Page 52 of The Daughters of Avalon
She dressed herself in the beautiful gown Dominique gave her and hid the remainder of their garments under the bed, along with thehauberkMalcom 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 ruinedsherteand 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 theshertewas 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.
Hedidbelieve 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, theremustbe 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 aboy, 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. Ofcourse, 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. Butconsidering 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?”
