Page 60 of The Daughters of Avalon
Still, she was vexed with her sister for having beguiled a man—a good man.
And regardless, had she not taken the chance to do so, where would Elspeth be now? Stranded in the woods in Wales, or caught and returned to the priory to face her mother’s wrath?
Ambivalence was her constant companion—but where were her sistersright now?
With every minute that passed, she worried all the more. Had Malcom arrived at Llanthony in time? Did he have any opportunity to speak to them? Would he be successful in saving them? Had Ersinius somehow discovered Malcom’s intent and had him arrested? Could Malcom, even now, be caught in shackles? And what about her sisters? The questions were as endless as her worries.
She thought about the dream she’d had of Rhiannon in the tumbril and shuddered.
But perhaps that was only a dream, for Elspeth had never, ever had much of the sight, and there was nothing to say this vision had been aught more than a terrible fantasy wrought by her tired and anxious mind.
And nonetheless, Ersinius was no man to be trifled with. He had friends in very high places, and if he’d found himself headmaster of a priory, not an abbey, it was precisely as he’d intended. There was no doubt he would never wish to have more scrutiny from the Church than he had already. Nor would he care to answer directly to the Pope. As it was, Llanthony was an Augustinian priory answerable to an abbot many, many leagues away, and even the newly appointed Abbey Dore, with its Cistercian allegiance, was of little concern to him.
In truth, Elspeth had long wondered over his true mission in Ewyas, and found herself contemplating, precisely, who it was that Ersinius answered to… perhaps not to Stephen, after all? Or to Matilda, for in spite of the fact that he was quick to take her grants, theonlyperson he seemed to fear was… Morwen.
Don’t think of her. Don’t give her more power than she already has.
The hour must be nearTerce, she thought. By now, the villein would have been up sincePrimeorLauds, stoking the kitchen fires and seeing to their chores.
Dominique wouldn’t rise until it was time to break her fast. The schedule here was nothing like the priory, and neither did her lord brother seem overly pious. There would be no prayers at the chapel. If Alyss seemed a bit more devout, that was lost on her “guardian.” As if she didn’t have enough on her plate, Elspeth worried for that girl—and no less for herself.
Those birds Beauchamp kept were inauspicious. They were bred only in one place that she knew of:Llanthony.Brought there from distant lands. If Beauchamp owned one, it was because Morwen had given it to him.
It was with great relief that she heard the horn blow and she ran to the curtained window to look below. A single rider approached, on a shining black mare.
Malcom.
The more heconsidered his encounter with Rhiannon, the more Malcom feared, and it was a gut-wrenching fright he couldn’t shake.
He rode faster, pushing Merry Bells harder, even knowing it wasn’t in the animal’s best interest. Thank God he’d trained her for endurance. But if he didn’t drive her to death this day, he swore he’d keep an easier pace once he reclaimed Elspeth—only, please, God, keep her safe.
“Stay with me, lass,” he begged the mare, leaning close to her withers. He stroked her lovingly, even as he set his spurs to her flanks.
Naturally, he wanted to deny everything. Malcom wasn’t an overly pious man, and neither did he believe in faerie’s tales. And yet, it wasn’t possible for Rhiannon to have known the name his kinsmen gave him in his youth—hot head.Ceann Ràs.None of his English peers had ever known his Gael name because he’d cast it away like a dirty robe the instant he’d risen as lord of Aldergh. So determined he was to be his own man, and to shed the trappings of his youth, he’d made himself a new man, styling himself Malcom Scott.
Malcom Scott.
Not Malcom Ceann Ràs.
If his peers ever knew him else wise it was only as the Mad Scot—a nickname he’d earned not through the angst-filled fury of his youth, but because he’d fearlessly embraced every challenge set before him by his king. And yet, until now, he’d never known what it was to be afraid because he’d never once feared for himself. This terrible new feeling deep in the pit of his gut—it was not for himself, but for Elspeth, and the further he rode, the harder he rode, the more he sensed the advent of something worse than the war Rhiannon had portended.
Hie thee north.
Call your banners.
War is nigh.
Was Matilda returning with a new army? Was Scotia bound to join the fight? Were the northern barons even now renouncing their oaths?
If only Elspeth hadn’t spoken to him in the same fashion, he might have thought himself gone mad as a sack of ferrets. And now, if he believed all that he’d encountered with Rhiannon, hemust also wonder how much of his thoughts Elspeth could glean as well.
No matter, he told himself; whatever secrets should be known to her, that unsettling discovery took a low grade to the one he harbored deep in his gut: Somehow, this mistress of Stephen’s was far more than she appeared to be. Morwen was a danger to the realm.
God’s truth, he had never believed in witches—ordewines, or druids or whatever name they should like to be called—but they appeared to be as real as the sweat on his brow.
When finally he spotted Amdel’s turrets looming on the horizon, he felt a rush of relief—though not nearly the rush he would feel once he had Elspeth back in his keeping.
Relieved to find that Beauchamp’s men did not hurry out in droves to place him in shackles, he rode straight into the lord’s bailey, half expecting to have to draw his sword from his scabbard. He swung his leg over Merry Bells, riding on one stirrup.
