Like a moth to a flame, she found herself drawn to the dress, lured from the bed, if only to play her fingers along the length of it… so, so soft. And the color… it was as rich as any dye Elspeth had ever encountered. “Scarlet?” she asked.
Dominique nodded. “Dyed with the grain of the kermes.” Without any reservation, she handed the sumptuous gown over to Elspeth with both hands, then reached out for the white chainse that had lain folded beneath it. “That surcoat is scarlet, but the chainse is sendal. I trust it will flatter you well.” And then, once again, she looked to her lady’s maid with such a fierce look of pride that it warmed Elspeth to her cockles. “I was told you had my coloring, and dear Alyss has perfected her crimson. It shows well with my color and I thought you might like it, too.”
Indeed, it did, thought Elspeth. The color was rich and dark, with no yellow in the pigment at all—perhaps, blue.
Smiling still, Dominique handed Elspeth the sendal as well, and Elspeth didn’t know what to say… so she said nothing… merely stood agape.
Dominique’s face fell. “Oh, no! You do not like them?” she asked. “I beg your pardon,” she rushed to say. “I thought to give you something finer, but I hoped the wool would serve you best for travel. It’s soft and malleable.”
“Oh, nay!” Elspeth said, realizing the girl must have mistaken her silence for displeasure. “In truth, Lady Dominique, I have never seen anything so fine.”
Amazed, Elspeth ran her hand over the material again, beguiled by the texture. The sendal too was exquisite and so sheer it made her blush over the thought of wearing it.
Dominique’s entire countenance brightened. If it were possible, she stood a little taller. Her eyes lit, and her aura brightened, but the maid’s remained dim, Elspeth noticed.
“Did you spin the wool yourself?” she asked the shy lady.
Alyss didn’t answer, so Dominique answered for her. “Alas, nay. Neither of us could ever produce a wool so fine. Fortunately, my brother is very generous. He ordered many, many ells for me to do as I wish. I fashioned a tunic for William and a dress or two for me because I like it far better than I do the samite.” She leaned forward to whisper, “I cannot abide the sound it makes when I walk.” But then she put a finger into the air, as though remembering something else. “Oh, but here… I made… this…” And she leaned forward again, grasping yet another garment. This one was a richly sewn tunic—also made with scarlet but fashioned for a man. There was a sigil on the front that Elspeth had come to recognize only too well—two feathers striking through a fleur-de-lis with a maxim that read Altium, citius, fortius. “For my lord Aldergh,” she said, touching the embroidery reverently, a wistful smile lingering at the corners of her lovely lips, though without a trace of rancor.
“Oh… I’m so, so sorry.” Elspeth said at once, realizing she must have sewn the garment as a gift for her betrothed. “I did not know.”
“Are you not pleased?”
“Yes, of course. But—”
Dominique gave her a sympathetic look and waved a hand in dismissal. “Speak no more, my darling friend! ’Tis a woman’s lot to serve her house,” she said, interrupting. “You need not ever be sorry. Indeed, I have long admired the King’s Enforcer, and I would have welcomed our union. But, alas, I could never begrudge the joy I saw so plainly in your lord’s eyes when he spoke of his lady.”
Elspeth blinked, lifting her gaze to meet Dominique’s.
Malcom was the King’s Enforcer?
Sweet fates! Guy d’Lucy shared this distinction. Enforcer was simply another name for assassin. So, then, Malcom was a member of the Rex Militum? She blinked again, realizing what it portended. What was he doing near Llanthony?
Oblivious to Elspeth’s thoughts, Dominque’s expression was filled with marvel, her eyes glistening with joy. “What a wonderful boon to be offered a love match—how fortunate you are!”
Love match?
But nay, nay… they barely knew one another.
“Come,” demanded Dominique, beckoning Elspeth. “Let us help you dress. I cannot wait to see your lord’s eyes when they feast upon you this evening.” She chattered on and on, buoyant and happy. “I warrant, no matter the state of his belly, he’ll have no more hunger for his meal.” And then she giggled, and before Elspeth could protest, the maid Alyss rushed forward to help Elspeth remove her dirty Llanthony tunic.
Together, they worked like a maelstrom, arms aflutter, tugging, lifting, removing, tossing garments aside, before helping Elspeth wash and dress. In all this time, Elspeth had little choice but to allow the ministrations, because neither gave her any choice. She did, however, very discreetly stuff the Llanthony tunic aside, hiding it from their scrutiny.
And even abashed though she might be over so much ado, she found herself enjoying the unexpected attention. It indulged a yearning she had for her sisters, even though she and her siblings had fended for themselves from the day they were born, sharing the same scratchy undyed wool gowns for years and years before earning the right to ask for another.
At home, Elspeth’s gowns had all been stained by earth and flora, and despite all their knowledge of simples, betimes they could not eradicate the stains from their clothes.
Far too easily, the scarlet wool slid over Elspeth’s bare skin like a lover’s caress, giving her gooseflesh. And once they were done dressing her, she wore the finest gown she’d ever beheld—finer yet than any Matilda had ever worn in her presence—with long flowing sleeves and a surcoat as rich as the color of blood. In contrast, the sendal chainse was whiter than the palest shade of a new moon. And if that were not well enough alone, they brushed her hair, plaiting her tresses into braids that fell to either side of her face, with silver ribbons threading through.
At long last, when their work was completed, Alyss handed Elspeth a small handheld mirror, withdrawing it from the pocket of her apron, and Elspeth peered into the polished silver with gasp.
The girl who peered back at her now was hardly the same girl she’d faced in the gurgling brook this morn… or the one who’d fled the priory. This lady was freshly washed and pink-faced, with hair that reminded Elspeth of Matilda herself whenever she’d returned from Germany as a widowed wife of the Emperor, with all her fine clothes and hair aglow with threads of gold.
“You are so beautiful,” said Alyss, reticently.
Dominique agreed, but so much more enthusiastically. “Twill not only be your lord husband whose eyes will turn this eve.” She laughed and clapped her hands. “My brother will think you lovely as a queen!”
The maid behind her flinched, and Dominique only belatedly seemed to realize what she’d said, and she flinched, leaving Elspeth to wonder over the exchange as Dominique put a hand to the maid’s shoulder, stroking gently, while still addressing Elspeth.
“Now, shall we see you belowstairs for the feast? Tonight we have called a troubadour and a jongleur, as well, and my brother has butchered a sow for the occasion. In truth, ’tis been some time since we’ve enjoyed a meal so grand—in honor of you, my lady, and your lord husband.”
A feast? In Elspeth’s behalf?
Suddenly, all coherent thought fled from her head. Gone was her momentary curiosity over Alyss’s discomfiture, vanished were any awkward questions over Malcom’s betrothal to Dominique, or his appointment to the king’s justice. Forgotten as well was the truth of why she’d come here after all… and just for the moment, or perhaps just the evening, she dared to be the Lady of Aldergh.
Tomorrow would be soon enough to face the truth… that she was but a runaway daughter of a long dead king, whose own mother would rather see her suffer than be happy.
And Malcom… he wasn’t only the devoted servant of the man who’d stolen her sister’s crown; he was the King’s Enforcer—a mercenary, indeed, not so different from Guy d’Lucy, the man to whom her mother would have seen her betrothed.
So, it seemed, she’d leapt from the pot into the flames… and even so she found herself counti
ng seconds before she could see Malcom again.
The wine was as poor as Malcom remembered it was, still he reached for it all too easily, sipping as he watched the harpist seduce her strings. But at least the music was sweet.
It was inordinately clear that Beauchamp was pleased over the proposal he’d made to wed his sister to the lord of Drakewich. His mood was high, and his mouth hadn’t stopped yapping for nearly an hour, expounding on subjects that Malcom didn’t feel comfortable discussing. And yet, very clearly, the man had gone above and beyond, for the last meal Malcom had here was hardly so fine. “So, my lord, tell me… do you anticipate this will be the end of Matilda?”
Malcom shrugged. “The lady is stubborn,” he said distractedly. “I cannot see as she will stop until she has what she considers to be hers. But I ken she no longer has the resources to persevere. Robert is dead.” He considered what news was public knowledge, and added, “Word is that Wallingford has grown ill as well.”
Beauchamp nodded. “Brian Fitz Count?” He made a flourish with his hand, jostling his wine over the top of his cup. “Or rather should I say Fitz Cunt?” He smiled deviously, self-amused. “I cannot abide that fool. If anyone believes he isn’t beard-splitting Matilda, I’d have a thing or two to say about that.”
Bored with such utter nonsense, but allowing Beauchamp to carry on, Malcom lost himself amidst half-drunken reverie, thinking about his recent commission in Wales.
As far as he saw it, if the taking of a single life could save a thousand more, this was the raison d'état for the Rex Militum. The death of one culpable man was a far lesser tragedy than to have an entire countryside showered in the blood of innocents. As it was, he couldn’t stomach the sweeping loss of life after thirteen years of warfare. For someone like Wallingford, who was complicit in the instigations of this war, and who’d been planning insurgency from the beginning, Malcom saw his demise no differently than he did facing his enemy on a battlefield. Whilst there was a lot he might be conflicted over, he was not conflicted over that. They’d received word that Wallingford intended to visit Llanthony to award the priory yet another grant for the sake of his soul. It was Malcom’s assignment to intercept the man, attempt negotiations and dispose of him if necessary. But their intelligence had proven faulty, and it had cost him a squire. Still, he couldn’t regret having gone, elsewise he’d never have encountered Elspeth… whose absence from this hall was beginning to turn his last nerve. Glancing at the stairwell, he took another sip of his nasty wine.
“Pious bitch,” Beauchamp was saying of the Empress. But, of course, Malcom would never use such words, though Matilda was, indeed, haughty and betimes mean and quick to anger, like her father—not to mention, more pious than was necessary.
But then, again, that brought to mind a point that had long been festering: There were still a number of the old tribes about Wales—as there were in Scotia—men and women who’d never relish being told to bend the knee to a God they did not know. It seemed to Malcom that if Stephen so much wished to gain Welsh support, rather than murdering his enemies, he should be looking for gentler ways to join their houses. But, of course, d’Lucy was no eegit: He could well have proposed such a thing already… which would explain Elspeth.
“Haughty as you please,” Beauchamp persisted, perseverating like a mad dog with a bone. “But I tell you, no man enjoys being told what to do by any woman, no matter what her station.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Malcom replied absently, careful to keep the brogue from his words now that he was lighter on his toes. “I can think of a few occasions to prostrate myself before a lady.”
Beauchamp guffawed loudly. He gave Malcom a thump of his elbow, highly amused. “Ah, you Scots are ever randy bastards,” he said, and he took a hefty swig from his tankard. “As for me…” He set the tankard down with a hard thud. “I’ve not yet found a proper lady who could wet my whistle as well as my sister could.”
Startled by the proclamation, Malcom straightened in his chair.
Beauchamp must have anticipated an objection, because he said very quickly. “Not that I have ever or would ever, mind you.” He swiped his hand through the air. “My sister’s as chaste as the Virgin herself.”
By God. The wine must be getting to him, Malcom decided, because he suddenly had unspeakable images cavorting through his head, and it was quite a bit more distasteful than Beauchamp’s dirty wine. God help him. If he didn’t know better—know Beauchamp was too greedy to compromise his only sister—an asset—he would have to worry for the poor lass.
As it was, the erection that had begun to slowly tease him over the thought of Elspeth lying abovestairs in that bed, grew perfectly flaccid, and he was inordinately relieved when Beauchamp returned the conversation to Henry’s women. “So, what’s this I hear about Adeliza still scheming to put her stepdaughter on the throne? Meddling cow.”
Malcom tried harder to eradicate the distasteful images from his head. “I would put little credence in any such rumor. D’Aubigny would not stand for it. He’s Stephen’s loyal man.”
Eyeing the harpist, Beauchamp leaned backward in his chair. “Pah!” he said, throwing up a hand. “D’Aubigny is besotted by Henry’s widow. Did you not hear say he’s granted a shit pile of land at Wymondham to build the lady a leper hospital?
“And,” he continued, dredging up old news, “what of Matilda? At his lady’s behest, he allowed that nasty shrew to shelter at Arundel, and then he then let her go when Stephen bade him not to.”
“So he did,” Malcom said, growing impatient, though not merely with the conversation. It had been a long, long night and day, and he’d yet to get a good rest, and more and more he reconsidered the wisdom in hanging about. He had a father who could be dying, and he owed the man more than this, no matter what quarrels lay between them.
“I would have thought Stephen would charge him for that.”
“What would you have had him do?” Malcom asked, arching a brow, casting Beauchamp a pointed glance. “Stephen, himself, released his cousin twice. ’Tis why I serve the man. I admire the respect he bears his kin, and particularly his lady kin. Why would he then punish D’Aubigny when D’Aubigny is more loyal than most?”
Feeling judged, perhaps, Beauchamp grumbled. “Betimes our king is as flaccid as an old cock. But thankfully, he’s got that Welsh witch to see to him.”
Welsh witch…
Morwen.
Something teased at Malcom’s subconscious, though he couldn’t bring it to light—mostly because he was preoccupied with Elspeth. Every so oft, his eyes were drawn to the stairwell at the back of the hall, only hoping for a glimpse of the woman he’d so boldly claimed to be his bride.
Would she tell Dominique?
Would she confess all?
If, indeed, she did so, Malcom would have more explanations to make, because so far as Beauchamp knew, he’d wed her by leave of their king, and there was no one here but Elspeth who could possibly deny it. At long last, he spotted a flutter of movement at the back of the hall.
And there she was…
Dominique was the first to appear, leading the way, her smile beatific, as ever. Yes, indeed, the girl was quite lovely, with a kindly demeanor. She would make some man a fine, fine wife. And only for the briefest instant, he wondered how he could have rebuffed her… particularly if she, herself, needed saving, for even now, her brother’s jest sat like a pile of rot in Malcom’s gut.
But then Elspeth arrived behind her, and Dominique was forgotten. Setting down his cup as Elspeth descended the stairwell, he stood.
Her crimson dress was generously laced with silver threads. Her pale-red hair fell into two rich copper plaits at either side of her lovely face, interwoven with glittering ribbons that caught the torchlight. Her long red sleeves flowed gracefully behind her, like the wind catching at a flame, and the white of her chainse contrasted like purest snow against the blood-red of her surcoat.
Whatever Malcom might have anticipated… she’d surpasse
d his expectations by degrees, and he could but stare… mouth agape… blinking at the sight she presented.
“Elspeth,” he whispered with awe.
Only remembering himself belatedly—and the simple fact that he should not be so much surprised, considering she was meant to be his wife—he rushed across the dais to greet his bride, like a man, indeed, besotted.
Chapter 17
Even at this distance Elspeth recognized the look of approval on Malcom’s face, and it took her breath away. “You see my lady,” Dominique said, leaning close to whisper. “I have never, ever seen any man look at his lady that way. I only hope I can be so fortunate someday.”
Malcom stood tall on the dais—taller than any—looking very noble, standing beside the lord’s table, with his long sun-kissed hair unbound and curling about his swarthy face. He smiled with those full lips, and she blushed and gave her new friend a timid glance. “I hope so, as well,” she said for Dominque’s sake, and then she was suddenly overly pleased with herself, though she hadn’t any true reason why. Everything about this evening was false, including her place at Malcom’s side.
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.
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