Without having possession of their grimoire it was impossible to say what else they might do, and there was no way to practice. The recipes were ancient and hidden to anyone but those who bore the blood of a dewine. Unlike the grimoire they had begun to make at Llanthony, the Book of Shadows was bound by blood magic, and to anyone who opened it without right, it looked to be no more than ruined scripture, faded with age and stained by watermarks. Elspeth herself had only had the opportunity to open it once in her lifetime, under her grandmother’s supervision. She would never forget the beauty of those pages, or the spell to open the pages.
A drop of my blood to open or close,
Speak now the chant of ancient prose.
Let the book open, rites to reveal,
Show me the secrets words may conceal.
Elspeth used to chant those words like prayer, and despite that she never again caressed the soft leather binding, or never did try to prick her own finger to join her blood to the dark-stained cover like so many of her ancestors, she often imagined herself doing so.
But now… the grimoire was in Morwen’s possession, and one thing was certain: Not in a thousand years would she have guessed at her mother’s perfidy.
So then, could it be possible that Elspeth simply hadn’t wished to know the things Rhiannon knew? And regardless, whatever blinders she’d worn before last evening, they no longer served her, and she had a terrifying sense that something dreadful was looming—something dark and vile… something her mother had unleashed the day she’d embraced the hud du.
But much to her dismay, Elspeth didn’t know how to prevent it, or how to warn folks, whose hearts and minds had already turned against them.
Speaking out as a dewine was not an option. She would find herself locked away as Rhiannon might well be or bound to a stake with flames dancing about her feet.
Her thoughts returned to Malcom.
As surely as Rhiannon had summoned him, Elspeth was equally certain she had also beguiled him, but she didn’t know how, because as far as she knew most such spells were not castable outside proximity. However, her sister was proving to be quite gifted. While a charm spell was not so powerful it could make someone love where he would loathe, it was certainly possible to heighten the senses and sweeten his ardor, so that he believed he had deeper feelings than he actually did. And if this was true, it was equally possible that once the spell was broken, Malcom would sorely regret having bound himself to Elspeth. And once he came to his senses, he could well repudiate her.
And more, he could regret having repudiated Lady Dominique as well. Those two could never be wed now, because of Elspeth. And despite that Elspeth was grateful for Malcom’s protection, what now if Lady Dominique should find herself bound to a man who meant to harm her? Any ill that befell that sweet girl because of their interference, the fault would lie squarely on Elspeth’s shoulders and the Law of Three would not be kind.
Alas, what was done was done. No good could come of her brooding.
She arose from the bed and tied back the drapes to let in the sun. Then, she bathed herself in the cold water left in their basin. It was as sour as the wine they’d drunk last evening, and she smelled like vin aigre when she was finished, but at least she was clean.
She dressed herself in the beautiful gown Dominique gave her and hid the remainder of their garments under the bed, along with the hauberk Malcom removed from his bag, so that Merry Bells could travel unencumbered. It was either that or leave the heavy cloak, and he’d taken the cloak, instead, so he could use it by night for warmth. Precisely as he said he would, he left her his grandfather’s ring—just in case. But how could she ever dare arrive on his kinsmen’s doorstep and demand they help her secure Malcom’s demesne?
Please, Goddess, don’t let anything happen to him, she begged as she examined the ring he’d left her.
Regrettably, it didn’t fit any of her fingers, and she didn’t wish to lose it, so she tore a few more shreds of Malcom’s ruined sherte and made herself a thin, tight braid, long enough to hang around her neck. That done, she threaded the ring through the braided necklace, then tied it securely about her neck so that it hung low enough to conceal between her breasts.
And simply because the sherte was already ruined, she took another patch to fashion herself a small purse to keep for her herbs, tying it with one of the silver ribbons Dominique gave her.
Once she was finished, she straightened the room a bit, and after a while, both Lady Dominique and Alyss came calling. Luckily for Elspeth she had no need to explain Malcom’s absence. They already knew. “My dear, you gave us such a scare,” Dominique said, as she entered the room, clasping Elspeth’s cold hands. “But how exciting to know you are with child!”
“I… I am sorry,” Elspeth said, her brows slanting. And, in truth, she was, not the least for which: She was lying. She was not breeding!
Much to Malcom’s relief, Merry Bells seemed spry and eager to travel, almost as though Elspeth herself had inspired the animal. Driven by a growing sense of peril, he stopped only when he must and made the eight-hour journey in little more than five hours, reaching the Vale of Ewyas as the Llanthony bells tolled the sixth hour.
His head reeled with all that he’d learned, but if he needed proof of the events of the past days, the tunic he wore reassured him: It was not just a fevered dream, inspired by a wound he’d taken to his shoulder.
He did believe her, he reassured himself. Though, of course, he must harbor a doubt. Any sane man would question the things he’d seen and heard.
And nevertheless, there must be mysteries men could never conceive for what was faith in God, after all, but a belief in things unseen?
Wearing the tunic emblazoned with his sigil—chagrined over such a generous gift from a woman he’d rebuffed—he approached the priory gates and found the inner courtyard bustling with activity. The dispensation he had from Stephen gave him plausible cause to be in the area, so he decided his best recourse was to speak directly to the chaplain.
Entering behind him through the gates, a procession of men carried buckets of thrashing fish. To one side of the courtyard stood a swarthy-skinned clothier with a wagon laden with brightly colored cloth spilling over one side—crimson and emerald, sapphire blue, some woven with glimmering threads of silver, copper and gold. The material caught the afternoon sun with a hard, probing glint. It would seem a priory should be the last place for such a merchant. And nevertheless, there he was, and along with him there appeared to be many other merchants, either coming or going. And despite the number of visitants, there were no women to be found amongst them—certainly none that would appear to be Elspeth’s sisters.
Awaiting the chaplain, he stared down at the finger, where he normally wore his mother’s ring, considering how easily he had parted with the heirloom. In complete juxtaposition, he’d spent three years poring over his intentions toward Dominque, and never found himself anything less than reluctant. Obviously, she’d been anticipating a proposal. But having known her a good five years or more—since she was twelve—Malcom could never think of her as aught more than a child. Certainly, he didn’t feel for her what he felt for Elspeth after just three short days.
He didn’t have to wait long. Within minutes, Ersinius himself emerged to greet him, bidding him enter and rest awhile—there was plenty of ale to be had, so he said.
If, in truth, Malcom had expected the man to be taciturn and secretive, he was anything but. Bumbling and old, perhaps, but his mood was jovial, and if he’d found himself embroiled in some conspiracy, you’d never have guessed so by his temperament.
“Come, along, come along!” he bade Malcom, pulling at his long, white beard. “’Tis been overlong since we’ve been graced by such an esteemed guest.”
Wanting nothing more than to inquire about Elspeth’s sisters and be gone, Malcom nevertheless appeased the old man, following him into his hall, biding his time. If he must search the entire premise, he would do so, in due time.
“So my Lord Aldergh, do tell… what brings you to Llanthony,” asked the priest once Malcom was comfortably seated at his table. But then he clapped his hands to order a servant to fetch vittles and wine. “Dear boy, you must pardon me,” he said. “We’ve not had much cause of late to remember our manners.” Malcom blinked. It had been overlong since anyone had called Malcom a boy, but he let it pass, thinking Ersinius too old to rebuke. God knew, the man must be one-hundred if he were a single day, and if Malcom recalled aright, he was the one who’d come to Aldergh all those years ago to prepare him for his journey to court. He must have been sixty, even then.
Malcom sat back, studying the man’s demeanor, considering the wisdom in reminding Ersinius of their previous encounter. “You seem well enough called upon today,” he said, instead.
Ersinius swished a silk-robed hand. “Fish today, alesmen on Wednesdays. No one of any import.” But then he peered down at his long flowing sleeve, sweeping it about like a banner. “Do you like this?” he inquired. “A gift from… a dear, dear friend. Of course, you must know I am summoned now and again to call upon the king and I’d not show myself wearing rags.”
Malcom nodded. “Impressive,” he said, looking closer at the white on white pattern on the fabric as he wondered what “friend” had gifted such a rich cloth to a clergyman. “Is that dyaspin?”
The old man’s lips formed a lopsided grin. “Why, yes! Yes, it is,” he said, and he pointed to Malcom’s scarlet tunic. “I can see you’re a man well versed in his finery.” He tsked loudly. “Not all men are so discerning.” He studied the embroidery on Malcom’s tunic a long moment, then launched into a diatribe about the merits of good cloth, and more importantly, the critical matter of meticulous tailoring. “I do swear, some men believe they can appear before the highest court dressed in tatters. But, I say to you, how can any man ever be taken seriously who will not distinguish himself by his dress?”
Malcom nodded, considering the way his father had dressed. Ian MacKinnon had never concerned himself overmuch with the manner of his dress. Betimes he was grime-filled from head to toe after toiling long days in the fields with his clansmen. No man on this earth had ever distinguished himself more in Malcom’s eyes. He was as honorable as they came, and Malcom had cast him away without looking back, in favor of men wearing silk robes who would sooner put a knife in your back if they could. He’d learned a lot through his years of service and worldly dealings, but rather than finding himself enriched, he felt poorer for the knowledge. As for regrets, he had more than a few.
“’Tis much the same with God, dear boy. He sees everything we do. If we cannot honor him in all things, how can we ever hope to be taken to heart?”
“Aye,” Malcom said, though he thought it all a load of shite. The God he knew was gracious to poor and rich alike. But considering that he wanted something from this man, he was not quite prepared to put him on his toes.
He waited patiently, listening to Ersinius ramble on about how women were not the only ones who could sew a fine, straight seam, and he named an entire entourage of male seamsters all by name—none of which Malcom recognized. So this is how the chaplain spent his hours of prayers, memorizing the names and merits of seamsters? The very notion left Malcom bored and ready to rise. However, he listened patiently until the wine and vittles were placed before him, before inquiring.
“Speaking of women… I am told….” He ate a slice of cheese, leaving the chaplain to hang on his words. “I’m told I may find five lovely ladies in your keeping?” And he watched the man out of the corner of one eye.
The chaplain frowned. “Ladies?” he said, aghast. Suddenly discomposed, he lifted up the flagon and sloshed wine into Malcom’s goblet, then filled one for himself.
Malcom hitched his chin.
“Here?”
“Aye.”
And to be sure, the chaplain asked again, raising his goblet and pausing with the glass in midair, his white brows furrowing dubiously. “At Llanthony?” he asked, his voice rising, and breaking with the pitch.
Malcom shrugged, as though the answer couldn’t possibly matter. “’Tis what I’m told, father.”
Shaking his head, Ersinius swallowed the entire contents of his glass. “Ah, well… no, no, no!” he said, sounding perfectly horrified by the prospect. He sat back now, a bit less jovial and set his glass down, turning it around and around and around on the wooden table. “And, tell me, have you any business with these… ladies?”
Malcom picked up a slice of mutton and put it into his mouth—well flavored and tender. “Aside from a mild curiosity? Nay, father.”
The man seemed to relax before Malcom’s eyes. “Alas, but nay. We are ill prepared to cater to aught but the needs of our men—good men, every one. I assure you.”
Malcom nodded.
“Did you know that I once counseled King Henry’s first wife? A very pious lady. Very pious.” Without any segue, he carried on. “No girls here,” he said, “No girls anywhere at all on these premises—although we did have an emissary from Matilda once, a Brian Fitz Count. Do you know that man?”
He watched Malcom then, very shrewdly, as though to gauge his reaction.
“I do,” Malcom said, reassuring himself that the chaplain could have no inkling of Stephen’s intentions toward Wallingford. Or did he, perhaps?
Licensed by the king to enforce his law and guard against insurrection, the Rex Militum was a secret league, known to but a few. But he realized that some of the priories were used to breed select pigeons and ravens for communications… and he wondered if somehow Ersinius might have been able to intercept one…
Ersinius gave him a thin-lipped smile. “Well, yes, I’m certain you do,” he said. “But, of course, I cannot say why he has come, though I assure you it had little to do with the Empress herself. He was here one day, gone the next.” He poured himself another tall glass of vin and Malcom had the impression that if he left the man to drink and gab, he would prattle on about everything he knew.
So, then, Fitz Count had come, after all. Evidently, Malcom had missed him—fortunately for Wallingford—and more so now that Malcom was otherwise occupied, because the price on Wallingford’s head was the last thing on his mind.
Malcom took his time and ate what he had been served before asking, offhandedly, “So you have no women on these premises at all?”
“Of course not!” exclaimed Ersinius. And then he chortled and added, “Even the most pious of us would be hard-pressed to focus on our ministries—if you know what I mean?” He winked at Malcom in an exaggerated fashion, his cheeks growing fiery red, like two plump red apples.
“Indeed, I do,” Malcom said with an answering grin. And the chaplain seemed so sincere that seeds of doubt once again began to creep into Malcom’s head. Lifting a hand to his shoulder, he sought the evidence again, thinking Ersinius too old—and too arrogant—to be shrewd.
What was more, the man had no qualms over revealing all the names of his notable guests, or showing Malcom all his frivolous expenditures—even recounting those Malcom couldn’t see.
“Have you seen our new windows, dear boy?” he asked gleefully. “Waldglas, ’tis called. Made in Deutschland.” He fluttered his fingers. “But, of course, Stephen could equip an entire army for the cost—more’s the pity, we’ve now had to replace the large one in the vestibule twice.” He arched a brow and gave Malcom a discerning nod. “Perhaps this, after all, is the true reason you’ve come? I sent a bitter complaint to His Grace. One of my men saw some wretched brat scurry into those woods. But you can be sure he did not act alone. These damned Welsh, to send a boy to do what a man would not dare.”
Malcom seized the opportunity. “Aye, father,” he said. “I am well aware of your troubles here.”
Malcom had long suspected the skirmishes were in protest over the appropriation of Welsh land used for the priory’s construction. Its proprietors had lost sacks full of gold repairing the chapel, and the constant harrowing was under
mining Stephen’s efforts with the Marcher lords—particularly now with Matilda’s allies creeping around begging for support.
Chugging the contents of his glass, he set down the cup. “Would you mind if I had a look about? I hope to locate your vandals and be away, so I may report to the King.”
The frown lines eased from the chaplain’s brow. “But, of course not, my dear boy! You must do what you must. I would love to find and flog that little heathen who dared desecrate God’s house.”
Malcom smiled thinly, remembering again the chaplain who’d sat before him at Aldergh, his smile cruel. Your father does not want you, dear boy, but your God and your king surely do. He’d shut his mouth after that, and spoke not another word.
“I don’t know, father. I would suppose God himself would have you sooner forgive—would he not?”
The man blinked. His face flushed, until it turned purple, and then he recomposed himself. “Well… perhaps. However… according to Holy Scripture, ‘He that spareth the rod hateth the son: but he that loveth the son chasteneth him betimes.’ I consider it my greatest duty to love sinners the same as I do the devout.”
Equal opportunity punishment, Malcom thought. “Of course,” he said, eager to be away. He stood now, and the chaplain stood after him, looking for the first time ill at ease.
Malcom said, proffering his hand, “Thank you, good father, for nourishing this sinner at your table. I hope you will pardon my haste.”
“So soon?” the old man asked. He grasped Malcom’s forefinger, shaking it feebly with trembling hands. “But I hoped you might linger awhile, give news of court?”
“Another time,” Malcom said as he made for the door. The chaplain followed, his rickety old legs hard-pressed to keep up. He was already out of breath even before they crossed the threshold. Once outside, Malcom bade him, “Would you care to join me, father?”
The King's Favorite (Daughters of Avalon Book 1) Page 19