Once Upon a Knight

by Crosby, Tanya Anne

  “So, then, how’s that filly o’ yours?” Cameron asked, and her husband stiffened, giving his cousin an odd glance.

  “She fares well enough… so long as you stay clear of her. I’ve already lost two without any help.”

  “Aye well, mayhap if ye’d stop naming them sae morbidly ye’d better keep one.” And the look that passed between them after that was… unpleasant. It didn’t take a witch to sense the ill will between them, but Elspeth didn’t comprehend any of the undercurrents of their conversation.

  Wee Davie said, looking straight at Elspeth, “Uncle Mal ga’e me a bow.”

  “Very good,” she said.

  “It’s a Welsh bow. He brought it all the way from Wales. Said he nicked it from some Welshman.”

  “Oh,” said Elspeth, frowning. Sometimes it was too easy to forget who Malcom was—a mercenary for his king. And now she wondered who it was that had died in Wales to give up that bow his nephew so innocently exulted over. It was a gentle reminder that, no, all was not precisely well. No matter how she felt about Malcom, there were troubles yet to come. And… there was that vision she’d of Merry Bells that made her fear trouble was closer than it seemed.

  Elspeth blinked as last night’s imagery flashed before her eyes. Merry Bells… her coat turning red… but then she remembered something else about her vision… something that hadn’t stood out to her last night, because she’d not known Cameron then. It was his livery… or more precisely the sigil emblazoned on the front… a red lion, rampant on a yellow field with a maxim that read: Nimo Me Impune Lacessit. If she remembered correctly, that was the sigil of the Scot’s king. So, if David or Cameron could be the man holding the longbow… could the raven be her mother?

  Really, she was ill-practiced at interpretation. And she really hadn’t a clue about Merry Bells, or what the blood in her vision portended—or even what Cameron’s part in this should be… but she suddenly had a sense down in her bones that Morwen was coming to Aldergh. And, when she considered that, she realized that, somehow, Malcom’s cousin was the means to defeat her. But how? What did it all mean?

  Disheartened, and heavy-hearted, she leaned back, letting the men talk amongst themselves.

  So much for putting her attention into her household. Evidently, until the matter with Morwen was settled, there would be no starting over.

  The men were still conversing, but Elspeth was no longer listening. She only wished her visions could be more specific, instead of leaving her with a puzzle to decipher.

  She knew that Merry Bells was named after a dog… could the cousins’ strife somehow be connected?

  Malcom had said he’d lost two already—did he mean he’d lost two horses both bearing the same name?

  Cameron said he must stop naming animals so morbidly. What did that have to do with the man on horseback with the longbow? Anything?

  Meeting the little boy’s gaze, watching him chew his meal with his mouth open, while he watched her curiously, Elspeth picked at a fingernail.

  The two visions didn’t necessarily have to be connected, but if Morwen was the raven perched on Aldergh’s tower… mayhap the man with the longbow was equally symbolic—King David, perhaps?

  So, obviously, her mother was a threat to Aldergh… but the raven wasn’t flying in… it was already there… which meant… the threat was not imminent but immediate. Suddenly, her heart thumped with fear. Was Morwen already here?

  It was entirely possible. They had not precisely traveled at great speed. Malcom had taken his time, reluctant to push Merry Bells after the trek to Wales and back…

  Elspeth frowned suddenly. Malcom believed he could protect her, but Elspeth knew better. There was no way any one person alone could defeat her mother—save possibly Rhiannon—and there must be a reason Rhiannon had insisted Elspeth ride north. Why? What could Elspeth do differently here than she might do elsewhere?

  The key must be Malcom and his connection to—and then it occurred to her… it was David. Despite all his waffling, she was quite certain David supported Matilda. But Malcom had long ago broken faith with his kinsmen. As the lord of Aldergh, he served Stephen faithfully—unless…

  “Isn’t that right, Lady Aldergh?”

  Elspeth looked up from her musing, confused. “What?”

  Malcom’s look was one of concern, and Elspeth wondered if perhaps he’d recognized the fact that she’d had another premonition. A very disconcerting notion was suddenly closing in all about her, dark and oppressive, like storm clouds descending. “Art well, Elspeth?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said, turning to address Cameron as calmly as she was able. “So… are you returning to Carlisle?”

  “Aye, my lady. We leave within the hour.”

  “And the king… is… there?”

  Cameron smiled, a boyish grin he shared with Malcom. “Which king?” he asked pleasantly. “Yours or mine?”

  Humor escaped her this morning. “David,” Elspeth said.

  Caden Mac Swein looked guardedly at Cameron, then cockeyed at Malcom. Malcom arched a brow in answer.

  “My king is, indeed, in residence at Carlisle,” Cameron replied.

  There was a feeling Elspeth got when the pieces of her intuition began to meld together. She had that feeling now. And equally as intuitively she knew that even if she could convince Malcom to understand her vision, she wasn’t at all certain he would agree with her interpretation—or, more importantly, put aside his pride long enough to seek help from someone who was not his sovereign.

  With a clarity unlike any she’d ever known before, Elspeth realized what her role must be in her crusade for Matilda—and to save her husband.

  In helping Elspeth, Malcom had lain down a gauntlet before Morwen, and Morwen would stop at naught until she crushed him, no matter where his loyalties lay. It didn’t matter how well-intended he’d been or to whom he swore his allegiance. Like it or not, Malcom had already made a choice, and lest he embrace it now, his cause would be lost. Even now, her mother could be out there.

  Right now.

  Elspeth didn’t have time to explain her suspicions. Nor did she intend to allow Malcom to prevent her from doing what she must—particularly if it meant she must commit treason. It was better he didn’t know.

  With gooseflesh prickling at her limbs, she rose from her seat at the table, and said with a forced smile, “Pardon me, lords.” And she hurried away before anyone could stop her. She ran all the way up the stairs, taking the narrow steps two at a time, and rushed into the solar, where she’d discovered a desk yesterday. She hurried to the desk, taking up the quill she found there, then looked about for a slip of parchment—anything. She found one beneath a paper weight, dipped the quill into the ink pot, and, hoping her husband would find it in his heart to forgive her for what she was about to do, she wrote, with bold firm lines:

  To David mac Maíl Choluim, King of Scots

  If your conscience be true, I am certain you’ll not soon forget me. I swear by the love we both bear my sister Matilda, you have impugned the wrong woman. Morwen le Fae is the realm’s true enemy and she arrives here forthwith. You must come to our defense.

  Subscribed and sealed this thirtieth day of May… by me…

  Elspeth swallowed her pride, but not her self-worth. She knew full well David would come after receiving her letter and warning. He was a very pious man, and he wanted to reveal Morwen no less than Matilda did—no less than Elspeth did. Alas, she could never forgive him for his part in the death of her grandmother, and she wanted him to know precisely where her heart lay. She signed her letter:

  Elspeth, lady of Aldergh, loving daughter of your beloved Henry and granddaughter of the late Morgan Pendragon, lady of Blackwood, daughter of Avalon.

  Once she was done, Elspeth rolled the parchment, untied her handfasting ribbon and tied the parchment with her ribbon, then she hurried down the stairs, to the stables, realizing time was of the essence.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  With a skip
in her step, Cora rushed out of the lord’s chamber, humming as she carried Elspeth’s dirty gown over her arm. What a sweet, sweet lass! Already, she approved of her lord’s choice of lady, and she wanted to surprise the girl with a clean gown. How refreshing she was! How plainly spoken! How delightful and lovely!

  But she was so distracted, and in such a hurry, she started at the sight that greeted her as she hurried out of the lord’s chamber—a man, sweat-soaked and feverish, clawing his way down the corridor—and she froze, realizing only belatedly who it was. “Daw! Good heavens. What’re ye doing oot of bed?”

  There was a febrile gleam in the man’s gaze that Cora had never seen before. “I’m looking for the lady of Aldergh.”

  “Odsbodikins, lad! Ye ought to be keeping your bed. Ye look like the devil! And, anyhoo, what would ye be wanting with our lady?” She waved him away impatiently. “Off wi’ ye, and get well. There’ll be plenty o’ time for everything later.” He took a step toward her, with bloodshot eyes and it made Cora nervous just to see him. She took a wary step backward.

  “Don’t matter any to ye,” he barked. “I need to speak w’ the lady, so tell me where’s she gone.”

  There was something about him Cora didn’t like. He wasn’t acting like his old self. Ever since he’d returned two nights past, burning up with fever, he’d been raving like a lunatic about things she didn’t understand. “I-I don’t know,” she said, and he took another threatening step toward her. Cora frowned. “Last I seen her, boy… she was running to the stables.” In a far less sure tone of voice, she chastised, “But you’d best not be bothering her now. She’s too busy and—”

  Like a rabid wolf, Daw lunged at her, shoving her back against the wall. She heard the sound of her own head cracking as she fell.

  * * *

  Confused by Elspeth’s actions in the hall, Malcom had let her go. He said goodbye to his cousin and gave Wee Davie a bear hug, sorry to see the boy go. And then, once the trio departed the hall, he climbed the stairs to search for his wife, saddened by the turn of events.

  He had a long history of conflict with the boy’s father, but he had grown to love Wee Davie, and he wasn’t all that certain he’d be seeing the child again—not any time soon.

  God’s truth, life had grown so very complicated, and if, in fact, David advanced upon York, Stephen would call Malcom to war yet again. And this time, he was certain to face all his kinsmen, not merely his father. That realization soured his stomach, even more than the wine they’d used for his toast this morning, and the news sat rancid in his belly.

  How had things grown so complicated in a matter of such a short time?

  Not that he regretted it, but from the instant he’d made the decision to intervene with Elspeth, he’d possibly sealed his fate with Stephen. Now, to make matters worse, hostilities gnawed at him from all directions.

  If Stephen didn’t demand Elspeth’s return, Malcom would be honor-bound to face his kinsmen across a battlefield.

  If he did demand her return and Malcom refused, he should be prepared to stand alone. Already, in so many ways, he was a man without a country. But he didn’t regret it, and given the same circumstances again, he’d doubtless make the same decisions. As he’d known the day he’d spirited Elspeth away from Wales, he would die to protect her, and knew down in his gut that he possibly might well do that.

  Step by step, shouldering his burdens, he climbed the tower to his chamber, feeling a certain calm before the storm.

  Alas, whatever resignation or composure he’d mustered over the inevitability of his decisions, it vanished the instant he spied Cora sprawled over the floor, her arm twisted impossibly and tangled over Elspeth’s blue dress. His gut turned violently.

  “Elspeth!” he shouted, as he rushed to Cora’s aid, straightening the woman gently, and pulling Elspeth’s dress out from beneath her. It was stained with blood—but whose? “Elspeth!” he shouted again, but there wasn’t any answer, and he knew intuitively she wasn’t in their bower. “Alwin!” he roared, calling for his steward. “Alwin!”

  * * *

  Cameron, Wee Davie and Caden were mounted and ready to depart when Elspeth found her way to the stable. With his son seated before him in the saddle, Malcom’s cousin lifted the reins.

  “Wait!” Elspeth cried, and with no small amount of guilt, she rushed over to hand her letter to Cameron, begging him to deliver the missive to David. “Please,” she begged.

  Cameron crushed his brows together. “Ach, lass, does your husband ken what ye’ve asked me to do?”

  Elspeth shook her head, and for a terrifying instant, she feared he might refuse it.

  He glanced at Caden and the two men shared a discerning glance, though perhaps his loyalty to his king overruled his loyalty to his kin. With some hesitation, he took Elspeth’s letter, and said, “I trust whatever is written herein serves both my cousin and my king?”

  Elspeth nodded, praying that her husband would see it so as well. She understood very well that she was undermining him, scheming behind his back.

  He smiled ruefully. “Very well,” he said, reaching back to drop the letter into his saddlebag. “Alas, my Lady Elspeth, I cannot say we’ll meet again, so I must leave you with confidence that you will honor my cousin as I know he will honor you.”

  Elspeth’s eyes watered as she clasped her hands together. “With all my heart,” she promised, noting the strength of their family resemblance—the strong jaw and flaxen hair, shared by the son as well.

  If there was one notable difference between them it was simply this: Cameron was older than Malcom, with deeper crow’s feet clawing at the corners of his eyes. The elder man nodded sadly. “Would that we could have met under different circumstances,” he said.

  “Would that we could have,” Elspeth agreed, hot tears stinging her eyes.

  One last time, he nodded, looking as though he had something more to say, but in the end, he said nothing, and he gave his companion the command to ride.

  The two men left, with Wee Davie holding his bow, peering over his shoulder.

  Elspeth waved them away, watching as they made short work of the bailey, ambling out the open gate, with her letter to David in their safekeeping. Reassuring herself it was for the best, she restrained herself from going after them, and then, at last, the decision was irreversible. The gates closed with a woeful groan, and the portcullis lowered, settling at last with a definitive thud. And that was that, she decided. Whatever should come of her meddling, she would very soon know.

  But what if she was wrong? What if Morwen wasn’t coming after all? What if David arrived without any good reason and she forced those two men into opposition?

  Or worse, what if Morwen had arrived, but David refused to come? What if he didn’t remember that sad little girl who’d watched from the shadows as her grandmother was sentenced by his testimony? What if he didn’t care? Or—far worse—what if her mother lay in wait close by and her message was thwarted?

  And regardless, after everything was said and done, what if Malcom never forgave her?

  I hope you are right, Rhiannon.

  Elspeth stared at the closed gate, lost in thought, and then, remembering Merry Bells, she wandered back into the stable to check on the mare before returning to her chamber.

  As surely as she loved Malcom, she had come to love that animal, as well, and it would please her immensely to be sure that Merry Bells was safe.

  Much to her relief, she found her fears unfounded. Like the castle itself, the stable was well stocked, with at least twenty or thirty stalls, and most of them filled.

  She found Merry Bells sequestered in the largest stall of all—as, of course, it should be, according to her station as the lord’s favored mare. Pleased to see her, Elspeth opened the stall door and stepped inside, sighing contentedly to see gaze into her familiar black eyes.

  “There you are,” she said, smiling. “My beautiful, beautiful lady.” And then she stood, petting the long black mane, thin
king about the rest of her vision and what it could possibly mean. She never even heard the approaching footsteps; she was so lost in thought.

  * * *

  If Cora knew Elspeth’s whereabouts, she was in no condition to say. Malcom had a deep sense of foreboding that only intensified as he untangled Elspeth’s blue gown from about the maid’s arms and he felt a rush of relief when her husband finally arrived. He slid Cora into Alwin’s arms, and directed him, “Put her in my bed. I’ll send for the physician.”

  “Aye, my lord,” the man said gratefully, lifting up his injured wife. He bore the maid into the lord’s chamber, as Malcom rushed away, with the intent of locating his wife. He bolted down the steps, taking them two at a time, and stopped cold as an image arose in his mind—Merry Bells in the stables, her face spattered with blood. And there was Elspeth.

  A sense of portent overwhelmed him—a sense so powerful he couldn’t ignore it.

  There were times in his life that he’d had moments of this ilk. So often he’d denied them, as most people would. It was only after meeting Elspeth that he realized these were not to be ignored. He felt it now, like a summons… and he knew it as surely as he knew… Elspeth was in danger.

  She was in the stable.

  With a growing knot of apprehension in his gut, he hurled himself down the tower stairs, his heart pounding like hammer and steel against his ribs. He raced through the hall, ordering one of Cora’s daughters to see to the physician. He rushed from the keep, and when he burst into the stables, the sight that greeted him buckled his knees—blood, everywhere.

  So much blood. Blood on the stall, blood on Merry Bells. Blood on Elspeth.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Blood-spattered though she was, his wife was unharmed. She stood, looking as dumbfounded as Malcom, staring at Merry Bells, whose black coat was dappled with blood.