The King's Favorite

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  “We’ll be east-side afore ye know it,” he assured Merry Bells, and hoped to God he wasn’t about to lose another horse. Bloody hell. He’d named her Merry Bells in honor of a good friend’s dog—God love the sweet beast. She’d served her master well and Malcom should be so fortunate if his mare had an ounce of Merry Bells’ canny and devotion.

  Alas, his first Merry Bells didn’t live up to the name. She’d been a temperamental animal who’d unseated him during the battle of the Standard. She nearly broke his neck. Unfortunately, she’d died there as well, and so did Malcom’s heart, for that was the first time he’d been forced to choose between his Scots’ brethren and the oath he gave to Stephen. For his services, of course, Stephen lifted him to Earldom, but that was also the last time he’d spoken to his sire. To this day, he would never forget facing his Da across the field at Cowton Moor and the disappointment and fury in his eyes as Malcom felled a man wearing Scot’s livery. It didn’t matter that they didn’t trade blows that day; it was enough that Malcom had opposed him, and he never saw him again.

  The second Merry Bells had given Malcom more hope, but she, too, met her fate on a field of battle, only rather than die as her predecessor died, in the midst of warfare, she’d broken her leg on a patch of ice during a winter siege. With his heart in his hand, Malcom himself took her life, putting the sweet girl out of her misery, but it haunted him still that Stephen’s men had butchered her for dinner and gobbled her to her bones. One thing he’d learned; in the midst of a long, hard siege, men themselves became little more than beasts.

  This particular Merry Bells seemed more attuned to him, but she was young as yet, and betimes too skittish. The last time he gave her shoes, he’d performed the task himself, and she nearly clipped a slice from his head. Now, again, she snorted in protest over a nasty bramble and Malcom spoke to her gently. “Bear with it, lass. We’ll be free of this wet, black hole afore ye ken.”

  Thankfully, once they emerged from these spiteful woods, they would immediately descend into England and make their way north through far more civilized country. In the meantime, the hairs on his nape stood on end, and he felt eyes on his back…

  * * *

  What hour was it? Had the envoy arrived? Elspeth had a growing sense that any minute now they would come searching for her.

  Come sunrise, she’d climbed into this tree to find a safe place to rest and, somehow, she’d fallen asleep in the crook of the elm. Here she sat now, with too little distance between herself and the priory and a pang in her heart that wouldn’t diminish. She missed her sisters terribly, and with every ten steps she took, she took two more back, growing confused and enervated. Of course, she blamed it on the long night traipsing about these woods, but she supposed it must also be a consequence of that ether spell. But she couldn’t remain here. The veil they’d conjured would soon fade, and no doubt by now Ersinius had loosed his minions.

  It was her greatest hope that, whilst she sought herself a safe haven to await her sisters, d’Lucy would find himself another match—preferably one not of her blood. And, in the meantime, she hoped Rhiannon would find a way to extricate herself and the rest of her sisters from the priory, although she hadn’t a clue how Rhiannon intended to do it.

  I have a plan, she’d said. But what if she was wrong? What if Morwen did, indeed, allow Seren to wed out of turn? What if all this came to naught? What if d’Lucy decided that marrying Rhiannon was worth the price of his Earldom?

  More and more, Elspeth was beginning to doubt the wisdom in leaving, and considering these things, and more, she longed to close her eyes and sleep—even now, perched in this tree like one of Morwen’s eerie little birds. Holding tight to the branch overhead, she battled her way through the drowsiness, considering Rose’s thievery. How was it that her sister could feel so self-assured to hunt these woods without permission, yet so adamantly refuse to leave the priory? She would risk Ersinius’ wrath for berries, but not for freedom? How much sense did that make?

  And nevertheless, Elspeth was grateful for her disguise despite that the breeches were too snug. Unlike her crude gown, it provided much more freedom to move and climb about, and most importantly, it kept her legs snug and warm in this bone-dampening weather.

  Sweet fates. Wasn’t it May already? It felt like December! Shivering from the cold, she squinted to peer through the mist and considered scrambling down to get on her way, but then, suddenly, she sensed she was not alone… She felt the presence before she saw him, and braced herself for the worst, trying to gauge how many were coming in her direction. One? Two?

  Stay with me,” she begged the fog, inching down to spy between branches.

  Presently she saw a dark figure lumbering through the woods and her heart leapt at the sight. Only after an instant she could better see that it was a big black horse being led by a man—a tall, strapping man, wearing a Norman-styled hauberk and coif, with leggings and boots as inky black as his horse. Unfortunately, Elspeth slipped from her perch, pinching her fingers on the bark, and whispered an oath. The man must have heard her, because he froze. Panicking, Elspeth whispered a spell she knew by rote:

  Spirit of vision, Spirit of night. Cast me a shadow to shield me from mortal sight.

  But it didn’t work. He was still searching, unfazed by her feeble spell. But, of course, no spell could ever make her disappear. It merely dimmed her presence to the sight and sense of others. But it wasn’t working. She was out of practice. Or she must have gotten something wrong.

  What to do now?

  Take an example from Rose; steal his horse

  Yes, of course!

  The voice in her head was Rhiannon’s and Elspeth smiled, grateful not to be alone—at least, not yet. Fortunately for her—unfortunately for the man—she’d never met a beast who didn’t adore her. That man’s horse should be little different. She concentrated, bidding the animal nearer, recognizing the instant she connected with the beast, because the beautiful mare shimmied inside her skin, like a cat with pleasure over the stroke of a hand. And then, naturally, she sought Elspeth’s gaze. “That’s it, sweet girl,” Elspeth whispered. “Come closer…”

  She wiggled a finger at the mare.

  Chapter 3

  “Who’s there?”

  Malcom clutched Merry Bells’ reins, ready to mount, but hesitated. The last thing he wished was for the horse to break a leg in this foul weather. Not only would it pain him to put the girl down, but it was a long, long walk back to Aldergh. But neither was he in any mood to spend a minute longer than was necessary in this ill-begotten territory.

  “Who’s there?” he asked again, acknowledging the absurdity of his question. If, indeed, he had arrows trained on his head, he was unlikely to know it until he became a pin pillow.

  “Come closer.”

  Soft and whispery, the voice slid through him, like a summer breeze shimmying through birch leaves… but it was strange. It sounded far away, and yet still close, like the memory of a whisper breathed at his ear. Was somebody speaking to him?

  Searching the woodlands, like Merry, he scrutinized the environs, peering this way and that, but still he spied no one. But rather than press closer to him, as was her usual response to danger, Merry Bells shifted away, twitching her black ears and lifting her head to peer into a canopy of green.

  “What is it, lass?” Malcom asked, following her gaze—and caught sight of a figure swooping down from the trees, a boy, intent on landing in his saddle.

  With every nerve in his body prepared for battle, Malcom reacted swiftly, taking the youth by the scruff of the tunic as he landed astride his saddle, then jerking him down, and launching himself into the saddle after him. It was a fluid maneuver, perhaps one to be expected from a man with expertise in mounting on the run, but betimes Malcom underestimated his own strength.

  The boy landed face up in the bracken, and then he lay there, stunned, peering up at Malcom with dazed violet eyes. Malcom furrowed his brow.

  “Ye dinna believ
e ye’d get awa’ wi’ such a thing, di’ ye?”

  The would-be thief—a skinny, lanky boy—placed a hand to the back of his head, wincing, as he said without remorse, “Nay, but it was worth a try.” And then he sat up and groaned, loudly as he freed a ratty knot at the back of his head, and, in the process, released a rich cascade of red-gold curls. The sight of those tresses startled Malcom, so he forgot his ire, and even his question.

  It wasn’t a boy.

  “What in damnation are you doing here, lass?”

  The girl’s voice was curt. “Must I remind you, sir, that you put me down in the weeds.” And then she rose, brushing bits of leaves and twigs from her clothes.

  Blinking in disbelief, Malcom watched her with a growing sense of wonder as she peered up at him with almond shaped eyes, completely unafraid, and perhaps even daring him to defy her.

  He wondered if she could be Welsh—a scout perhaps? He wouldn’t put it past those bastards to employ women in such a fashion. But her clothes were not those of a Welsh dissenter, which was to say, they were not battle-weary rags. As much as his own kinsmen had once been, these people were greatly oppressed. But rather, she was dressed in a courtly fashion, with well-stitched leather breaches and a tunic that bore the standard of the Holy Church—a red cross extending across the entirety of her tunic, with four small, identical crosses beneath each arm of the crucifix. He scratched the back of his head. Fortunately for his sense of modesty, the tunic was overlarge, covering her long, lean legs, else he would have found himself stupid and tongue-tied as well. So then, she must have come from Llanthony. Or perhaps from Abbey Dore and lost her way.

  “You may shut your gob now,” the girl said. “The look doesn’t suit you.”

  Malcom snapped his mouth shut. He didn’t bother asking what look; he suspected he already knew. He was, indeed, gobsmacked by the sight of her.

  “Impious little thief,” he said.

  “Aye, well…” She cast him a mean glance under long dark lashes. “Better I should be an impious little thief than a minion of the Usurper.”

  And she shied away, giving herself space between them, as though she suddenly feared Malcom might get the gumption to seize her. He found that fact inordinately amusing—particularly so, considering the fact that it was she who’d assaulted him. He would have been perfectly content to walk on by.

  She narrowed those shrewd violet eyes. “In any case, what I am doing here is no concern of yours,” she said baldly. “The question seems to me: what is a reaving Scot doing in the south of Wales?” Malcom lifted his brows, though he scarce had time to process what she’d said, before she added, “Do your kinsmen not have enough to quibble over scrapping after each other’s bones?”

  Bloody impudent wench.

  Despite that fact, Malcom couldn’t help himself. For the first time in a long damn time, he burst into laughter.

  * * *

  He would laugh?

  Elspeth screwed her face, feeling a sudden overwhelming urge to rush forward and punch the fool in the shin. His chortling—at her expense—was jovial enough to enrage her.

  Sweet fates. She was hardly any shrew, but she welcomed the fury to distract her from her sorrow. In truth, she might have expected ire, or condemnation—or even lechery—but not this.

  At the moment, she was so unsettled by his laughter that she could scarcely bear to look at the man. Mother Goddess, how could any man that size move so swiftly?

  If only he’d not kept such a tight hold on his reins, or if he’d moved a little slower, she might be on her way by now. Instead, she was standing here like a ninny, trading quips, though not by choice, with a man large enough to comprise two of Llanthony’s chaplains.

  And yet, make no mistake, the fellow was far from fat. Every bit of flesh Ersinius possessed in his belly would have to be shoved up, forcibly, into his man breasts and then mindfully sculpted in order to be half the size this man was.

  At long last, the stranger overcame his hilarity and bothered to ask, “Art hurt, lass?”

  Daring to meet his sea-green eyes, Elspeth found him leaning in his saddle, the evidence of his mirth still clinging to the corners of his lips. “I’m unharmed,” she confessed. “No thanks to you.”

  “If I recall aright,” he said, his eyes gleaming, “I was strolling by, minding my own affairs. You assailed me.”

  His Scots accent was subtle, but Elspeth recognized it all the same. He had the diction of one who’d been away from his country overlong, but that did nothing to settle her ire. She had no love for Scots—and even less for reavers. Why should she feel guilty over stealing a thief’s horse? “You were not riding her,” Elspeth said, unreasonably.

  “No,” he agreed. “I was not. For a good reason.”

  Elspeth hitched her chin. “What good reason, prithee?”

  “Not that I should owe you explanations for why I dinna ride my own horse, but I dinna wish to have Merry Bells harm herself in this foul weather.”

  Merry Bells?

  Elspeth blinked, then frowned, chastened, though he couldn’t possibly have understood why. Naturally, she had already known there would be consequences for the ether spell, but she hadn’t taken much time to consider all the many possibilities. That horse’s life was no less valuable to the Goddess than her own, and now she worried even more about the Rule of Three, mostly for sisters’ sakes, because she had selfishly allowed them to abet her in this failed escape—failed because, only now that she was caught, she realized there was so much more they should have considered. And, of course, with the recent vandalisms, Stephen would send reinforcements. From the beginning, this was doomed. And yet, surely, the Goddess had something better to offer a humble servant than this? The very thought of being trussed over this man’s horse and returned to Ersinius like some sack of meal, disheartened her. And then would he hand her over to the Bishop to be made an example of—like her grandmamau? It wasn’t inconceivable. No matter that they couldn’t prove that mist wasn’t an act of God, they would consider Elspeth a poor example to her sisters. If they didn’t escort her by blade-point to Blackwood, they might still wish to be rid of her and what better way than to burn her at the stake?

  Calm yourself, Elspeth.

  I am calm, she lied. I’m calm, Rhiannon!

  But in the meantime, the Scotsman continued to berate her. She didn’t hear half of what he said, but she focused on his words now.

  “The fact that my arse was not planted in my saddle was not an invitation for thievery.”

  Elspeth would like to have forgotten he was there, but he gave her a thorough once over, and added, “Then again… judging by the fit of your clothes, this wasn’t your first thievery. Di’ ye burgle some puir sentry too deep in his cups to notice you were nicking his breeches?”

  A warm flush crept into Elspeth’s cheeks. “Are you through being amused?”

  “Not quite,” he said, “though I assure you my amusement is far more pleasant than the alternative.”

  Elspeth arched a dubious brow. He couldn’t possibly be such an ogre if he loved his “Merry Bells” so much. And anyway, what sort of name was Merry Bells for a warrior’s horse? Merry Bells?

  If she weren’t so furious, she would have returned the favor by laughing—heartily—rolling over the ground with a hand to her belly.

  Indeed, Elspeth wished to do so, but considering how angry and heartsore she was, laughter wasn’t forthcoming—unlike this fool, who seemed incapable of wiping the infuriating smirk from his lips, even whilst he berated her.

  But then something occurred to her—something remarkable. He appeared wholly unaware of who she was, which meant… he wasn’t sent to fetch her.

  Relief vied with irritation. For all that he rankled her, Elspeth desperately needed help, and as much as she loathed to acknowledge the truth, she sensed a certain virtue in his aura—and this, after all, was her greatest skill: reading people. Whilst Rhiannon could read actual thoughts, so long as Elspeth remained in pr
oximity, she could read emotions—betimes like an aura, filled with colors.

  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.”