Once Upon a Knight Read online

  This man’s air was lit pale orange, with just the tiniest hint of blue, like the shades of a low-burning flame. It was perhaps for that reason she’d felt so emboldened to provoke him.

  But here, now, they were at a standoff, unless Elspeth relented—which was to say that if she wished to engage his help, she realized she was going to have to be nicer. “So, then…” She swiped primly at her tunic. “You did not say why you are here?”

  “Aside from dodging pretty little thieves?”

  Elspeth flushed, ignoring the backhanded compliment. It didn’t matter to her that he thought her pretty, but her cheeks burned nonetheless.

  “I was sent by your king.”

  Insulted, she pressed a hand to her breast. “My king?”

  He showed his straight, white teeth. “Mine, too, whether we like it or nay.”

  Elspeth blinked, reconsidering the man. So, then, he was a reluctant warrior, serving a king he did not love? Perhaps, indeed, they could be allies after all? But just to be sure, she asked, “Which king?” Naturally, she presumed the most obvious. “The Scots’ king, David?”

  “Nay.”

  Her brows collided. “Rhys ap Hywel?”

  “Nay”

  “Owain Gwynedd?”

  “Nay.

  “Rhys ap Gruffydd.”

  “Nay.”

  “Madog ap Maredudd?”

  He chortled again, only this time, it was a deep-throated chuckle that gave Elspeth a discernible shiver. “Nay, lass,” he said. “Though I commend you on your knowledge of dissenters.”

  Elspeth bristled. “Dissenters, sir? You are in Wales. No matter that the Usurper would endeavor to deny it, these men are all kings, chosen properly by their people.” The implication was not lost to him—unlike, Stephen, the Usurper. “Every last one with more right to be here than you—but, very well, if not them, who?”

  “The only king you’ve yet to mention,” he said, his lips twitching at the corners. “The one who actually rules these lands.”

  “Humph!” said Elspeth, her hands going to her hips. “Stephen of Blois will never rule these lands!”

  He leaned forward in his saddle, as though preparing to confide in her, and said low, “Perhaps, my lady, but my sword is pledged to him nonetheless. And never is a very long time.”

  Lady? Elspeth suspected the courtesy was but a taunt, meant to needle her. He no more believed her a fine lady than he had any true consideration for his horse. He didn’t wish to break his own neck was all. “My fath—Henry would turn in his grave to hear you say such a thing,” she said, studying the man with narrowed eyes. It wasn’t unheard of for a Scotsman to bend the knee to an English sovereign, but he was not dressed as she might have expected for a vassal of Stephen’s to be dressed—completely without regard for his liege. And, if, indeed, he served her despicable cousin, he must be one of those feckless idiots who’d forsworn an oath to her father. Incensed, she clapped her hands together, ridding herself of imaginary dirt. “Anyway,” she said sourly, “I thought your king supported my—Matilda—who, by the by, happens to be our rightful queen.”

  “So, he does.”

  Elspeth poked a finger at him. “Aha! He is your king!”

  “Who?”

  “David!”

  “Nay, lass.” The Scotsman frowned. But he peered down his nose at Elspeth with far less mirth, and Elspeth considered his diminished good humor a small, but decisive victory. “I have pledged my sword to Stephen and I always honor my vows,” he said. And that was all. He gave no further explanation.

  “You mean to say, you honor your vows when it suits you?” There was probably a good reason his armor wasn’t blazoned; that way he could choose his side according to his mood. “I understand,” she said, and watched his aura deepen to an angry orange, and despite that, Elspeth couldn’t hold her tongue.

  “What is it ye ken, lass?”

  “You’re a reaver!”

  Malcom’s lips thinned. His previously unanticipated good humor vanished.

  Reaver?

  Were all Scots considered little more than thieves? By God, she was a lovely little termagant, but a termagant nonetheless. But he hadn’t any time or patience for this. Already, the girl had waylaid him long enough. He appreciated the fleeting instant of mirth, but he had a long, long way to go, and an ailing father to see to. Tugging Merry’s reins, he said, “Aye, well… tis been lovely, lass. Much as I would love to remain and continue this fascinating discourse, I’m afraid I must take my leave now. Good day,” he said.

  Wide eyed, and looking suddenly very contrite, the girl stepped in front of his horse, startling Malcom, but Merry Bells didn’t protest the hand in front of her nose.

  “Wait!” she said. “Where will you go?”

  “Home,” Malcom answered, and once again peered into the tree-tops, suspicious. Could it be she was waylaying him so her fellow brigands could come relieve him of his valuables? Whilst he kept little silver in his bags, his armor and horse were indispensable. As it was, he’d put far too much time into working with Merry Bells to start over again. The thought of losing her soured his belly. Not quite trusting the girl, he kept the grip on his reins, preparing to bolt, but, for some odd reason, despite his pique, there was something in the girl’s stark violet gaze that held him transfixed. Once more, he scanned the tree-tops, looking for compatriots.

  Please, please don’t go.

  That voice… it was the very same voice he’d heard moments ago, like a silky whisper carried by the wind… Was it her? But he never saw her lips move.

  Who was she? Despite having pounced on him from the trees, he didn’t believe she could be a scout. Her hubris told him she was highborn. But even if she had perfected the haughty demeanor, she lacked the refinement he’d so often encountered in the women from Stephen’s court. In fact, there was something about the lass that reminded him quite a bit of his stepmother. Left to her own devices, Page FitzSimon had been a waif with a viper tongue. This girl, dressed in the manner of men, was equally as impudent as his stepmother had been, only with a wit twice as sharp. Yes, indeed, she was exactly like his stepmother, with that stinging pride she wore like a suit of armor, all the while she was frightened and alone. But that wasn’t all they had in common… there was something else… something about the tumult in her gaze… a sad, sad depth of despair that called to Malcom’s soul.

  “Which way are you traveling?”

  “North,” he said.

  Her brows lifted. “Wonderful!” she said with false bravado. “It just so happens to be the way I am traveling as well.”

  Malcom arched a brow. “What you mean to say is… north is the way you intended to travel after stealing my horse?”

  “Aye,” she said, with a bit of a blush, and Malcom meant to press her further. In fact, he wanted to ask her if she even knew which way was north because she appeared as lost as any soul had ever appeared. He opened his mouth to goad her—mostly because she deserved it—but then came a sudden chorus of barking hounds, and the girl stiffened, looking for the first time frightened out of her wits. Wild eyed, she peered up into the treetops from whence she’d come, and for an instant seemed to consider scrambling back up, but she met Malcom’s gaze. With eyes as wide as saucers and moisture brimming over thick, dark lashes, she begged, “Please.”

  Confused, he asked, “Please what?”

  “Please sir, we are going the same way…”

  “Elspeth!” a man’s voice called, near enough to be understood. And then another shout. “Elspeth!” The hounds were closing in now, barking in a frenzied refrain.

  Gone was any pretense at pride. “Please, please, help me!” she begged. “Please!”

  Chapter Four

  It was the look of desperation in her eyes that convinced him. “Can you ride astride?” Malcom asked.

  “As well as any man,” she answered. “Hurry!”

  The hounds were close now. Malcom offered the girl his hand and she seized it without
hesitation. He lifted her up into the saddle before him.

  “Elspeth!”

  Whoever was searching for the girl knew her well enough to use her given name. Malcom lingered only an instant, wondering what manner of quarrel he’d got himself into.

  “Please,” she begged, urging him to leave before she had even a chance to place her legs astride the pommel. Responding to the fear in her voice, Malcom obeyed.

  He snapped Merry Bells’ reins, but rather than demand the horse go in any particular direction, he let Merry Bells lead the way, hoping the mare’s instinct would serve them better than his own. “God have mercy. You chose a bloody fine day to flee!”

  “Don’t worry,” she said, waving a hand as though she were dismissing the mist. “’Tis clear ahead.”

  Bolting in a direction he would never have led her—into a thick cloud of fog—Merry Bells hurled over a low-lying bush, and even before Malcom could think to ask how she could possibly know such a thing, they stepped outside the curtain of fog, under a bright spring sky. Stunned though he might be, he knew they hadn’t time to waste. The barking grew frenzied as he urged Merry Bells into a full canter.

  “Thank you,” she said, and Malcom felt her shiver.

  Feeling strangely protective over the lass, he slid an arm about her waist.

  By damn, like his Da, he must be a bloody fool for a lady in distress because he knew beyond a shadow of doubt, as they flew over brush and bracken, that he wouldn’t give the girl up, no matter how many Welshmen’s arrows were trained at his back. They could riddle him with holes and he would take his last breath defending her. He wasn’t about to leave her to whatever fate those men intended to deliver. Leaving the barking and chorus of shouts in their wake, Merry Bells swallowed the ground that rose to greet them, and soon enough, the woodlands gave way to moorlands, the Welsh countryside vanished before England. All the prideful words that had been spoken between them were cast aside like dust in their wake.

  The crossover into England occurred uneventfully—no signs of pursuit—and once returned to English soil, Malcom settled Merry Bells into an easy canter.

  Whoever had been after ‘Elspeth’ mustn’t have realized how close she’d been. Obviously, the fog had worked to her benefit. And, for all the girl’s previous contention, she was silent now, so much so that Malcom might have feared she’d gone mute, save he knew better.

  Saucy little vixen.

  Better I should be an impious little thief than a minion of the Usurper, she’d said, and the recollection turned his lips yet again. By the stone, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d smiled over anything at all, much less a tongue-lashing by a slip of a lass.

  These days, he couldn’t even find so much pleasure in another manner of tongue lashing, though he certainly found himself daydreaming now over far better uses for ‘Elspeth’s’ tongue.

  He rather liked the way she looked, with her thick red-gold hair and that smattering of freckles that made him long to brush a thumb across her cheeks.

  Not for the first time, her head lolled back, resting on his shoulder, and Malcom found his grin widened, silly though it might be.

  North, she’d said.

  But how far north did she intend to go?

  Eventually, he might bother to ask, but for now, he was reluctant to break the spell of silence. Far too easily, he’d grown accustomed to the warm curves of her body and the sweet lavender scent that drifted from her hair. God’s teeth, there was naught sour about the girl, except her temper.

  Elspeth, they’d called her.

  He longed to test the sound on his lips.

  Elspeth.

  For all he knew, he could have stolen some petty king’s daughter, and then, in truth, he would have inherited another battle. Considering how well she’d known her rivals—or rather, King Stephen’s rivals—it was a distinct possibility.

  My king? she’d asked with such impudence he’d laughed. But, in truth, there was little humor to be found in treason, and now he considered how best to navigate this conundrum. Because, if, indeed, she was an enemy of the realm, he should hand her over to Stephen—and nevertheless, despite that truth, he knew he wouldn’t do that.

  Snoring loudly, she melted against him like a sleepy lover, and, knowing instinctively that they’d encounter no trouble here, Malcom didn’t wake her. For much of their journey, he could tell she was struggling and he surmised that the stress of her flight had wearied her. Adjusting his position so that she could rest more easily, he felt inexplicably contented.

  Thankfully, they were traveling through familiar territory, and though he wasn’t flying his banners—thanks to his missing squire—there was little need for concern.

  Robert of Gloucester was dead. Matilda’s rebellion was well and duly thwarted. She’d had no choice but to return to her Angevin husband to lick her wounds, and now that the Empress was gone, Stephen’s barons were far too preoccupied making treaties with each other to secure alliances and war gains. Neither the Empress, nor her upstart son, would be returning to England any time soon—unless Stephen should happen to agree to finance yet another of his cousin’s campaigns.

  Obviously, the king was not so as adept at ruling as Henry was—in part, because he had more honor than the former. However, honor didn’t seem to be a trait well-suited to a sovereign, and Stephen made too many concessions. For his unyielding sense of compromise, what had he received in turn? A hollow pledge from erstwhile barons who were all still placing wagers on who should keep Henry’s throne—and, aye, these many, many years later, the crown was still said to be Beauclerc’s. Stephen of Blois was still called Usurper, most recently by the girl in his arms.

  Malcom sighed. For what it was worth, he liked Stephen. He might, indeed, be an ineffectual ruler, but he was an honorable man, who, whether or not he was justified in his succession, had been moved to seize the crown only because he’d believed his rule was best for the realm. It was for this unwavering sense of devotion to England that so many of Henry’s own barons had abandoned support for Matilda in order to support him—not because the archbishop finagled it, or because some witch beguiled him. Even now, despite all she’d done to undermine him, the king’s loyalty to Matilda was as thick as their blood and, in fact, he’d had plenty of opportunity to take the Empress’s head if that’s what he’d meant to do.

  On the other hand, his predecessor had ruled with an iron fist, with a temper not unlike that of a berserker’s, and the older Henry had gotten, the more temperamental he’d become. The man remained full of piss and vinegar until the day he’d died—so much so that Malcom betimes wondered if he were poisoned by his own bile.

  Screw the eels. Screw the twisted plots and rumors of witchery. Anger was Henry Beauclerc’s bane, and his daughter was just the same, only coupled with an arrogance that left everyone cold.

  But, of course, it could be that Malcom was biased. Most notably because, four and twenty years ago, Matilda’s father had dared to reach into Scotia and steal a wee boy from his father.

  Even so, Malcom wasn’t blind to Stephen’s weaknesses. Much of the time their king’s ambivalence managed to create a world of strife—take these parklands for example.

  Ever since leaving Wales, Malcom had been careful to remain on chartered land, but to either side of the easement, these parklands belonged to Graeham d’Lucy and to William Beauchamp—both men pledged to Stephen, but Malcom trusted d’Lucy far more than he did Beauchamp.

  Back in the day, Henry Beauclerc had insisted upon designating certain lands as his royal hunting grounds, to be used only by invitation. But, of course, that did not go well with his barons, and least of all d’Lucy and Beauchamp. So, in exchange for their support and fealty before his coronation, Stephen had promised to reverse Henry’s charter.

  Regrettably, he’d not counted on the greed of his barons or the willingness of nobles to lie. Whilst, in truth, Beauchamp had lost little land—if any at all—due to Henry’s appropriation, it didn’t st
op him from challenging the return of d’Lucy’s parklands. Four years ago, the elder d’Lucy was slain during a scuffle over these parcels, and to date, this had gone unpunished by Stephen.

  What was more, whilst d’Lucy continued to support Stephen in all his endeavors and sent his bastard brother to answer all his summonses to war, Beauchamp supported Stephen only in word, never in deed, and remained elsewise engaged in his never-ending feud, entirely without consequence. Unfortunately, Malcom knew much of this because Stephen was keen on a union between Malcom and Dominique Beauchamp, William’s young sister—perhaps as a means to ensure Beauchamp’s loyalties. And while Malcom was still considering, he was unconvinced Beauchamp would make anyone a suitable ally—his lovely little sister be damned. Dominique was far too meek for his taste. And though she comported herself well enough, Malcolm supposed he liked his ladies more like the ones he’d left behind in Scotia, whose hearts were ever-faithful, but whose temperaments were true to their minds.

  Like the woman in his arms.

  At long last, she stirred, waking herself with an indelicate snort.

  “Welcome back to the world of the living, lass. Di’ ye sleep well?”

  Chapter Five

  Elspeth shook herself free of her strange languor. “I… I wasn’t… sleeping,” she lied. But how odd—how imprudent—to sleep in a stranger’s arms! The last thing she wanted was for him to think she would be so compliant as to allow him to do aught that he willed.

  “You weren’t?” he asked, and his smile returned, because Elspeth heard the note of good humor in his voice. So, too, did her ire.

  “I ask only because I thought I heard you snore.”

  “Nay, my lord. I. Do. Not. Snore.”

  He leaned forward—scandalously close—challenging her. “But how can ye know you don’t snore when you’re sleeping? Are ye perchance a seer?”

  The warmth of his breath—sweet for a man—tickled the back of Elspeth’s neck and she lifted her shoulder, shrugging him away. Of course, she was. But she didn’t need sight to know whether she snored, although perhaps she should say yes just to see what he would say. “I would not know if I were sleeping, but I was not sleeping.”