Page 17 of The Daughters of Avalon
With a flourish, the chaplain turned his back to Rhiannon, appeased by her sister’s deference. “In the meantime,” he said unapologetically, “empty stomachs and a cold bed should give you much to contemplate. Best you’d pray for your sister’s soul. She has endangered alliances.”
He dared to glance once more over his shoulder at Rhiannon, and said, before departing, “And you, wicked girl, best you speak your farewells whilst you can.”
“Farewells?” asked Seren, confused. But the chaplain closed the door on her question and Rhiannon held herself together until she heard the slam, then crumpled to the floor.
Chapter
Eight
It was early yet, but Merry Bells was spent, and barring another two or three hours of travel time—something neither the girl nor his horse could endure—their options were few. Up ahead, there was a small copse where Malcom made camp with his squire on the way south.
“There’s an inn nearby,” he said, shaking Elspeth to rouse her. “Alas, I would not recommend it to my worst enemy.”
After their most recent argument, they had formed a truce of sorts, and perhaps an easy camaraderie, though probably more due to the fact that Elspeth couldn’t seem to stay awake. “Really?” she asked drowsily. “So now I am your worst enemy?”
Malcom smiled. Even in slumber she had sass.
“So where are we going?”
“Well, lass… that’s what I am trying to determine.”
Elspeth rubbed sleepily at her cheek. “Whether I am your worst enemy? Or where you might prefer to deposit me?”
Malcom chuckled low. “Both,” he confessed, though, in truth, he had already begun to settle his heart on taking the lass all the way home to Aldergh. Strange that, but he felt a growing sense of obligation to her, and though he would do precisely as she badehim, he was beginning to loathe the idea of abandoning her to anyone else’s care. He had come to think himself her champion.
He sighed and scratched at the back of his neck, irritated by the biting midge.
Best case scenario: They would take a short respite, water the horse, eat perhaps, then nap, and awake early enough to arrive at Drakewich before dawn. Alas, that would mean asking Elspeth to nap on the cold, damp ground, and to persevere when she might not have the fortitude. She had been so weary all day long, and he rather missed her fury, because at least it kept her awake—not that he minded her lying against his shoulder. He could easily grow accustomed to the curves of her body, and he had begun to daydream about what it might be like to have himself a wife—daydreams he’d not ever entertained despite alliances proposed. Hoping for a little persuasion, he told her now, “Well,” he explained. “I had hoped to ride as far as d’Lucy’s.”
She stiffened. “D’Lucy?”
“The Earl of Drakewich,” Malcom explained, wondering over her reaction. “But we’ll not make it that far this evening. Instead, we could call upon Amdel.”
Was it his imagination? Or did the girl seem to relax in his arms.
“Amdel?”
“The seat of William Beauchamp,” Malcom explained. “’Tis another thirty minutes northeast.” He didn’t bother to add that they were still skirting the same man’s land—the one he’d claimed to detest. But despite his mild dislike of the man, his reluctance to call upon that demesne had less to do with any personal feelings he might have for its lord, and more because of his sister.
“Is he perhaps loyal to Stephen?”
“Aye, lass, he is.”
Elspeth nodded and said, “But, of course.”
It was becoming clear to Malcom that she had no love for their king. Nevertheless, she left it at that, and said nothing more. Malcom did not press.
Alas, he wished he did not but could well understand her woes. There were still many people who feared Stephen would never be strong enough, or wise enough, to forge a lasting peace. Already they’d suffered more than a decade of war, and England was little closer to peace. If Robert of Gloucester hadn’t died, or if Matilda had more money in her coffers, or even if Duke Henry had won a victory at Wiltshire, they would still be trading blows.
And despite the strides they’d made in the right direction, there could still be war to come, for he’d heard say that Stephen’s own brother, the Bishop of Winchester, was busy courting Matilda—a fact that boded no good, because it was the Bishop who’d handed Stephen the treasury and no doubt, he could take it back as well—diminished though it might be after thirteen years of warfare. And perhaps this was as it should be if, indeed, Stephen meant to crown his son. No honorable man under Stephen’s banner trusted King Stephen’s only son. But that was neither here nor there. Until such time as Stephen abdicated, Malcom was sworn to serve the man.
Alas, for the moment, they could travel no farther. At long last, he hoped he could persuade Elspeth to reveal something of her plans. She must have intended to go somewhere when she fled. He had business in Scotia, but he would try as best he could to see her safely to her destination. “I suppose we should discuss how farnorthyou mean to travel… unless you mean to go as far as I will go.”
Elspeth frowned over the question.
Sadly, she hadn’t any place to go. Blackwood was no longer the refuge of her kinsmen. London was her mother’s domain. And the priory was no longer a safe haven—if ever it had been. She wasn’t foolish enough to believe she could make it alone in a hostile land, but if she could, she would fly to Matilda.
Only now she realized that perhaps she and her sisters should have thought better of this plan before Elspeth fled the priory, with no more than the clothes on her back—not even her own at that. But if there was one blessing to be found, it was this: Wearing the layers of a man’s clothing, she didn’t feel so acutely aware of every muscle in Malcom’s body. Her thin, undyed wool gown would have spared her little, and, as it was, she was much too aware of every twitch.
