Page 32 of The Daughters of Avalon
At first glance, she could tell that the fortress had been erected on the remnants of an old Roman stronghold. It was easy to see where the old stone left off and the new construction had begun. The outer walls were made from timber and remained half-burnt on the east side. A new stone wall had begun construction on the inside of the motte, encircling the edifice. When it was finished, there would be enough mortared stone to build the entirety of Blackwood.
The lord’s standard flew from a half-constructed gatehouse—a bright red hawk with wings spread over a midnight sky. She turned to peer at the charred timber as they passed.
Of course, it was quite possible that this was one of the strongholds besieged by her sister. Matilda’s last bastion in England had been Devizes Castle in Wiltshire, not so far as the ravens flew, but she’d been beleaguered enough there, attempting to maintain the stronghold, and in the end, with Robert’s death, she’d abandoned it to her son.
But nay, rather, Elspeth had more the sense that work here had been waylaid—perhaps for lack of funds? Or mayhap Stephen finally raised a hand against adulterine castels?
Without a word, the gatehouse sentry waved them forward, and Malcom did not linger to speak to the man as he ventured into the lord’s bailey. Elspeth had a keen sense he had been here before, and such would be the case, since he’d already confessed to her that the lady herein was his intended.
Was she beautiful?
Well, even if she was, why should that matter to Elspeth? And nevertheless, it soured her mood—as though it could be sourer.
Art jealous, Elspeth?
Of course not.
Why should she be? She barely knew this man. More importantly, she should be concerned all the more that he would consider fostering an alliance with the lord of this demesne.
And, really, Elspeth, ’tis not as though you are his bride.
None of this was real. It was all but a consequence of the spell her sister had cast. If she’d met Malcom without benefit of the enchantment, he could well have run her through with his sword—because, isn’t that what warriors did?
What a travesty this was, but at least now, for the first time since leaving Llanthony, she was far more preoccupied worrying about herself than she was about her sisters.
In the middle of the bailey, Merry Bells came to a halt, and it seemed to her that, like roaches, men suddenly crawled out from beneath their spaces and flew at them from every direction.
A groomsman came to take their horse, but Malcom hesitated, until the donjon doors flew wide and a well-dressed man sauntered out to greet them. Dressed all in black, the man hurried across the lord’s bailey, his aura reaching Elspeth long before the man did, and his telling blue eyes gave her a punch to the gut.
“William,” said Malcom in greeting.
Their patron nodded. “Malcom.”
And yet, despite the use of given names, there was nothing amiable about the exchange. Perhaps after all, Rhiannon’s spell had saved Malcom from an unwanted alliance. For all that they seemed familiar, he didn’t appear to bear Beauchamp any kindness—but then, again, hadn’t he said that he detested the man? Obviously, this was true.
Malcom slid off his horse, and Elspeth daren’t follow. Leaving her seated for the moment, Malcom removed his saddlebags, casting the heavy leather satchels over his shoulder.
Instinctively, Elspeth drew his cloak more firmly about her person, pinching it in front of her tunic to hide her Llanthony sigil, despite that she’d already hidden it from view. She wished to God that she could hide her breeches as well.
The lord of Amdel inclined his head toward her, giving Elspeth a long look, veiled with disapproval. “My lady,” he said curtly, then quickly dismissed her, returning his attention to Malcom, and offering with a bit of reproach, “I am told good wishes are in order.”
Malcom gave the man a curt nod. “They are, indeed,” he said, finally reaching up to assist Elspeth. In the brief instant their gazes met, his blue-green eyes beseeched her to remain silent, and Elspeth had no trouble complying. But though she had no desire to dismount, his arms compelled her to do so, and keeping herself covered as best as she could, she once again slid into his embrace. Once she was down, on her feet, Malcom handed the horse’s reins to the groomsman, and he took Elspeth by the hand, warning her with a gentle squeeze. In answer, Elspeth squeezed him back and Malcom released her hand, then left her to follow, as he and the lord of Amdel fell into step beside one another, while Elspeth was left to walk behind.
Considering the circumstances, it was perhaps irrational that she might hope for more equitable treatment. Evidently, Scotsmen and Englishmen were not at all like the Welsh. They had not the same sensibilities where women were concerned. But, of course, Beauchamp would expect Malcom to treat her as any Englishman might treat his bride.
But he’s not really your husband, you silly fool.
Still, she chafed a bit as the two men spoke so familiarly, despite that Elspeth sensed so little amity between them, and once again, she had the most overwhelming urge to flee.
Even here, in the heart of the demesne, there was a darkness emanating from Amdel… and for a terrible, sinking moment, it seemed to Elspeth as though the door they walked toward could be an open maw, ready to devour them, flesh and bones.
Swallowing for courage, she fell into step behind the two chatting men.
“We had a bit of misfortune,” Malcom was saying. “I’m afraid my lady is in need of a new gown, and whatever else your sister might be kind enough to provide.”
They climbed the stairs into the donjon, and Elspeth took every step with uncertainty, though she daren’t fall behind.
“But, of course. Dominique is too kind to begrudge you aught,” the man was saying. “She would gladly welcome the opportunity to make your bride at home.”
