Page 80 of The Daughters of Avalon
“There you are,” she said, smiling. “My beautiful, beautiful lady.” And then she stood, petting the long black mane, thinking about the rest of her vision and what it could possibly mean. She never even heard the approaching footsteps; she was so lost in thought.
If Cora knewElspeth’s whereabouts, she was in no condition to say. Malcom had a deep sense of foreboding that only intensified as he untangled Elspeth’s blue gown from about the maid’s arms and he felt a rush of relief when her husband finally arrived. He slid Cora into Alwin’s arms, and directed him, “Put her in my bed. I’ll send for the physician.”
“Aye, my lord,” the man said gratefully, lifting up his injured wife. He bore the maid into the lord’s chamber, as Malcom rushed away, with the intent of locating his wife. He bolted down the steps, taking them two at a time, and stopped cold as an image arose in his mind—Merry Bells in the stables, her face spattered with blood. And there was Elspeth.
A sense of portent overwhelmed him—a sense so powerful he couldn’t ignore it.
There were times in his life that he’d had moments of this ilk. So often he’d denied them, as most people would. It was only after meeting Elspeth that he realized these were not to be ignored. He felt it now, like a summons… and he knew it as surely as he knew… Elspeth was in danger.
She was in the stable.
With a growing knot of apprehension in his gut, he hurled himself down the tower stairs, his heart pounding like hammer and steel against his ribs. He raced through the hall, ordering one of Cora’s daughters to see to the physician. He rushed from the keep, and when he burst into the stables, the sight that greeted him buckled his knees—blood, everywhere.
So much blood. Blood on the stall, blood on Merry Bells. Blood on Elspeth.
Chapter
Twenty-Nine
Blood-spattered though she was, his wife was unharmed. She stood, looking as dumbfounded as Malcom, staring at Merry Bells, whose black coat was dappled with blood.
Daw—or what remained of Daw—lay on the ground between them, trampled to death.
Elspeth turned to face him, her eyes round and filling with tears as Malcom rushed to embrace her. “You came,” she said woodenly, still in shock.
“Elspeth.” He hugged her, then brushed a hand across her forehead, smearing blood from her face. “What in God’s name happened?”
Her gaze was filled with confusion. “I… I don’t know… He—” She looked down at Daw. “He… attacked me. And he said… He told me that Morwen had sent him and...” Her gaze lifted to Merry Bells. “Merry Bells saved me.”
The mare stood placidly, and if there had once been blood lust in her gaze, it was gone. She blinked serenely, staring at Malcom with calm, ebony eyes.
Once again, Malcom peered down at the barely recognizable body, misshapen in the hay at his feet. But no sooner hadElspeth finished her explanation when they heard the blast of a horn—three short wails.
Malcom’s first thought was that his cousin must have returned—but nay, for that alone, his men would never have presumed a call to arms.
One by one,crimson tents arose on Aldergh’s parklands, mottling the landscape, like blood-spray across their fields.
Recognizing the obvious signs of a siege—troops in formation, supply wagons incoming, and the sound of hammering wood—Malcom watched the event unfold with no small degree of trepidation.
He had been a part of too many sieges not to know what they looked like and sounded like. But this strike had come so swiftly that Stephen must have ordered it the minute he heard news of Malcom’s intervention, all without ever having heard Malcom’s explanations, or bothering with an attempt at negotiation. Considering these truths, perhaps Malcom shouldn’t have been so surprised to find it was Eustace’s banner that flew in tandem with the royal standard.
The King’s son was not an admirer of Malcom’s, and it was no secret to anyone that Malcom believed Stephen afforded his son too much power. Of course Eustace would seize any opportunity to oppose him. But what did surprise him was that Stephen would forsake him so easily, giving leave to his miscreant son to campaign against him, when only three weeks ago, he had stood in his presence, and assigned him the most sensitive task in all the land—the assassination of Brian Fitz Count, the lord of Wallingford.
So, then, was this what eleven years of loyalty had earned him?
By late afternoon, a good thousand men had already gathered over Aldergh’s parklands, with hundreds more filtering in by the hour. For the time being, they remained outside missile range.
At the first sign of hostilities, most of hisvilleinhad rushed for the gates. The fortress was now locked and sealed—front and postern gates. Anyone remaining outside would be forced to take their chances. He knew there were a few old folks who would stay with their homesteads and livestock, particularly since, in truth, this was not the enemy that descended upon them. It was their king, and with a simple word, Malcom himself had become an enemy to the crown.
Thankfully, if there was one thing Malcom trusted about the man he’d served more than ten years: This siege would be long and slow, with every attempt made to come to terms.
Alas, if Stephen should insist upon Elspeth’s return, Malcom would never release her without a fight, and if that should be the case, Stephen would find him well prepared.
It wouldn’t be the first time his king gave up on a siege, and Malcom had taken an example from Wallingford, himself, hoarding supplies for years in the event of an advance by Matilda. After all, she was her uncle’s favored candidate for the throne and Malcom’s demesne lay far, far to the north. So far, in fact, that it should have taken weeks for Stephen to gather his men and march north. While it was certainly possible for a small number of riders to reach Aldergh, he would have had to draw forces from surrounding lordships—men that Malcom had once called compatriots.
How swiftly the tides turned.
Whatever the case, the sight before them was proof of two things: Morwen’s ravens were inordinately efficientcommunicators; and Stephen was, indeed, far too easily influenced by his son.
