And yet, for the first time in Elspeth’s life, she felt like a princess, in truth, and all her troubles were swept aside. Never in her life had she been treated as a guest of honor.
In her father’s home, children were not to be seen. They took their meals altogether, apart from the rest of the household. And then, at the priory, no one ever had any special treatment—not even the monks. For their part, she and her sisters had been relegated to a single table, but they were not to take their repast until the men were all finished and left the hall.
At the moment, she felt like her sister Matilda, all bedecked in finery, and she wanted to run to the dais and hug Malcom—for what, she hadn’t any clue.
Alyss took her leave of them as she had a seat reserved among the lower tables. But there remained two places available at the lord’s table, one on either side of the seat of honor.
Dominique would be seated to the right of her lord brother; Elspeth would be to his left, sharing a trencher with Malcom… her husband.
For the moment, even the simple fact that she must be seated beside William Beauchamp did very little to dampen her mood. Tonight, with so much reverie, it was easier to hope that she had been mistaken about the lord of Amdel. Here in this room alone, the colors were like the dazzling lights of Caer Arianrhod—the Moon Goddess, who shone her night rainbow from her palace up on high. It was only after seeing that Malcom stood to greet them that Amdel’s lord rose as well. However, whilst he sat again very quickly, Malcom skirted around him, never taking his eyes off Elspeth, and came to procure her hand, kissing her sweetly, before leading her to her seat.
Elspeth’s heart beat so fiercely that she feared he would hear. The blood rushed through her temples like the swoosh of a waterfall.
“As ever, my… love… you are stunning,” he murmured so smoothly and silkily, and Elspeth’s breast filled with a halting breath. She swallowed as he turned to Lady Dominique, “Demoiselle,” he said pleasantly. “Art lovely this evening.”
“My Lord Aldergh,” Dominique returned with a smile, and her eyes gleamed with excitement as she turned to meet Elspeth’s gaze, winking—as though to say: I told you so.
Feeling flushed, Elspeth sat, but only after Dominique did, and Malcom remained standing until both women were seated, before assuming his place beside her.
That small courtesy was entirely lost to William, who then turned to Elspeth in his seat before greeting his sister and said, “I trust you slept well, Lady Aldergh?”
“Quite,” Elspeth said with a nod.
“My sister’s gown appears to have been fashioned especially for you,” he said, with undisguised admiration. In fact, he lifted his chin to peer down Elspeth’s gown, at the curve of her bosom, and she shrank back, leaning into Malcom, taking comfort in his proximity.
“Thank you,” she said.
The lady Dominique seemed to have no inkling about her brother’s rudeness. She smiled brightly. “I, too, have never seen a lady so fine!” she announced, with such genuine sincerity that Elspeth flushed to her toes. And from that moment on, the night passed like a dream.
If the vittles provided to them upstairs had seemed lean, the table before them was laden. There was, as Dominique claimed, a great big sow, and a fat pheasant, as yet untouched, with a great many plates surrounding it—including nuts, cheese, olives and bread. In truth, Elspeth had never seen so many elaborate dishes, with so many sauces, and she barely recognized most.
Also, the trenchers at the lord’s table were not made of bread, but wood and Elspeth complimented the setting and the meal, assuming the responsibility for its planning had fallen to Lady Dominique as the provisional chatelaine of this house.
Of course, Lady Dominique was delightful, and there was little she did or said that left Elspeth to wonder over her sincerity or generosity. And, for the most part, her brother comported himself well enough, if not a true gentleman.
Beside her, Malcom remained quiet and brooding—and may the fates forgive her, but whereas Elspeth shrank back from Beauchamp’s gaze, she found herself puffing her breast whenever she caught Malcom’s gaze, hoping he would glance. It gave her a singly perverse pleasure to tempt him—and why shouldn’t she? He was the one who’d claimed they were already wed, and of course, Beauchamp would expect a wife to be coy with her husband.
At any rate, Elspeth’s people were not prudes. She was a maiden still, but not because she feared coupling. She had been taught to revel in all that made her a woman. In fact, her ancestors were pagans, who, rather than be ashamed of the act of creating life, had been taught the act was sacred. The greatest gift to bestow upon the world itself was a child of her womb.
Of course, at the priory, they’d been forced to cover themselves in shame, but neither she nor her sisters had ever forgotten her grandmamau’s words: We are not placed on this earth to ask forgiveness for our sins, we are here to honor the Goddess with our gifts.
Right now, Elspeth felt a hunger in her womb, and she dared to revel in it… if only for the evening. She dared to love the way Malcom’s gaze lingered… and found herself breathless as they shared the meal.
Aside from the trencher, they also shared a goblet, and on one particular occasion they both reached for the glass at the same time. Elspeth gasped softly as his hand covered hers, and she held her breath as his fingers lingered, entwining with hers, caressing her…
She swallowed as gooseflesh erupted on her arms—and her breasts—then he withdrew with a knowing smile, allowing Elspeth to drink from the cup whilst he watched. She did so quickly, her lips and throat suddenly parched, then set the cup aside, and once again held her breath as Malcom lifted up the goblet in turn and spun the glass so that his lips fell upon the very spot where Elspeth’s lips had touched… He smiled at her.
Her heart leapt inside her breast, hurling itself against her ribs like a child with a tantrum, and only belatedly did she realize the folly of her actions. Sweet, sweet fates, but what seduction was she playing at? Would he later anticipate… more?
Swallowing convulsively, Elspeth turned away, overhearing Lady Dominique say to her brother that she wasn’t in the mood to play. And it was only then that Elspeth realized the music in the hall had stopped. She had been so attuned to Malcom that she hadn’t realized the entire room was staring expectantly at the lord’s table.
“Lady Aldergh, do you play?” William Beauchamp asked, again.
Elspeth blinked. “Play?”
“The harp, My Lady. The harpist has requested a song from my sister, but Lady Dominique claims the mood does not strike her and she bids you to play in her stead.”
Elspeth’s hand fluttered to her breast. “Me?” she asked. And, well, she did know how to play the harp, but it had been ages since she’d had the means to—not since her days at court. She couldn’t even be sure that her fingers knew how to span the chords.
“I would so dearly love to hear you play,” Dominque begged. “You are so lovely tonight and you deserve all the attention.”
Elspeth cast a beleaguered glance at Malcom, but Malcom only smiled. And thinking, perhaps, that she was begging his permission, he waved a hand toward the harp that lay waiting at the center of the hall. “Well,” she said. “I do know a song or two.”
Beauchamp also waved her toward the harp, urging her to play for them. “By all means,” he said, and still Elspeth hesitated, never having played for so many people all at once.
Finally, she stood, acutely aware of the hush that had fallen over the room as she moved across the dais and down the stairs. She heard whispers and murmurs as she passed.
One man said with a chuckle to his mate, “If she plays as beautifully as she looks, I myself will swoon like a lady at her feet.”
Forsooth! Her music skills were not so fine as her sister Seren’s. But then, everything Seren did was better than Elspeth—a fact that had never aggrieved her for a single day… until now.
As she moved across the room, she was very painfully aware
of so many pairs of eyes upon her—and one more than all the rest. Malcom watched her intently as she took her seat behind the harp, and Elspeth lifted her gaze to him only once.
Goddess, help me… please.
After so, so long, she was afraid of what would come from her efforts. Very tentatively, she pressed her fingers to the strings, testing the sound. And, then, she closed her eyes, remembering the lessons of her youth, and simply let the music come forth…
She didn’t know many songs—only a few. Most were not suitable for good Christian ears. But everybody loved a faerie’s tale with adventure, so she sang a song about Cerridwen, the great priestess of Avalon, who some would claim was herself the Mother Goddess. She was not, of course, but she was still the greatest dewine the world had ever known.
To begin with, the story was clever and sweet… inspired by love. For want of a lover Cerridwen lured Tegid Foel onto her Isle of Avalon, and for a short time, they lived together in love and harmony and had a precious daughter they called Creirwy. Creirwy soon came to be known as the loveliest maiden in all the world. Alas, as the newness of their love passed, Cerridwen began to resent that Tegid longed for a life away from her precious Avalon. She soon became embittered, and her bitterness manifested itself in her son. They called this new child Morfran, for his countenance was hideous. And realizing she was the cause of her son’s misery, Cerridwen longed to gift her boy with something more precious than could be born of flesh and blood. She meant to inspire him with such artistry that it would make him even more beloved than his sister Creirwy. So… she prepared an Arwen potion for a year and a day, until, one sad, sad day, a boy called Gwion was busy stirring her pot, and out leapt a drop of the Arwen potion. Consequently, the wrong boy became enlightened, and foreseeing that the witch Goddess would attempt to destroy him for taking what should rightfully be due her son, he transformed himself into a hare. Cerridwen then became a greyhound to pursue him. Gwion became a fish. Elspeth’s fingers moved over the strings more urgently, to symbolize his flight. Cerridwen became an otter, and the boy became a bird. Cerridwen pursued him as a hawk, and finally, at last… She slowed her fingers, to a sad, sad melody, because Gwion, thinking himself too wise to be bested by an old Crone, turned himself into a grain of corn in a field and was thence devoured by Cerridwen in the form of a hen.
But the story was far from done, and in looking about the room, Elspeth saw that the hall was enraptured, so she continued… her eyes filling with tears—less for the story and more for the memories it brought… of herself seated by her grandmother’s skirts, watching her grandmamau play the harp. Flames ignited behind her lids, and she heard her grandmother’s screams, but she pushed away those memories and continued to sing…
In swallowing Gwion, Cerridwen came to be with child. She bore the boy nine months in her womb, all the while swearing she would kill him after he was born. But, then, once that day came, she realized she could not kill her lovely child, so she wrapped the boy in swaddling and cast him out to sea, where he was found by good king Elfin. Under Elfin’s tutelage, Gwion became a great, great bard known as Taliesin, whose radiant beauty was his curse, and whose progeny would forever share his burden. Some people knew him as Merlin.
But, of course, a beautiful man should be offered a beautiful lady to wife, and he was given to wed the loveliest lady in all the land, which happened to be Creirwy—Cerridwen’s own daughter. Alas, for the Witch Goddess, she and the Island of Avalon were swallowed by the sea, gone with the sweep of the Goddess Mother’s hand.
No one in the hall could have any notion that the tale Elspeth sang about was true, and thus she dared to sing all the rest, about how Taliesin built himself a fortress high in the Black Mountains, where he’d cherished his lovely bride.
But this is what Elspeth could never say: That fortress she sang about was Blackwood, and it was supposed to have been her legacy.
Alas, in surrendering to her hate and her need for retribution, Cerridwen forsook her Mother’s love and mercy, and became an outcast of both worlds. Poof went the Isle of Avalon, just the same as would happen to Blackwood… just the same as could happen to England…
To the Welsh, her grandmamau had borne another name. She was the White Witch of Bannau Brycheiniog, whose castle was raised so high that she was given vigil over the Endless Sea, and her signal fires were meant to warn Wales of approaching invaders. She was the guardian of all their land. When Elspeth had finished her story, there were tears streaming from her own eyes and down her cheeks. But her fingers remained on the strings, playing of their own accord.
Gentle, blurring, drifting, rushing, clear and brilliant, glittery and flowy, dull, and then mellow and sharp, splashing, cascading, reverberating…
After a while, she opened her eyes to find that the fiber of the room began to vibrate along with the strings of the harp. Startled, Elspeth plucked them again, but with trepidation, blinking as the fabric of the aether gave way to reveal her first true vision… a darkened room… pluck… a blood-stained bath… pluck… a body discarded on the floor… pluck… Morwen… in a blood-soaked tub. Pluck. And one final image appeared to her now—one of Rhiannon locked in an iron-barred tumbril…
“Morwen,” she whispered, and her fingers ceased to play all at once. The sound they made as they fell across the harp strings was as hideous as Morfran’s face.
Elspeth stood, feeling heady, and then suddenly she was afraid as the room began to spin away…
Malcom listened contentedly to the music. The hall fell silent as Elspeth played, and he’d never heard a sound so sweet as her voice. He sat with bated breath, enchanted by every word.
Beside him, even Beauchamp hushed—at last leaving off with talk of politics.
When Elspeth stopped playing, he stood and made ready to applaud—as did most of the audience—but then she cocked her head as though she were looking at something strange, and her fingers returned to the strings… playing again… only this time without her song.
For an instant, he could well imagine that it could be the most beautiful music he’d ever heard—even more lovely than her song—serene, beguiling, haunting… like songbirds at the end of a long, hard winter… or the gush of a mountain waterfall… or a mournful reed on the still of a summer night. It was so easy to imagine that the sound of her music was as timeless as the land itself… a gift from god on high. And then suddenly, the melody ended in discord, and the sound was a cacophony. Elspeth stood, looking as pale as the sendal she wore, and Malcom recognized that look on her face, because she’d looked that way once before. He bounded from his seat, rushing around the table, and leaping over the edge of the dais.
Chapter Eighteen
The vision of Rhiannon lingered, folding itself in and out of Elspeth’s consciousness and space. Her sister’s rueful amber eyes peered out between metal bars…
The piercing scent of sal ammoniac wafted into Elspeth’s dream and she stirred, opening heavy lidded eyes, only to shut them yet again, and once again, the scent of sal ammoniac swept beneath her nostrils, removing the veil of slumber once and for all. She sat upright, crying out. “Rhiannon!”
“Nay, lass, ’tis but Alyss,” Malcom said, urging her to lie back down, and then he told the anxious maid, “That will be all for now, Alyss. Thank you.”
“I will be near should you need me, lord,” Alyss said, and pinching her vial of sal ammoniac between her fingertips, she rushed away, casting Elspeth a worried glance.
Alas, Elspeth was far too unsettled to put the girl at ease. The door closed, and her hand grasped Malcom by the arm, pleading. “I must go back,” she said, and suddenly, per force, she inhaled a calming breath and closed her eyes, shutting out the fear.
No, no, no, she thought.
Why did you do this to me, Rhiannon?
She was ensorcelled—rendered helpless. Every time she even thought about returning to Llanthony, she wanted only to sleep—and sleep some more.
And yet… it was a strange leth
argy that crept over her body, not her mind. She was very much aware of every sound and scent surrounding her… the flickering of the torch in its brace, Malcom’s unique male scent… He touched her hand, folding it neatly into his own, and Elspeth tried to squeeze it. “Elspeth?” he whispered, shaking her awake.
Elspeth’s eyes fluttered open, focusing on the man whose glittering gaze she was coming to know so well—and then suddenly, she understood: Look to your champion, Rhiannon had said.
Malcom was the only one who could help her now. Thanks to her sister, Elspeth couldn’t go back to Llanthony, and, if she tried, she would make the journey like a sack of grain, useless to everyone. But he could.
Malcom could go there. She reached out, grabbing him by the tunic, clutching him desperately. And yet, frustrated and frightened over the consequences of telling anyone her deepest secret, Elspeth pressed her head back into the pillow, released him, and tried not to weep. Unbidden, she remembered the day her mother had abandoned them at the priory. Elspeth was eleven, Rhiannon was nine, Seren was only seven and the twins were six.
“See you do not reveal yourself, or you will endanger everything I’ve worked for.”
“Aye mamau.”
“Someday I will reward you, but only if you are good.”
Elspeth had wondered then what terrible thing had she and her sisters done to be ushered out of their beds in the middle of night and hurried to some remote place where no one could ever find them. But, of course, her grandmother had been a kindhearted lady. If she could be punished so horrendously in front of so many gleeful people, what chance had Elspeth and her sisters?
Betimes, Elspeth could be wicked, so her mother said. She did things she wasn’t supposed to do—like sneak into the kitchen for bits of food for her sisters and fire the torches in the nursery because Seren was afraid of the dark.
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