Page 22 of The Daughters of Avalon
Leave it be, Elspeth.There were more urgent matters to tend to anyway. His wound was festering, and she marveled that he could have ridden all this way without so much as a complaint.
Considering her own foul temper, all day long, she felt abashed. He’d had far more reason to grouse than she did, and he never did once.
In fact, most of the time he’d answered her own complaining with good humor, and for all his poor judgment in sovereigns, he seemed to be a decent man. Realizing he needed intervention, she stared at his wound, hesitating….
She could heal him now if she chose to… and she did wish to. But the last thing she meant to do was to reveal herself this way. She could see it now—the marvel in his eyes when the wound closed before his eyes, and then afterward, once clarity returned, and the wonder and gratitude subsided, he would revile her, calling her a witch and a devil.
A thousand lifetimes might pass, and Elspeth wouldneverforget the way those people had treated her grandmamau, tossing stones to bash her head, even as the flames had engulfed her.
Tears pricked at her eyes, and she pushed the image away, focusing on Malcom’s wound. Pressing the blood-soaked cloth against his skin, she considered what Seren might do…
Her sister had a true gift for healing. Elspeth now found herself lamenting the fact that she’d not learned more of her skills—as well as her temperament. Her middle sister was far more even tempered than she was. Indeed, she could have been their father’s favorite, save for the simple fact that she had not yet grown into her wit and beauty before Henry’s death. As often as her father had lamented Matilda and Elspeth could not exchange places, he would have found himself bemoaning it all the more with Seren. Matilda was too willful, he’d so often said—and once, when Elspeth was ten, she’d witnessed her father’s fury over Matilda’s bad temper. Cursing the day his eldest daughter was begot, he’d hurled his crown after her departure.
“Don’t be like her,” he’d said once she was gone.
But, as was the case with all her sisters, Elspeth found she could not help but admire her eldest, who, by the age of twelve had already wed a holy Roman emperor, and who, at three and twenty, had stood before their haughty sire, unyielding in her resolve. Any lesser woman would never challenge Henry’s barons.
And, yet, make no mistake, her father had fully intended to install Matilda on his throne, for inasmuch as he’d loathed the fact that she could be so headstrong, he’d also said she was the only one of his children who was strong enough to keep his peace. As far as Elspeth was concerned, Henry would no more have abdicated his crown to his lying nephew than he wouldhave crowned a bastard son he’d loved so well—not whilst he had a legitimate heir to pass the realm to.
So then, her cousin was a liar. For all those years she’d spent at court, he’d been a boot licker, bowing to every word her father said.“Yes, your grace, no, your grace.”And then, behind Henry’s back, he’d worked his wiles the same way Morwen did. There was little wonder those two were close.
In truth, Elspeth suspected they’d been in cahoots from the beginning, and if that were true, her mother might also be responsible for her father’s death. After all, it was Morwen who’d introduced Henry to those eels, and it was she, as his mistress, not his wife, Adeliza of Louvain, who’d been with him on the day he’d died. If it be the last thing Elspeth did, she intended to discover what treachery befell her father… and perhaps not today, or tomorrow, but someday, her sister would return to England, and she would not stop until she wore their father’s crown.
In the meantime, Elspeth’s loyaltiesmustremain absolute. She didn’t know how or when, but she fully intended to join her sister’s crusade, and considering that—and the fact that she would be remiss to reveal herself and take any chance of failing Matilda—she continued to clean Malcom’s wound, wiping away the last traces of blood and grime.
So, nay, she decided. She would not heal him now. First, she would advise him to cauterize it. “You are fortunate,” she said, after a while. “The wound is deep, and it festers a bit, but it will heal. I would put a hot blade to it as soon as you can.”
He sought her gaze, his blue-green eyes gleaming. “We haven’t any fire,” he said. “I did not mean to kindle one… not if we intend to call upon Amdel…”
It was a question, Elspeth realized.
Evidently, he was leaving the decision up to her. If she wished for him to seek refuge there, he would do so. She handedhim back the towel, but she did not mean to say what she said next. “Kindle a fire. I will help you cauterize your wound.”
Chapter
Ten
There was a wealth of meaning in the look they shared. Malcom took the blood-soaked rag from Elspeth’s hands, grateful for her ministrations. “Art certain, lass?”
She shook her head, but said, “Aye.” And despite the mixed message, Malcom wouldn’t argue. He no more wished to call upon Amdel than he cared to lick Beauchamp’s arse.
“A fire it is,” he said. Let it be done. He would build a fire, here on chartered lands, and leave his business with Beauchamp for another day—that suited him fine.
And nevertheless, although he was relieved by Elspeth’s choice, some part of him mistrusted her reason why. Already, she’d attempted to steal his horse, not once, but twice; he could but surmise she meant to try again. And regardless, he would take that any day over sharing a cup of grittyvinwith Beauchamp.
For the sake of modesty, he rose and put on his gambeson, intending to wash theshertein the burn—just in case Elspeth changed her mind. If later he were forced to face Beauchamp, he’d prefer to be wearing a wet, cleansherte, over one stained with his own blood.
“Art hungry?”
“What about your wound?”
“Not now.”
She frowned at him, and more than ever, Malcom wanted to ask: Who was she, and why was she so reluctant to confess anything to him? Why now had she decided to avoid Amdel?
However, for the moment, until he knew what she intended, he didn’t want her anywhere near his bare flesh with a hot blade. God’s truth, no matter his opinion of Beauchamp, he didn’t know very many ladies who’d give up the chance for a bath and a change of clothes—particularly since her manner of dress did not suit her. The breeches were far too tight, and the tunic was overlarge, and she’d fidgeted uncomfortably all-day long. Perhaps she’d taken his warning about Beauchamp to heart, but then again, what did he know? She might easily have more to lose than he did by allowing herself to be discovered by someone like Beauchamp. He sighed, and considering the answers to these questions, Malcom chose a spot to construct the fire—a location well concealed from prying eyes. So far, it boded well enough that Beauchamp’s men had yet to confront them, and it was growing late enough to hide the smoke from their fire.
Once the flames were burning evenly, he hobbled Merry near the burn, where she could graze and drink freely, and then he left his strange new troupe to hunt for supper.
