The King's Favorite

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Her face was unnaturally pale, and though it was only a moment or two before she reopened her eyes, blinking up at him in confusion, it was the longest moment of his life. He breathed a sigh of relief as she refocused her gaze.

  “Elspeth?”

  “I-I am fine.”

  “Art certain, lass?”

  She nodded uncertainly, but that was enough to settle his nerves. “You did not eat well enough,” he scolded, sounding too much like a mother hen though he didn’t care. “Nor did you rest long enough. We shall see to that as soon as we are arrived at Amdel.”

  And it struck him then how much she’d endured in the space of a single day—and yet despite this, how well she’d fared. For all he knew, she could have been afoot in those woods for days and days, and he’d never even bothered to ask. Like his stepmother, she was too prideful to admit any weakness. And, even now, she was as impenetrable as any fortress made of mortar and stone.

  Whether he liked it or nay, Elspeth harbored secrets, and if he wished to know them—or her—it would be at her own discretion.

  She pushed his hand away, like a proud little foundling—looking more lost than she’d looked even when he’d discovered her back in the woods in Wales. But now, once again, she shut him out, and it was quite evident that he was only a means to an end.

  Her trust would not be forthcoming, and whatever it was that he was beginning to feel for her—if indeed it was real—he suffered those feelings alone.

  Nodding to himself, resigned to the unpleasant fact, he took one last look at Elspeth as she rallied, lifting herself up, half-heartedly smacking the dust from her clothes.

  He left her alone. “Sit and rest whilst I pack,” he said.

  “Nay,” she snapped. “I am fine. I would like to help.” And she bent to pick up his trampled cloak and once again endeavored to brush it off.

  Chapter 13

  Elspeth was furious, though not with Malcom.

  Evidently, not only had Rhiannon cast some annoying dozing spell to settle her nerves, she’d wrested some poor soul straight from his life, plucking him out of his intended path. That was reprehensible, and completely outside their coven rules. No man should ever be used against his will. Ever. Not even for good—certainly never for selfish concerns.

  Rhiannon! she screamed to herself. What in the name of the Goddess have you done?

  Of course, Elspeth did not expect an answer. But it was clear to her—so very clear—that Malcom’s wishes were never considered.

  Not that it should upset her so much to have a man gaze at her with such affection and—dearest Goddess, was that affection? But now she understood, perfectly, why his demeanor had changed so drastically. Her sister’s enchantment would have been like a love spell. It would, indeed, have made him light-hearted and giddy, even if that wasn’t his true nature.

  And more! As impressed as Elspeth was that Rhiannon could cast such a complicated spell outside proximity, and that she must have used her sight to find and summon this poor man, whatever now came of the Law of Three, Elspeth was also responsible, because, whatever decisions Malcom made or didn’t make, they were in part because of her.

  Sweet, sweet Goddess! He was promised to another woman! And now he would break faith with her and her brother because of Elspeth.

  And it made Elspeth wonder: What else had Rhiannon taken from him? What business had he been about in Wales? Because surely, he was acting on behalf of his King. He’d said more than once that he rode under Stephen’s banner. So he must have been after the King’s business—whatever that might entail near Llanthony—and Rhiannon had embroiled Elspeth in this magnificent travesty, because now his life was inexorably tied to hers—and hers to his!

  Forsooth! So much that she hadn’t understood before she understood now, very clearly. And what if he should realize his life had been altered per force? What if he discovered what and who Elspeth was? A dewine! A child of the Goddess! A daughter of Avalon!

  Her head reeling with questions, and bewildered over the possible consequences, Elspeth walked about, holding Malcom’s cloak, like y meirw byw—the living dead.

  Only once they were ready to ride, she mounted at his behest, then sat stiffly before him in the saddle, whilst Malcom placed his arms about her waist to keep her steady—but how could she allow herself to be comforted? None of this was done by his own free will.

  Oh, Rhiannon, Rhiannon… what have you done?

  Silence.

  But, of course. Now that she had meddled so rudely—so irrevocably—she’d abandoned Elspeth to this warrior, who evidently felt spellbound to protect her.

  And, worse, he was, in truth, her enemy, merely by virtue of his affiliation with her cousin.

  And regardless, he held her so gently, pulling her close as though she were in truth his beloved, and Elspeth could feel the heat beneath his palm as surely as she’d felt her own healing light last eventide. It wrenched at her heart in ways she had not known her heart could be wrenched.

  They rode in silence, arriving at Amdel as the first blush of dawn arose over the horizon. And, then, sweet fates, as though the morning’s revelations weren’t enough, the sight of the stronghold left Elspeth breathless.

  The fortress rose up from black earth, like a stone effigy, and its aura was black as a moonless night. If it could be possible that an assembly of stone and timber could have a spirit likeness, the edifice was like a sepulcher, and Elspeth felt its sentience like something living but dead. The very sight of it racked her body with shivers.

  “This… is Amdel?” she asked, and Malcom pulled the reins to stop, giving her a moment to survey their destination, drawing her back to keep her warm.

  “Aye,” he said, pulling her close. Alas, though Elspeth sensed he did it by rote, she was perversely grateful for the reminder that, in truth, she wasn’t alone.

  Unsettled by her own ambivalence, she shivered yet again, and Malcom adjusted his cloak around her shoulders, pinching the garment at her breast.

  As a matter of self-preservation, Elspeth’s hand fell over his, and for a long, long moment, they sat atop Merry Bells, with her hand covering his.

  “Art ready?”

  Nay, she was not. Her heart pounded like hammers, but she swallowed and said, “Aye.”

  And with that single word from her, Malcom spurred Merry Bells into a canter toward the stone bridge. And the closer they got, the blacker the aura that rose from the stone like a glow from a fire, and Elspeth wanted desperately to turn and run.

  Fear and Malcom’s reassuring embrace kept her silent. As best she could, she sank into his arms and held her breath as they rode into the outer bailey.

  At first glance, she could tell that the fortress had been erected on the remnants of an old Roman stronghold. It was easy to see where the old stone left off and the new construction had begun. The outer walls were made from timber and remained half-burnt on the east side. A new stone wall had begun construction on the inside of the motte, encircling the edifice. When it was finished, there would be enough mortared stone to build the entirety of Blackwood.

  The lord’s standard flew from a half-constructed gatehouse—a bright red hawk with wings spread over a midnight sky. She turned to peer at the charred timber as they passed.

  Of course, it was quite possible that this was one of the strongholds besieged by her sister. Matilda’s last bastion in England had been Devizes Castle in Wiltshire, not so far as the ravens flew, but she’d been beleaguered enough there, attempting to maintain the stronghold, and in the end, with Robert’s death, she’d abandoned it to her son.

  But nay, rather, Elspeth had more the sense that work here had been waylaid—perhaps for lack of funds? Or mayhap Stephen finally raised a hand against adulterine castles?

  Without a word, the gatehouse sentry waved them forward, and Malcom did not linger to speak to the man as he ventured into the lord’s bailey. Elspeth had a keen sense he had been here before, and such would be the case, since he’d alr
eady confessed to her that the lady herein was his intended.

  Was she beautiful?

  Well, even if she was, why should that matter to Elspeth? And nevertheless, it soured her mood—as though it could be sourer.

  Art jealous, Elspeth?

  Of course not.

  Why should she be? She barely knew this man. More importantly, she should be concerned all the more that he would consider fostering an alliance with the lord of this demesne.

  And, really, Elspeth, ’tis not as though you are his bride.

  None of this was real. It was all but a consequence of the spell her sister had cast. If she’d met Malcom without benefit of the enchantment, he could well have run her through with his sword—because, isn’t that what warriors did?

  What a travesty this was, but at least now, for the first time since leaving Llanthony, she was far more preoccupied worrying about herself than she was about her sisters.

  In the middle of the bailey, Merry Bells came to a halt, and it seemed to her that, like roaches, men suddenly crawled out from beneath their spaces and flew at them from every direction.

  A groomsman came to take their horse, but Malcom hesitated, until the donjon doors flew wide and a well-dressed man sauntered out to greet them. Dressed all in black, the man hurried across the lord’s bailey, his aura reaching Elspeth long before the man did, and his telling blue eyes gave her a punch to the gut.

  “William,” said Malcom in greeting.

  Their patron nodded. “Malcom.”

  And yet, despite the use of given names, there was nothing amiable about the exchange. Perhaps after all, Rhiannon’s spell had saved Malcom from an unwanted alliance. For all that they seemed familiar, he didn’t appear to bear Beauchamp any kindness—but then, again, hadn’t he said that he detested the man? Obviously, this was true.

  Malcom slid off his horse, and Elspeth daren’t follow. Leaving her seated for the moment, Malcom removed his saddlebags, casting the heavy leather satchels over his shoulder.

  Instinctively, Elspeth drew his cloak more firmly about her person, pinching it in front of her tunic to hide her Llanthony sigil, despite that she’d already hidden it from view. She wished to God that she could hide her breeches as well.

  The lord of Amdel inclined his head toward her, giving Elspeth a long look, veiled with disapproval. “My lady,” he said curtly, then quickly dismissed her, returning his attention to Malcom, and offering with a bit of reproach, “I am told good wishes are in order.”

  Malcom gave the man a curt nod. “They are, indeed,” he said, finally reaching up to assist Elspeth. In the brief instant their gazes met, his blue-green eyes beseeched her to remain silent, and Elspeth had no trouble complying. But though she had no desire to dismount, his arms compelled her to do so, and keeping herself covered as best as she could, she once again slid into his embrace. Once she was down, on her feet, Malcom handed the horse’s reins to the groomsman, and he took Elspeth by the hand, warning her with a gentle squeeze. In answer, Elspeth squeezed him back and Malcom released her hand, then left her to follow, as he and the lord of Amdel fell into step beside one another, while Elspeth was left to walk behind.

  Considering the circumstances, it was perhaps irrational that she might hope for more equitable treatment. Evidently, Scotsmen and Englishmen were not at all like the Welsh. They had not the same sensibilities where women were concerned. But, of course, Beauchamp would expect Malcom to treat her as any Englishman might treat his bride.

  But he’s not really your husband, you silly fool.

  Still, she chafed a bit as the two men spoke so familiarly, despite that Elspeth sensed so little amity between them, and once again, she had the most overwhelming urge to flee.

  Even here, in the heart of the demesne, there was a darkness emanating from Amdel… and for a terrible, sinking moment, it seemed to Elspeth as though the door they walked toward could be an open maw, ready to devour them, flesh and bones.

  Swallowing for courage, she fell into step behind the two chatting men.

  “We had a bit of misfortune,” Malcom was saying. “I’m afraid my lady is in need of a new gown, and whatever else your sister might be kind enough to provide.”

  They climbed the stairs into the donjon, and Elspeth took every step with uncertainty, though she daren’t fall behind.

  “But, of course. Dominique is too kind to begrudge you aught,” the man was saying. “She would gladly welcome the opportunity to make your bride at home.”

  They walked together in silence for a time, and then Beauchamp said, “I only wish you might have sent word… to apprise us… of your change in circumstances.”

  Elspeth wanted to tell them both that she was still there—that she could hear every word they spoke. But Malcom’s silent warning kept her tongue tied.

  “It could not be helped,” said Malcom, as they entered the great hall. “Consequently, I would beg pardon. We—my Lady and I—” Finally, he turned to check on Elspeth, and she reassured him with a quivering smile. He turned back around as Elspeth’s eyes scanned the lord’s hall, searching for signs of Amdel’s loyalties. His banners were all his own, none of Stephen’s. But neither were there any of Matilda’s. “Considering the circumstances,” he said, “we did not intend to burden you today.” Inside the keep, the mood was less that of a vanquished ruin and somewhat more presentable. There were fresh rushes on the floors, and all the tapestries were new, with brightly embroidered thread. However, none of this compensated for the threatening aura that only Elspeth could see.

  Following the lord up a stairwell at the back of his hall, she listened quietly to Malcom’s apology. “I may have preferred to return from my commission in Wales and send you a formal letter as you were due, but I suppose an explanation facie ad faciem is far more suitable. However, I must apologize to Dominique, even as I must thank her for her generosity.”

  “Of course,” said Beauchamp, as they came to a landing and moved into another hall. “But first, we should see to your bed. I am told you were awakened rather rudely, and for this it is I who must seek pardon, Earl Aldergh. We had some wandering guests from Darkwood over the past few days, and we expected—well, my men were tasked with seeing they returned to the road. You know how these wayfarers can be. One can never be too certain these days.”

  Malcom said nothing.

  “And, then of course,” Beauchamp said, after a long awkward silence, “My affairs with d’Lucy are as yet unsettled.” He sighed wearily. “I have cried peace, time and again, and so far, that infuriating man refuses to reconsider his position. He’s as stubborn as his sire.”

  “At least you must deal with Graeham, not his brother.”

  Beauchamp made a gesture as though to shudder, but Elspeth did not sense any fear in his actions. It was more, disgust. “God forbid—that black-hearted bastard. Did you know they were born of different fathers?”

  “Twins, I supposed?”

  “Do they look like twins to you? Nay. I warrant ’tis true: She conceived those sons by different sires. And ’tis no wonder that old fool was so cross with the world.”

  Elspeth kept pace behind them, listening as the lord continued to ramble, clearly incensed by his troubles, and more than ready to share his woes with any sympathetic ear.

  “At any rate,” Beauchamp said, continuing, “last I heard, now that the Empress has returned to France, d’Lucy plans to issue a suit over the death of their sire.”

  Hungry for news of her sister, Elspeth listened intently.

  “You must agree; I cannot be faulted for acting in self-defense, and, mind you, that man died here on my lands—in this very room,” he said, as they arrived at their intended destination. “With my physician attending him, no less. As you must see, despite that he attacked me, I offered him every due respect, even despite that he persisted with his inventions.”

  “I understand,” Malcom said, nodding, all trace of his Scots accent expertly excised from his diction. At the moment, he soun
ded as English and cultured as did Beauchamp.

  Malcom cast Elspeth a quick glance, and said, “Perhaps now that the lady Dominique is free to wed, you might consider the benefit of a union between her and Graeham d’Lucy. Despite your quarrels with that family, I know Graeham to be an honorable man, and you can be sure he would treat her well. Whatever child came of that union would settle your feud for all time. Wouldn’t it?”

  Beauchamp blinked, looking startled by the prospect, as though he’d never considered it. His eyes rolled back into his head as though he were seriously considering Malcom’s suggestion. And all the while, Malcom stood patiently, with his hands linked behind his back—like a wise old counselor, adept at manipulation, and finally, he reached for Elspeth, drawing her near.

  Elspeth pinched her cloak tighter to keep Beauchamp from noticing the inappropriateness of her dress. “At any rate,” he said. “I thank you. And my lady thanks you. And because I ken this must have come as a surprise, I will look forward to a full explanation once we are rested. If you would but send my regards to your sister, I will offer my deepest, sincerest apologies when I see her. I know you must know—and she must know—that these things are no fault of your own.”

  Beauchamp seemed to be warming to Malcom, his body language far less stiff.

  Malcom said, “For all your troubles, perhaps you would allow me to send you a bit of wine from Aquila once I am returned to Aldergh? It’s fine wine, acquired after searching the demesne of a traitor to the realm. We confiscated his wine, among other things, and Stephen was kind enough to award it to me. I would love to share.”

  Beauchamp nodded absently, perhaps still thinking about Malcom’s initial proposal. “Spanish wine would be lovely,” he said. “But no worries. I shall explain everything to Dominique once she awakens. And in the meantime…” He turned to Elspeth and bowed. “My lady.”

  “My lord,” Elspeth said, proffering a hand from beneath her cloak.

  But, of course, there was dirt beneath her fingernails, after tending Malcom’s fire, and it did not escape the lord of Amdel’s notice. He scrunched his nose, pecking the air before her hand but he did not touch her hand with his lips. “I… ah… trust you will rest well… my lady.”