than desire and form.
“Far,” he replied. “I would not blame you if you chose not to come.”
Elspeth nodded, casting him a quick glance. At the moment, he wasn’t even looking at her, and for some reason, his quickness to dismiss her as a traveling companion, pricked at her self-esteem. Mayhap, in truth, he did not desire her after all?
“In case you’ve not noticed, my lord, I’ve no need of coddling. I am quite capable of traveling over long distances. And, indeed, were I so opposed to privation, I would have insisted we call upon Amdel.” Her tone very clearly revealed her displeasure.
“Fair enough,” he said, peering up from the naked hare he was skewering on a long, sharp stick. “So… what you’re saying is… you prefer the long trek to Aldergh… with more fare like this…” He lifted his hare. “Rather than seek refuge with d’Lucy?”
“Well…” Elspeth frowned. Put like that, it didn’t sound so appealing. However, far less appealing was the possibility of discovering herself at the mercy of another of Stephen’s minions—not that they should be any worse than Malcom, though she suspected they were. “Aye,” she confessed. “I suppose that would be true.”
He nodded, then winked, and Elspeth’s heart fluttered yet again, and her face burned hotter. Thankfully, he didn’t seem to notice.
He set down his butchered hare, turning his attention to the construction of a simple roaster, burying two sturdy, but straight little saplings on either side of his pit. Once those were firmly planted, he hung the skewered rabbit onto the newly formed spit, and once the rabbit began to cook, she found the scent of roasting meat made her mouth water. Her belly grumbled as well, and she settled it with a touch as Malcom leaned back on an elbow to watch his fire burn. Every once in a while, he reached over to turn the spit. And by the by, he had yet to even thank her for trimming his fire, as all responsible people should do—unless, of course, it was his intent to burn down these sacred woodlands. “So, won’t you tell me… how came a Scots man to be an English earl?”
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