Once Upon a Knight Read online

  He flicked her a glance, and once more reached over to turn his poor little scorched beast. “Aldergh belonged to my grandsire,” he said. “It passed to me once he died.”

  “Oh,” she said. But now she was curious. “How did he die?”

  “How do most dishonorable men meet their end?”

  “Oh,” she said again, nonplussed by the answer. “I am sorry.” Thereafter, the silence grew thick between them, until the crackling of the fire sounded too loud. She heard insects chirping, and even the distant gurgling of the brook. “I take it he had no sons?” Elspeth pressed after a while.

  Malcom shook his head. “Only a daughter… my mother.”

  Elspeth furrowed her brow. “She did not want her bequest?”

  Malcom shrugged.

  “I see,” she said. Of course, it only figured that they would pass over the daughter and give the estate to a grandson. Sweet fates. It brought to mind her own sister’s plight, and it galled her so much that this sort of thing could be done. But she realized it wasn’t any of her concern.

  For his part, her father had been generous to all his children, whether they be legitimate or nay. And despite not having access to her settlement, she and her sisters each had a dowry rich enough to put a gleam in any man’s eye—including Rhiannon. Of course, they had no means to take it without the king’s approval. By the letter of the law, like Blackwood, she and her sisters had become wards of Stephen, but obviously Morwen had something to say over the matter.

  It seemed to Elspeth that so much strife had come to pass only to keep what rightfully should belong to a woman. And for this alone, she was committed to helping Matilda. For love of the Goddess, even if they were not blood relation, being a woman, Matilda was so much a beacon of hope, for not since the time of Hywel’s Law had any woman outside Wales benefited from a good King’s rule. It used to be that women had rights—perhaps not in England, but certainly they did in Wales. If a man and lady wed, even after seven-years’ time, it was a woman’s right to divorce him, and if she chose to do such a thing for whatever cause, there were laws in place to provide for her keeping. For example, she had the right to take a goodly portion of the estate, because she’d earned it. There was none of this wardship by men. In her own country she would have been free to choose her own mate, but then… would she have chosen a man like Malcom?

  Once again, her cheeks warmed. “So… your mother was English?”

  “Nay,” he said, casting her a pointed glance. “If you must know, my birth mother leapt from a tower window on the day I was born.” He said it with so little emotion that it sent a frisson of horror down Elspeth’s spine. “Page is my father’s lady wife, and aye, she is English.” He turned to look at her. “You remind me of her.”

  “Your mother… or Page?”

  “Page.”

  She scrunched her nose. “Page? What sort of name is that for a lady?” As far as Elspeth knew, page was not a name—it was a manner of service for a boy to a lord. After a certain age, most sons of noble families were sent to receive instruction from greater houses, serving the liege by running errands, cleaning laundry, dressing the lord and learning the basics of combat—but none of these tasks were remotely suitable for a woman. She had a terrible vision of a nameless girl running about a castle, dirty and dressed in rags, being ordered about by her lord. Page—get this, get that, clean this, clean that. And she shuddered.

  “Tis no name at all,” agreed Malcom, though he did not elaborate, and Elspeth regretted having brought up the matter at all, because she’d never heard such woeful tales.

  Even her own story wasn’t quite so dramatic, although she tried to imagine what life might have been like had only Morwen leapt from a tower window. Morwen had never been a proper mother—not to Elspeth, nor to her sisters. Hateful, hateful woman. She’d traded her own mother’s life for a price—a dear lady whose sole purpose on this earth was to make the world a better place.

  At least Henry had been a doting father—as much as he could manage. Unlike her sister Rhiannon, she had only good memories of their father. And, in their father’s defense, he’d never known what to do with a child such as Rhiannon.

  “You recall me to someone, too,” she confessed to Malcom. “You remind me of my brother.” She studied him in profile as he poked a small stick into the licking flames. Until his death, Robert of Gloucester had been one of the richest barons in all of England. He had been as noble a man as any who’d ever lived, and their father had loved him well.

  Now that Malcom’s coif was gone, and his hair was dry, Elspeth could see that his hair was fair as flax, and thick and wavy, though perhaps too long. But he did, in truth, remind her of Robert, with those bright blue-green eyes—the color of the sea from the highest perch at Blackwood. There was something else about him as well… something she couldn’t put her finger on, but she suspected that it had less to do with the way he looked, and more to do with his underlying sense of nobility—a fierce determination to do what was right, no matter the cost.

  Seated by the fire, his face was bronzed by the flames. The sinew in his arms was unmistakable by firelight, sculpted by copper light and shadows. His face itself seemed chiseled as though of stone, with sharp contours and a tiny cleft in his chin. His hair, light as it was, seemed to sparkle with silver, and she saw now that he had a long, thin scar on his temple. However, rather than mar his beautiful face, it somehow gave him more character…

  She realized only belatedly that she was staring. By the cauldron, she sorely wished she didn’t find him so appealing. Could that be this was why she’d asked him not to call upon Amdel? Because she didn’t want to leave him? But, nay, such a thing would be preposterous. She would never make decisions about life and death—or her sisters—simply because of a man’s pretty face. And even so, for some reason, the thought of parting ways held no appeal.

  But, of course, he would ask, “Who is your brother?”

  “No one of import,” Elspeth answered quickly, hoping Malcom wouldn’t press. There was hardly any chance Malcom wouldn’t know who he was, and if she named Robert as her brother, it was short guesswork to determine exactly who she was.

  His lashes lifted, and once again, he met her gaze—those sea-green eyes glittering by the firelight—but, thankfully, he said nothing more. He rested his head back on the stump behind him and closed his eyes. “Thank you for washing my sherte,” he said after a moment.

  “It was my pleasure,” Elspeth assured.

  “And thank you for tending the fire.”

  “Also, my pleasure.” She rose to her knees now, then to her feet. “I will return,” she said, and a blush warmed her cheeks as her gaze followed the length of his body. Much as she would like to ignore it, it was time to do the necessary—and give herself a break from this man who confused her.

  “Dinna wander far,” he said, his Scots brogue thicker now that he was resting. But he did not open his eyes. And despite that, Elspeth had every impression that, whilst he pretended not to see her, he was acutely aware of every step she took.

  Just to be sure, she turned to see if he was watching, and found that he’d turned his ear toward the sound of her footfalls. But he didn’t open his eyes, and neither did he rise to follow so Elspeth turned her back on him and tried not to think of their overly familiar conversation.

  Only this time, as she passed by his sweet mare, grazing so placidly by the brook, she realized that if she wished to, she could still take Merry Bells and flee…

  Thinking about the particulars of that, she stood for a while, and then, after a moment, she moved closer to Merry Bells to stroke the animal’s fine mane.

  “Thank you,” she said to the mare. “I appreciate your willingness to help, and you were so good to fly away so quickly. I do not know what I would have done elsewise.”

  The animal snorted—perchance to acknowledge Elspeth’s thanks, or perchance to remind her that she had not done so alone. Stroking her lovingly, Elspeth spoke to
her in another language—one that needed fewer words. I mean you no harm, my friend…

  Malcom lay unmoving, listening to the sound of Elspeth’s retreating steps.

  When she stopped in the vicinity of Merry Bells, it took every ounce of his self-control not to leap from his repose and fly after her.

  Presumably, she’d stopped to see Merry Bells.

  The woman was famished; he knew that much. Despite her look of abject horror over the cony, he could hear her stomach grumbling. But regardless, where would she go? He had already removed his saddlebags and laid them aside, so she couldn’t get far without his money.

  Besides, he’d already assured her that he would take her wheresoever she pleased. Why should she feel the need to go? Inexplicably, he’d placed himself at her disposal, despite his own pressing affairs—the summons to his father. He was committed to doing whatever was required of him.

  Come what may, she was not a stupid woman, so he let her be, allowing her the time and space she needed to deliberate her choices. Mostly, because he wanted to see what she would do.

  Certainly, Malcom didn’t wish to lose another Merry Bells, but so much as he loathed the prospect of seeing Beauchamp again, he was close enough to Amdel that he could easily impress upon the man to sell a horse. The inn was even closer, and he could pick off any one of their stabled mounts and probably do it without compunction, since all of those animals were likely stolen in the first place. Darkwood was a den of thieves, with the occasional dupe to be found.

  At long last, Elspeth left off her chat with Merry Bells, and Malcom exhaled a long sigh when she did. Trust was a fragile thing, but this, at last could be a start…

  Chapter Eleven

  They ate quickly. Elspeth ate sparsely—barely enough to settle her raging belly. And, then, whilst Malcom prepared a pallet for their slumber, she took the opportunity to dry his sherte by the fire. Once that was done, she went foraging for wild fenyl to settle her belly. She found none, but she did happen upon lovage and Alchemilla, and she harvested a bit of those herbs to begin a new medicinal supply. And then, when she thought she’d discovered all there was to find, she also discovered a bit of coltsfoot as well, which pleased her immensely. She could use it to see with. And it could be used one of two ways, either by sprinkling the herb into a fire, or by infusing it in a tea.

  The second way was more effective, but it was also less healthful—particularly since the side effects of a seizure could be the straight edge of an axe or a burning at the stake.

  Unfortunately, her grandmother discovered this the hard way.

  As for the Alchemilla, it would serve Malcom’s wound well enough, though she wished she had betony instead. That herb grew aplenty around Llanthony—not just in their garden—mainly, because Seren once happened to mention to Ersinius that it could be useful in protecting against witches. Elspeth rolled her eyes over that nonsense, because it grew everywhere now—under windows, beside doors, in small pots in the vestibule. Of course, Seren had been jesting with him, but Elspeth had this to say to Ersinius: Witches were not spirits to be vanquished. They were flesh and blood men and women and bled like everyone else.

  Annoyed, Elspeth turned onto her side, listening to night sounds: Crickets chirping, Merry Bells snorting. Some distance away, a fox cackled.

  Malcom had said he’d hoped to rest and rise early, but now she couldn’t sleep. And considering how long she’d fought off that strange, annoying languor all day long, she found it rather curious.

  On the other hand, Malcom himself appeared to be fast asleep, and she wondered how he could sleep so peacefully when his wound was festering so terribly.

  Of course, he’d had some help from her herbs, and now she wished she’d drunk some herself. Huffing a sigh, she turned to stare at him in profile—his strong chin and aquiline nose.

  Look to your champion, her sister had said.

  Aye, well, she was looking, wasn’t she?

  Can you hear me, Rhiannon?

  Silence.

  Rhiannon…

  Silence.

  Elspeth frowned. As far as she knew, the ability to communicate outside proximity simply did not exist for any witch from time immemorial. But it was possible to consult a scrying stone, and for that reason, no one was ever truly out of Morwen’s reach.

  A few times, Elspeth had awakened to catch Rhiannon creating shapes out of mist, but what came so easily to her sister, did not come so easily to Elspeth.

  Rhiannon? She tried again, even despite that she knew it to be useless.

  But why? Why was it useless? If the Goddess could hear them wherever she might be, and, indeed, the entirety of the world was connected, why couldn’t she speak to her sisters wherever she might be? Why was this so different from the sight, which could be invoked over great distances?

  She studied the contours of Malcom’s face.

  Betimes she had the strangest feeling he could hear her. She thought about his demeanor this morning… in the woods… when she’d beguiled Merry Bells. His body had gone taut, and he’d looked about the same as Merry Bells—searching the tree tops for Elspeth. In fact, Elspeth had only pounced when she had because she’d feared being discovered.

  Was it possible Malcom could hear her?

  Her grandmamau claimed all living beings had inherent knowledge of the hud, but they didn’t know how to use it. Perhaps tomorrow she would test this theory.

  For a long, long while, she tossed and turned under the heavy cloak he’d given her, shivering and thinking how best to engage him—but more importantly, whether she dared.

  And, finally, when her teeth began to chatter, she moved closer to Malcom, and gave him a bit of her cloak, not caring overmuch about propriety. What good was modesty if the poor man froze to death? Where would she be then? And then she worried: He was lying so very still.

  Looking closer, searching for signs of life, she worried even more when she couldn’t hear him breathing. Oh, no! Now that she had convinced him not to call upon Amdel, he would die here and leave her and Merry Bells all alone!

  It was just like a man to think himself invulnerable. The fool had refused to allow her to cauterize his wound, but she’d tried. And now, fearful of what she might discover, Elspeth placed a hand before his nostrils, exhaling in relief when a light stream of warmth blew against her hand.

  She could heal him… now… But what would he do when he awoke to find himself healed? Would he suspect her?

  She had put a poultice on his wound, but if he’d ever suffered a wound of any kind, he would know very well that it wouldn’t heal overnight, with or without any poultice.

  And yet, he couldn’t possibly suspect witchcraft after a single occasion, could he? People simply did not believe in the Craft any longer. They would rather believe in coincidence and miracles. And regardless, how could she allow any man to continue suffering, when she had the means to help him? Do good, harm none, she reminded herself. It was the one golden rule.

  And anyway, wasn’t she honor-bound to use her talents for the good of men? What was he, but a man? A handsome one at that—far too handsome for Elspeth’s peace of mind. But what did that matter? And he was fast asleep. Whatever he thought, or didn’t think, he could never prove it one way or the other. So, now that she could focus without his scrutiny, she placed her hand atop his shoulder, hovering close to his wound—as close as she dared without touching him.

  When finally she could feel heat emanating from the affected area, she cupped her palm to catch it escaping, taking a moment to harness her own healing power before whispering…

  Goddess, we are one, take his pain, make there none.

  The words were adequate, but, possibly, not quite enough. Elspeth wished not only to ease his pain, but to rest assured his wound would mend. What was the point of exerting herself only to do it halfway? Once again, very gently, she lowered her palm over the wound, gasping softly as it fell to meet hard, muscled chest, and then, for a befuddled instant, she forgot what
she was supposed to do, so entranced was she with the gentle rise and fall of his breath.

  His skin was hot where she laid it. Fever. Raging. It was more than enough impetus to remind her of her purpose. Concentrating on lending him her own energy, little enough as there seemed to be, despite her restlessness, she used her third eye—the one peering inward to her heart—and envisioned the small moon that was the essence of her soul. Little by little, she made it swell, until she could feel it as potent as a tiny sun. Then, she traveled the palm-sized sphere of light down her arm, all the way to her hand, watching the faint glow as it passed through her palm to Malcom’s abused flesh. In the utter darkness, the place where she touched him exploded like a thousand twinkling stars. And then, once she was ready, she whispered again.

  Healing wight lend your light. Spirit mend, sickness end.

  And once the words were spoken, she was utterly spent. Her limbs felt like porridge and her mind turned to mush. She was so weary that she forgot to take away her hand from his chest, and her last waking thought was for her sister Rhiannon…

  Her sister was wrong… The only reason Morwen hadn’t sequestered them sooner was because of Henry, no matter what Rhiannon believed.

  It was merely that Rhiannon had been such a willful child, howling and wailing from the instant she was born. She’d come into this world full of rage. And later, once she’d got older, she was so often discomforted by the presence of people. She would rock and wail, rock and wail, with her sweet little hands pressed to her ears and Henry hadn’t known what to do with her.

  Naturally, since he had a nation to tend to, an odd little daughter was too easily forgotten. And nevertheless… Elspeth remembered the disconcerted look on her father’s face when the midwife was commanded to carry Rhiannon away from his hall.