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.
“You are the eldest. ’Tis your responsibility. I have assured one and all that my mother’s wickedness has not spread to me or my daughters. Do not be tempted, Elspeth. Be certain your sisters are never tempted.”
“Aye mamau.”
And still she persisted. “Remember what happened to your grandmamau? This, too, will be your fate, and my fate, should you ever dare to defy me.”
“Aye mamau.”
“You will burn,” she’d continued angrily. “They will tie you to a wooden stake in front of all those laughing people, and no matter how you weep, they will burn you till your skin turns black and blisters off your bones.”
“Aye mamau.”
She squeezed Elspeth’s hand very cruelly. “Do you mean to bring your sisters harm?”
“Nay, mamau.
“Do you want to burn?” Elspeth didn’t answer quickly enough, and she squeezed her hand tighter and harder. “Do you?”
Elspeth swallowed, remembering her grandmother’s screams.
Nay Mamau!”
And all this while, as Elspeth was so diligent about keeping her sisters from indulging in the Craft, her mother was practicing the worst of the hud du.
Morwen was no White Witch. She was a child of the Death Crone whose beauty was only a glamour. She was a monster—a heartless, greedy beast. And this was an untenable position to be in—to have glimpsed such terror, and to know that a pythoness held her sisters’ destinies in her hand. Sweet, sweet fates! How could she ever have abandoned them? She was the eldest, and as the eldest she was responsible for them. She should have never allowed Rhiannon to convince her to leave. And now she wondered how much Rhiannon had known of their mother’s crimes. Her sister had been so desperate for Elspeth to go, but she must have believed she had it all in hand—or at least that’s what Elspeth hoped. Only now she wondered: Was it her intention all along to save them, and face Morwen alone?
Swallowing her grief, Elspeth understood now that their mother would stop at nothing to see her will done—including invoking the most hideous hud du. She had seen that clearly enough, and since none of her sisters would ever dare pay any such a price for the use of dark magik, none of them had any true recourse to fight Morwen alone.
Now Elspeth was at a loss as to what to do. And it wasn’t enough to simply warn them. She must find a way to remove them from the priory before Morwen arrived to claim them, and to do so, she must trust in Malcom’s good will—a man she had never set eyes upon before two days past.
Look to your champion…
Clearly, she was tormented, Malcom realized as he watched the play of emotions cross Elspeth’s features. But why? What could he do to help? More than any other time in his life, he felt driven to serve. Anything—literally anything he could do, he would, and he must.
But hadn’t he proven as much?
Inexplicably, his own father could be dying, and, yet, he was here, with her…
Nay, it wasn’t merely that he was enamored of her look, even though he was. And what a vision she was lying in that cloud of scarlet, her crimson dress pillowing beneath her.
“Elspeth,” he said gently. “Do you know what ails you?”
She nodded, and Malcom suffered a moment of dread as he recalled her sleepy demeanor over the past few days. It was as though she’d suffered some sleeping sickness.
He had taken her brusque manner as a matter of consequence of their meeting, but, in truth, he was no less ill-mannered when he awoke in the mornings. And now it seemed to him that she was perpetually waking, and she was either ill, and she knew it… or… maybe… breeding…
Carrying d’Lucy’s bairn?
Christ, no, please!
Of course, neither option appealed to him, and if the latter were true, he would be forced to reconsider his position. For all he knew, d’Lucy was an honorable man—as honorable as he could possibly be as a commander of the Rex Militum. He was more honorable than Malcom, in truth, because Malcom was certain the man had never murdered his own grandfather.
And regardless of who might be the better man, far be it from Malcom to keep any man from his own bairn—not even if the mother should be Elspeth… not unless she had a very good reason.
And then another thought occurred to him: What if the child wasn’t d’Lucy’s? Betimes women were cloistered when a child was conceived without benefit of marriage. Was this even possible? He’d heard so many tales of ladies who’d been cast away by their families or kept hidden until the unwanted child could be born.
But none of that made sense, because all five sisters were sequestered together, not only Elspeth. They couldn’t all be breeding. And yet, as much as he loathed to ask, he felt he must. “Is it possible you could be with child?” he asked, holding his breath for her answer.
“Nay!” she cried, and Malcom was instantly relieved to see her color. “I am not,” she said, with such consternation and surety that he felt reassured.
But something was wrong. He could see it in the depths of her bonny eyes and sense it in her demeanor. “You can trust me, Elspeth. I have pledged myself to aid you.”
He spoke his next words from the depths of his heart. “I will be your champion,” he said, and then again, to be sure she knew he meant it. “I will be your champion, Elspeth.”
For all the sins he’d ever committed, Malcom was determined to do right by this woman. Leaving her to fend for herself was simply not an option, nor did he trust Beauchamp with her welfare. And still she seemed unwilling to speak.
“Elspeth?” he pleaded.
She turned watery eyes to his shoulder, avoiding his gaze. “I’m afraid,” she said, and then swallowed. “What ails me… is naught so simple as a babe.”
And her gaze lingered over the spot where Malcom’s wound had once been… and it struck him then… the impossible truth.
Elspeth healed him. How was that possible? It was as though she’d done so by witchery.
And the answer entered his head, unbidden. Because that was the answer: witchery.
He’d met a woman in Scotia once; her name was Una. Much like Elspeth, there had been something surreal about her—nothing he could put a finger to name, but if you were around her for any length of time, strange things occurred: rising mists, objects appearing in one place when you left them in another, and generally small things that defied explanation but were too mundane to worry over. Ever since meeting Elspeth, there had been a number of unusual occurrences—like the clearing of that fog in the woods, and the simple fact that she had predicted it so easily—as though she had known… or perhaps even conjured it.
But, of course, those things could easily be explained away as luck or coincidence… except the wound on his shoulder… and if wished to pretend it didn’t happen, he had the damaged hauberk and sherte to prove otherwise.
She seemed so reluctant to continue, so Malcom reached out to clasp her hand. “Tell me what ails you, Elspeth…”
You would not believe me.
Malcom blinked, hearing that voice again… that strange voice he’d heard that morning in the woods—a soft murmur that sounded more as though it were a memory of a whisper at his ear. He did not avert his gaze. “I would,” he said, responding, as though she’d spoken.
Surprised, her gaze snapped up to meet his. Her pupils widened, then darkened, and for a long, long instant, the silence in the room was deafening.
At long last, she turned away from him, and said, “Morwen… she’s my mother. She’s—”
Malcom sat straight, daunted though he hadn’t anticipated it. “I know who she is,” he said. And still, as stunning as her disclosure might have been, he never expected what she revealed next.
“My father is King Henry.”
Malcom blinked. “Dead K
ing Henry?”
Elspeth nodded, furrowing her brow, her lips thinning with displeasure. “My sisters and I have been sequestered for thirteen years, forgotten, until now that my mother has use of me.”
Henry, Henry?
Not that Malcom meant to give her pause, but he allowed his hand to fall away from hers, only considering the king who’d once abducted him from his home as a wee boy of six. Henry Beauclerc was the reason Malcom agreed to fight Matilda. He could not in good conscience back a king—or queen—who would stoop to such an ignoble deed as to wrest a child from his home and use him for politikal means. It was also why he’d never felt any compunction over not serving David. The two kings—brothers by law—had schemed to put Malcom into Henry’s court so they could barter with Malcom’s father. Say what they would about Stephen, the man had a far nobler sense of justice, even if his virtue might, in fact, be responsible for prolonging this untenable war. But, least he didn’t have the blood of women and children on his hands.
Elspeth’s confession explained so much: her betrothal to d’Lucy, as well as her aversion to Stephen… and now he recalled what she’d said that morning he’d met her in the woods: My fath—Henry would turn in his grave to hear you say such a thing. She had evidently meant to say my father. Malcom had been too dull-witted to catch her slip. But, of course. Why else would five girls be ensconced in a well-endowed priory in Wales—a monastery run by King Henry’s old chaplain?
“And your sisters?”
She nodded again, though now she would not face him, perhaps afraid to meet his gaze. “We are all daughters of Henry,” she confessed. “Daughters of Morwen. Daughters of Avalon as well.” And then she buried her face in her hands and wept.
Chapter 19
Elspeth sobbed quietly.
For better or worse, now the truth was spent. She had confessed herself to this man—this stranger who’d been placed in her path—her champion so Rhiannon had claimed.
After all, she’d placed herself—and her sisters—at risk, and for all their differences, she should not be trusting this man, or any man.
She couldn’t look at him now for fear of the repulsion she’d spy in his eyes, for Elspeth was truly someone to be reviled according to the faith of this land.
And what was more, she was kin to a king whose daughter Malcom fought so vehemently to oppose—in favor of a blackguard who’d stolen her father’s throne.
For that matter, despite his pretty title, he was a Scots-born mercenary, who’d sworn his allegiance to her cousin. If he should decide to forsake her here and now, there would be naught she could do. For all that was said and done, theirs was an impossible bond.
Once again, Malcom placed a hand on hers, reassuring her, and Elspeth dared to lift her gaze to his, tears glistening in her eyes. Only, by the look on his face, she realized that, somehow, he had already gleaned so much of what she’d yet to say.
Could it be that he would not revile her? Could it be that despite their differences, he would stand for her? Look to your champion, Rhiannon had said. Look to your champion.
Daring to trust him, Elspeth willed Malcom to open his heart to the truth, because she understood now that if she didn’t place herself at his mercy, she would remain powerless to do aught to help her sisters. For better, or worse, he was her champion in truth.
“You healed my wound,” he said, acknowledging his suspicions, and it wasn’t a question, Elspeth realized.
She nodded soberly. “Whilst you slept.”
He studied her a long moment, shaking his head. “I would not believe it had I not witnessed it with my own two eyes. Witchery, I presume?”
Elspeth winced. She didn’t like that word, but mostly because of what it meant to others. She was a dewine, a child of the Earth Mother—a Maiden pledged to the hud. But for all he knew of the Craft, witchery was as good as any word she might use.
Taking a deep, deep breath, she confessed it all. All the while, Malcom listened… with a hand to his shoulder, rubbing idly at the spot where his wound had been, as though requiring proof.
But of course he would! It was not something he could swiftly embrace.
Only fearing she would lose her nerve if she stopped to consider what she was doing, she rushed on to tell him the rest—everything, everything, including the vision she’d had about her mother and her sister. Alas, some things were greater than the sum of one, she realized—or even five—and now she understood that Morwen was building herself a dynasty unlike any that Cerridwen had ever aspired to, and unless she and her sisters prevented it, Morwen, herself, would someday rule Britain. Her poppets would be kings.
To all her revelations, Malcom merely listened, and if he believed she could be tetched in the head, he didn’t say so. To the contrary, he seemed to be taking her seriously, and when Elspeth told him about her vision, the color drained from his face. “Do you know where she could be?”
“En route to the priory, I presume.”
He made a gesture toward his head, then tapped a finger at his temple and twirled them. “Can’t you warn your sisters, somehow? Speak to their minds, as you did with me?”
Elspeth shook her head, frowning. “It doesn’t work that way, Malcom. Though I am quite certain they already know. Even if Rhiannon has not seen it, Morwen was bound to hie there as soon as she learned. We knew the very day I left that she was bound to go.”
He rubbed at his chin, considering all that she’d said. “I have heard much tittle-tattle about your mother, though I never believed it.”
“Aye, well, you must believe it,” Elspeth told him. “She is treacherous and there is much more I could say, but I would not have you look at me the same way you would look at her.”
“I see,” he said, raking a hand through his hair.
“I am not some evil sorceress, Malcom… I am a dewine,” she explained. “Born of the blood of Avalon. I cannot turn anyone into a toad, nor can I create something from nothing.”
His brow furrowed. “What can you do?”
Elspeth shrugged. “Not as much as my sister, more than you.”
“That tells me naught, spinner of words.” He smiled. And yet despite the smile, his blue eyes were full of turmoil—believing her, not believing her. But, thankfully, he did not seem to be afraid of her, because it was fear that was ultimately responsible for all the atrocities men had committed against her people. But he was conflicted, she realized, and his eyes needed to see to believe.
Resigning herself to the fact that most men were not born to comprehend this long-buried part of their beings, Elspeth prepared to show him. But there was only so much she could do without a proper ritual. Still, determined to win him, she held his gaze, willing him to believe, and without any movement on her part, she cast out the torches—all of them—bathing the room in shadows.
“Did you do that?”
“Aye.”
In the darkness, she heard him swallow, and then and only then did she return the flames to the torch, but only to one—the one closest to the door.
And just to be sure, she fed the remaining torch her force, until the flames rose high enough to lick the ceiling, brightening the room so it looked like the inside of a kiln. Only after she was satisfied that he understood it was her doing, she returned the flame to its natural state, and revived the cressets. With a furrowed brow, Malcom peered up at the ceiling, at the black soot she’d left behind and stared in wonder. But, lest he mistake the truth, she said, “I am little different from you, Malcom. We are both children of the Goddess, save that you and your people have forgotten her, and she has forsaken you. You must believe in magik, or it cannot exist.”
“And your song?”
“All true, though men will doubt it—as you must doubt me.”
He rubbed his brow. “I cannot say I am clear on the particulars,” he confessed. “But I do not doubt you, Elspeth. Only tell me what you need of me, and I have said I would help.”
Tears of gratitude sprang to her eyes.
“Thanks to my sister, I cannot return to Wales,” she confessed. “So I must ask it of you in my stead.”
He dropped his hand into his lap. “You want me to go back to Wales?”
Elspeth nodded. “To Llanthony,” she explained, and, with a dull ache in her heart, she reached out, brushing a hand over Malcom’s forehead, over his scar, begging him, despite knowing full well that this one bit of guile was the one charm no woman should ever abuse. And yet she was desperate, and she would give anything—including her body—if Malcom would but champion her sisters as well. “I would have you bring them north,” she said.
He was quiet a long moment, and then his lips curved ever so slightly. “How far north? he asked, and Elspeth dared to grin, realizing he was jesting with her.
“As far north as you mean to go,” she said, withdrawing her hand, but he placed his hand over hers, pressing her palm to his face, and sliding it to his cheek. Despite his moment of good humor, he said very soberly, “You would have me interfere in my king’s affairs?”
Elspeth begged with her eyes. “I cannot abandon my sisters,” she said. “If you will not go, I must try.” And then, rising to her knees on the bed, she looked Malcom straight in the eyes.
She didn’t know what it was she meant to say… or do… but she would do or say anything to sway him. “Please, Malcom…”
Like an angel’s touch, the hand on Malcom’s cheek compelled him—and even more irresistible was the way she regarded him, with those watery violet eyes.
God’s truth, he didn’t know how or why, but he was bound to this woman, for better or worse, and he was beginning to fear it would be for the worst. Cael d’Lucy. King Stephen. Morwen. The list of his potential enemies was growing by the second.
A maelstrom of thoughts whirred through his brain—confusing thoughts he daren’t give credence or voice to… but one thing he was not confused about was the way he felt about Elspeth.
She sat before him, as bewitching as any siren, her crimson gown spilling behind her, and her golden-red curls catching the torchlight like copper threads.
The Daughters of Avalon Collection: Books 1 & 2 Page 17