Once Upon a Knight Page 29

She tried to find the will to eat, to regain her strength, because her body felt limp with exhaustion, and she doubted she had any strength to climb the stairs to bed, much less fend off another of her mother’s attacks. The spell she’d cast—nay, not a spell, but a plea to the Goddess—had sapped every bit of energy from her body, and now, she felt like a dirty, limp rag… waiting to be discarded.

  Malcom pushed her hair out of her face. “No one saw anything, Elspeth. They were too busy fearing for their lives.”

  Finally, with a plea in her eyes, she peered up at her husband, daring to hope.

  “Tis true,” he swore. He tipped up her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “I have not heard not one word spoken against you, my love, and if anyone saw what I saw, I will make certain they understand… their lady works wonders in the name of love.”

  Elspeth flung her arms around him and said, “I love you so much, Malcom. I am so blessed to be your wife and no matter what happens know that I count myself blessed for having known you.” Alas, there was a niggling sense of terror still growing deep inside her, for she had betrayed Malcom, and would he still feel the same about her once he knew?

  “I love you, too,” he said, kissing Elspeth on the head.

  Elspeth held him tight, so afraid to let go, lest he change his mind and send her home.

  Finally, he peeled himself away. “Why don’t you go see to Cora… and then, if you must, join me on the ramparts.”

  Elspeth nodded and dried her eyes.

  It was near dawn when she joined Malcom on the parapets. From her vantage between machicolations, she could see the child’s prostrate body still lying in the field, and the sight of it made her long to run out and clasp him to her breast.

  Poor, poor child.

  It was a grim reminder that her mother would dare anything, and they waited with bated breath to see what more would come.

  As for Stephen, there was no word from their King, but his camp remained. All those bright red tents remained squatting at the foot of their hill, the once billowing cloths as still as stone. It was almost as though there was no life in that quarter, but it was an illusion, Elspeth realized—a glamour placed by her mother to hide the scurry of movement between tents, and the night-long councils. There was little doubt in Elspeth’s mind that if she was so surprised by the power of the spell she had conjured, her mother was equally startled, and would certainly be taking measures to veil her plans from prying eyes—Elspeth’s eyes.

  This morning, it seemed death had prevailed. The stench of it was overpowering.

  By the first rays of the morning sun, they could bear it no longer and men lit pitch-soaked arrows and aimed them into the carnage of shining black wings, lighting a bonfire that was slow to ignite, but once it caught flame, it sent dirty, stinking flames into a grey morning.

  Half the fields were scorched. The other half lay fallow. The roads in and out of the parklands were blocked. The colors of the morning were gray, brown and black—the colors of the land and sky and the aura surrounding Stephen’s camp.

  Fortunately, Morwen did not repeat her attack, and no doubt, that unexpected feat of magik, fueled by her rage, had depleted her precious birds. It would take her years to breed so many.

  When he saw her, Malcom took Elspeth by the hand, tugging her close, and drawing her under his arm. She could feel his exhaustion in the weight of the arm he’d placed about her shoulders. “Go to bed, love. You should sleep,” he said, and then he frowned, realizing only now that her handfasting ribbon was gone. He lifted her hand, examining her wrist. “You took it off?”

  Elspeth nodded, thinking perhaps now would be a good time to explain what she had done. At least then, if he was going to be angry, she could bear the worst all at once—or then, finally, perhaps, he might prefer to be rid of her, and send her back to her mother in tears.

  She opened her mouth to speak but then he shushed her and said, “Go to bed. We’ll talk when you’re rested.”

  “I would go if you go,” she entreated, brushing a hand across the small cleft in his chin. Her heart broke for the turmoil she spied in his eyes. “What good will you be to your men without sleep, my love. I feel certain my mother has exhausted her efforts for the time being.” Certainly she had, if Elspeth’s exhaustion was any indication. She was weary to her bones. A bit of sleep would do them both good, and this siege promised to last long enough to warrant keeping them on their toes.

  He sighed, drawing her into his arms, holding her tight. Elspeth laid her head on his chest, and said, “We go together, or I stay. But you know they would summon you at once should they need you.”

  It was a long, long moment, before Malcom said, “Very well. Go. I’ll follow. I need only let my men know where I’ll be.”

  Elspeth nodded. She kissed him on the cheek, and then turned and made her way down the ladder. She was halfway down when there was a sudden horn blast…

  She heard Malcom’s cursing. “For the love of—”

  “What is it?” Elspeth demanded, her heart filling with dread as she scrambled back up. Goddess, please, no more birds! Her legs trembled as she re-ascended the ladder, and, she tried to summon the last of her reserves as she climbed.

  Wide eyed, Malcom turned to take her by the hand and drew her up and back onto the ramparts.

  Elspeth’s heart leapt against her ribs at the sight that greeted her…

  Beyond the burning mass of dry-stacked birds, beyond the blackened fields, beyond Stephen’s encampment, thousands of armed men approached in formation, flying banners of every color—many, many unrecognizable to Elspeth. They approached from the north, west and east.

  David.

  He’d come… and despite that she knew she would have to answer for her meddling, Elspeth nearly swooned in relief.

  David had come!

  Within moments, tents began to collapse, deflating one by one, and the siege army began to disperse, like ants scurrying at the poke of a stick. Malcom turned to look at her, and said with an unmistakable note of relief, “Elspeth… by chance, have you something to do with this?”

  Eyes wide and stinging, Elspeth nodded.

  And rather frown, Malcom grinned at her. “God’s truth, ’tis the second most welcome sight I have spied in all my life.”

  Elspeth felt a rush of relief. “What would be the first?”

  If possible, his grin widened until she could see all his straight, white teeth. “Any day I set eyes upon my beautiful wife,” he said, and pulled her into his arms, kissing her soundly.

  Let them be hunted soundly. At this hour Lies at my mercy all mine enemies. —Shakespeare

  “Let’s go!” snaps Eustace. “Or better yet, stay,” he says rudely. “But if you do, you will find yourself in David’s hands and I warrant he is no disciple of witches. Need I remind you how he persecuted your mother?”

  Despite the command, I linger, furious over the turn of events. So, they say, “Never kill the messenger.” And ’tis an unspoken diplomacy of war. But I say, “If the messenger be my own, I should do what I will.”

  Somewhere out in that field lies a little boy, eyes plucked out of his skull…

  No one thwarts me.

  No one.

  And yet, for the love of my own daughter, this north man has dared. After all is said and done, I will crush his bones like dried leaves beneath a pestle, and my daughter will weep tears of blood.

  As men rush to heed Eustace’s commands to abandon this ill-planned siege, I bide my time, once more opening my “gift,” if only to remind myself.

  A severed head, barely recognizable with death-glazed eyes peers back at me. Daw. Well played, I think. Well played, my Lord Aldergh. And Elspeth, too, well played.

  “My father will be furious,” worries Eustace.

  “Perhaps,” I say, with a shrug, and now I rise, knowing full well that, for the time being, we are done. The battle is lost. The war is not.

  And yet… and yet… a mother’s pride wars with rage, becaus
e I had no idea my eldest bore such unbridled power. And what must this say for Rhiannon? So, now, I must ponder the answer to this question, even as I prepare for the next encounter, because this is not over.

  It is far from over.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  As evening fell on Aldergh’s parklands, one by one new tents arose on the horizon, replacing the king’s red with bright gold, white and blue. From the midst of these new tents came a modest cavalcade, sporting familiar colors, banners and cloaks flying at their backs.

  “Open the gates!” shouted Malcom. “Now! Open the gates!”

  He was downstairs even before the portcullis’s first groan. The heavy metal rose, and Malcom himself pushed open the gates, ordering a path to be cleared. Kicking ash and bone out of the way, their men swept aside the debris, leaving the way clear.

  Elspeth rushed over to join him, and together they watched from the bailey as his father’s older, wiser face came into view, followed by Angus, Dougal and Kerwyn—all faces he recognized from his youth.

  Angus, the auld sot, was still alive and wielding a sword, old as he was. Dougal looked worse for wear.

  Riding tall and proud before them all, Ian MacKinnon rode straight into his bailey for the first time in eleven years. Malcom awaited him with a little boy’s glee, telltale tears stinging his eyes, but he told himself it was the sting of the wind.

  His father took his measure for a long moment, then dismounted without a word. But whatever he didn’t say with words, he said with his eyes as he came to embrace Malcom, clapping him hard on the back.

  At fifty-four and thirty, father and son’s embrace was equally as emotional as it was during their reunion two score and four years ago. And though some might deny it, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house for anyone who understood the momentousness of the occasion.

  Father and son, reunited. At last.

  His jaw taut and chest straining with emotion, it occurred to Malcom that he was now precisely the age his father had been that day when they’d stood together embracing outside Aldergh’s gates when Malcom was but six. But though his father hadn’t changed much over the past ten years, his hair was as silver as his sword and his golden eyes were bracketed by crow’s feet. Once again, he clapped Malcom on the back, and Malcom gulped back the lump in his throat.

  “Aren’t ye too auld to be wielding a sword, Da?” he teased.

  The MacKinnon’s amber eyes were glassy with emotion. “God’s truth. I’d face the devil himself tae see ye, son, and naught but death could keep me from ye.”

  True to his words, he seemed unable to unhand Malcom, and Malcom endured the embrace with honest tears stinging his eyes. Finally, the elder man released him, stepping back once more to appraise him. “’Tis guid tae see ye,” Malcom said, and his father nodded, pulling him back again for one more hug. This time, Malcom complained, his words muffled by his father’s leather tunic. “If ye dinna unhand me, ye’ll have my men teasing me like a stripling.”

  His father laughed hoarsely, releasing him at long last, and then wiped his face on the sleeve of his tunic.

  It took him yet another moment to compose himself before he could speak, but then he said, “Where’s your manners, boy? Ere ye going to let an auld mon freeze to death standing in this drafty palace, or will ye take me somewhere tae warm my bones and fill my belly?”

  Malcom laughed at the complaint. It wasn’t the least bit cold outside, but he well understood: His father needed a reason to mask his quivering face and hands. He smiled fondly, and said, falling easily into his Scots brogue. “What’s the matter, Da? Yer auld bones getting saft in yer auld age?”

  His old man laughed. “Betimes,” he confessed. “Betimes.” And he nodded and patted Malcom’s shoulder, just a wee bit less enthusiastically as he said, “Your mother sends love, my son, bids ye come meet your brother and see your sister. Ye’d nae even recognize Liana. She’s bonny as her ma. And you’re brother, Alex is anxious to know ye.”

  Malcom’s eyes crinkled with joy. In truth, he’d love to take Elspeth home to Chreagach Mhor. And remembering suddenly that she was here with him in the bailey, he turned to give his wife a smile and wave her forward, eager to introduce his father to the woman he loved.

  Elspeth stared, knowing intuitively who it was.

  No two men had ever looked more alike—barring the silver in the elder’s hair, and the subtle difference in the color of their eyes. She hesitated when Malcom called her, loathe to intrude on their heartfelt moment, but he insisted, and she rushed forward, only to be enveloped into a bear hug by his father.

  She choked back laughter, pinned between his arms.

  “My wife,” Malcom said, only after his father presumed as much.

  “Ach, my boy, ye think I dinna ken? I see the way ye look at her.”

  Elspeth could barely breathe, much less speak, swallowed as she was by enormous arms—strong, burly arms, nearly as strong as his son’s. At long last, the MacKinnon released her, and stepped back, bowing to greet her. “Tis glad I am tae meet ye, Lady Aldergh.” He winked, his amber eyes glinting, with unfailing good humor, very much like his son’s. “I prayed my son would get himself a good lady to warm his bones and cool his hot head. I ha’e never known a lad so cross.”

  Malcom chuckled, though his wife was quick to argue.

  “Nay, my lord, I have never known your son to be aught but full of mirth. In truth, he has the same twinkle in his eyes as you do.”

  His father laughed again and peered at Malcom, winking. “’Tis guid to hear,” he said. “Tis guid to hear.” And then he gave Malcom his back, wooed by Elspeth’s smile and demeanor. Taking Elspeth by the hand, he bade her tell him her story, from beginning to end, promising to be only ears and Malcom watched as she led them toward the keep, enjoying the sight of his father and bride walking hand in hand. Half-drunk with joy alone, he overheard his father say, “Ye’ll visit for the Yule, daughter, and I’ll be hearing nae argument over the matter.”

  Elspeth peered back at Malcom, smiling beautifully, and he gave her a nod.

  “That would be so lovely,” she said, leading the burly man into their hall, and Malcom stopped, if only for a moment, to watch the two conversing as though they’d known each other an eternity. The sight of them made his heart glad, even as he realized their tribulations were far from over.

  Morwen Pendragon was still out there, scheming.

  Elspeth’s sisters still needed saving.

  And even now, the northern barons were being rallied, and the Scots clans were gathering under David’s banner.

  Malcom had no doubt that David of Scotia would ask him to bend the knee. But right now, for the moment, he was a man unfettered, save for the loyalty he bore his kin.

  Eleven years ago, he’d wanted naught more than to leave his father’s home. Today, he would be pleased enough to return. He called his steward over, asking, “How is Cora?”

  “Well, m’lord. She is well. I am only grateful ye asked.”

  Much like his father had done, Malcom clapped the man on the back. “Do me a favor and see that our tables are laden this evening. Make certain our wine flows freely and bring up the Spanish wine. Everyone is welcome. Have the poor lad in the field returned to his parents and see he is given a proper burial. Then, after you have seen to these matters, see to your wife as I will to mine.”

  “Aye, m’lord,” the man said, with gratitude.

  “Go, then,” Malcom said, and then he hurried to catch his wife, who was even now regaling his father with some overwrought tale of Malcom’s heroics.

  “And when did you realize you loved the fool?” his father asked jovially, sliding an arm about Elspeth’s waist.

  “But, of course,” she said with a giggle that Malcom had never heard before—girlish laughter that, for the instant, was free of strife. “Once I learned the name of his horse.”

  “Oh? And what might this be?” his father inquired.

  “Merry Bells,” Elspeth replie
d, laughing. “To this day, I cannot imagine such a name for a warrior’s horse.”

  His father peered over his shoulder, blinking, meeting Malcom’s gaze, his old amber eyes filled with some unnamed emotion. His jaw was taut, his lips in danger of quivering. But so was Malcom’s. Ach, Da, I never really left ye, he said, never moving his lips. My heart remains in Chreagach Mhor

  His father pulled Elspeth closer, and something about his gaze said, I know, my son. I know.

  But perhaps it was only Malcom’s imagination—a contrivance of the moment because the MacKinnon spoke not a word to him. He turned about, following his wife into the hall, laughing joyfully as he went with her hand in hand. “Yule,” he said again, with great meaning.

  “You can be sure I will insist,” Elspeth promised.

  But she wouldn’t have to. So long as Malcom had breath in his body, and war did not keep him, he would move heaven and earth to be in Chreagach Mhor on the Yuletide.

  If you loved Malcom, you may enjoy reading about his father in The MacKinnon’s Bride.

  Want to visit Chreagach Mhor for the holiday with Malcom and Elspeth? Read The Holly & the Ivy.

  And if you’d like to follow the Daughters of Avalon, be sure to read A Winter’s Rose. All FREE for KU!

  Angel of Fire

  Chapter One

  The odor wafting throughout the whitewashed hall was that of Gilbert de Lontaine’s favorite dish, pheasant in orange sauce. It was fast becoming a familiar scent, having graced the lord’s table four of the past five eves. The problem was that the lord of de Lontaine was conspicuously absent and his twin daughters sat together in silence, eating the last of the pheasants from their pantry.

  While her sister was all smiles and dimples, Chrestien had never felt more cantankerous. Her sister sat prettily in her chair, enjoying her pheasant and a portion of stewed vegetables with such vigor that Chrestien could but envy her. Her father had always claimed Chrestien was the strong one. But here sat Adelaine, calm and serene, refusing to take part in the fretting, while Chrestien could barely keep down her meal for the war being waged in her belly.