Malcolm'S Honor (Historical, 519) (10 page)

Well, she would show them. She might be a woman born, but she was warrior trained. Peter would not hesitate were he alive, and neither would she.

“This way.” She drew her sword, as they did, and followed Malcolm through the gate. “The kitchens.” She gestured at the stone building ahead, tucked against the curtain wall and the towering keep. “There is a door just to the right. Follow me.”

Malcolm could see the devastation. Workshops had been laid to ruin, littering the bailey with wood and thatch and broken furniture. He scanned the yard and the crenellations above. He saw no sign of guards closing in on them, but he could sense the danger.

Elin led them through the deep shadows between the
wall and the kitchen. He heard the creak of a steel hinge. “In here.”

She could be leading them into a trap. But he had to follow her. He would risk this and more for his king.

Spices and smoked meats scented the air. The boards beneath his feet creaked as Elin led them past the buttery and into the kitchen. No fire burned in the pit and no light glowed in the room.

Then he heard the scrape of a leather shoe upon stone. Something stirred in the darkness. Had the woman betrayed them? He caught her shoulder and dragged the sword from her grip. She fought him, but he shoved her back to Giles.

He should not have trusted her, but she had gotten them into the keep. He pushed aside his disappointment in her and took another guarded step. He could not tell how many warriors hid in the dark, ready to attack.

“Pray, do not harm me,” a thin voice called through the blackness. “I am but an old woman. If the Great One wants a meal, I'll heat him one.”

“Light a candle.” Malcolm's demand echoed against the high ceiling above.

A single flame flared to life, illuminating that end of the kitchen. He saw no fighters, but only a frail old woman with dried blood at her temple.

“Florie!” Elin tore past him and into the woman's outstretched arms. “What have they done to you? I'll make those brutal pigs pay for hurting you.”

“I thought you were gone!” Tears leaked from the old woman's eyes. “Linus said your father sold you to pay his passage across the channel. We mourned never seeing you again!”

“
What?
Why, that no good—”

So, she had not betrayed them.
Yet.
Malcolm held the
small sword out to Elin. “Talk later. We have no time to waste.”

Light brushed her face as she looked at him, and her beautiful eyes betrayed her fear—her fear of him. His chest tightened.

She took the sword he offered. “See? I did not betray you. No doubt those mercenaries would want me dead, too.”

“Or worse.” He would not feel guilty. He'd seen the deceptive side of this traitor's daughter. He addressed the old woman. “Tell me the name of their leader.”

The crone trembled. “His men call him the Great One.”

“Rees the Great?” Could it be the same man? Black fury blinded Malcolm. “That whoreson tried to turn Edward over to the Saracens. I gave up a year of my life to those bastards. Where is he?”

“Malcolm.” Giles stayed his sword. “We will kill the great betrayer later, after our men have joined us. To do it now would be suicide.”

“I care not. Where is he?”

The old woman paled. “He sleeps in the lord's solar. 'Tis up the main stairs from the great hall—”

Long had he waited to get his hands on that betrayer. Malcolm dove out the door, sword raised in one hand, spike in the other. “Giles, Justus, keep an eye on Elin.”

“This way to the sally port.” She dodged in front of him, graceful even now, when his vision was distorted by rage.

“You will lead the men there.” A year of torture he'd endured in the Outremer. Now the time had come to avenge that suffering, and if it cost his life, then so be it. 'Twas a price he'd willingly pay.

“Hold,” he ordered in a whisper, but Elin darted ahead, drawing the attention of a guard.

He spread the alarm with a shout, and a weapon glinted.

“Go!” Malcolm commanded. “Carry out our mission. The gate must be lowered.”

The guard lunged, and Malcolm met his blade stroke for stroke. He heard the drum of more boots on the wall overhead. He thrust hard, and his blade dropped the mercenary to the ground.

“Go!” He caught a glimpse of Elin hesitating at the door to the keep, mouth open and eyes wide. He saw Giles pull her by the arm into the keep and out of sight. Malcolm swallowed, raising his sword. A dozen warriors raced down the stairs toward him. His meeting with Rees the Great would have to wait.

More mercenaries descended, and he was alone with them. He kept his sword ready, and the wall at his back.

“Death to you, le Farouche!” one enemy shouted, and he was the first to attack.

Malcolm blocked and thrust, and his blade sank deep into the enemy's abdomen. But another attacked, then another. He swung and parried.

“
I
will not leave.” Giles joined him, sword ringing as it struck a foe's. “Justus and the men will complete our mission.”

“'Tis death to stay.” Malcolm dodged a lethal thrust and wielded one of his own.

“I have not met death at your side yet, my friend.”

There were too many armed men descending upon them. Alas, that meant success for his knights. These heathens had not spied the forces gathering in stealth at the back of the keep, or they would not be fighting him in the inner bailey.

 

“We cannot leave him!” Elin fought against Justus's grip as he dragged her up the narrow steps. Stone bit into
her shin as she tried to break away. “He is outnumbered. We must help.”

“We must follow his orders.” Justus hauled her up the stairs after him. “I cannot stomach abandoning him, but he knows what he does. He is the great le Farouche. He alone saved Edward from a thousand Saracens. He alone.”

“'Tis only a tale. He is made but of flesh and bone like any man, and if they kill him, I'll probably end up married to Caradoc. Even Malcolm is a better choice.” Elin batted at the tears in her eyes. “They
will
kill him, Justus.”

He hung his head, releasing his steely grip on her sleeve. “I cannot disobey him. I
cannot!
”

“Then send back the one with the crossbow.” What was wrong with this man, that he would abandon Malcolm to certain death? “One archer can take out many warriors.”

“'Tis a wise strategy.” In the dim stairwell, Justus eyed her cautiously. “Lulach, take your bow and hurry.”

“But who will protect our men as they storm the castle?”

“I will.” Elin saw the doubt on the knights' faces and pitied these men their ignorance. “I know where the weapons are stored. I'll take a crossbow and enough arrows to fell every one of these vicious murderers.”

Tears twisted in her throat, for in truth she did not know if she could make good on her promise.

“Then go, Lulach,” Justus commanded. “Elin, let us arm you first. We'll need the power of a crossbow before we lower the bridge.”

Air caught in her chest and hurt with every breath she took. How scared she was. But she kept up to the trained knights. They dashed up flights of stairs and down corridors. She gave directions to the sally port, and the men raced to carry out their orders.

Justus ran with her down a dark passageway to the ar
mory. The door was unguarded, and it took her but a moment to locate a crossbow and a small barrel of bolts. Her fingers shook with uncertainty as she clutched the weapons.

“You look unsteady.” Justus caught her gaze. “Can you do this?”

“I gave my word. I will.”
Somehow.

“Good, because our men await. They need your protection, lady.”

“You will go with me?”

Kindness flickered in his eyes. “Aye. You'll need a strong sword at your back. 'Tis dangerous what you've volunteered to do.”

She led Justus to the back of the keep and up the stairs to one of two towers. Fie, how her knees knocked. Justus burst out onto the battlements, sword raised. Surprised mercenaries shouted and charged. Justus brought down one man, then two. Elin tasted death in the air, and the horror of it raced in her blood.

Men's lives depended upon her. Somehow she forced her feet forward. Her fingers trembled as she dropped the barrel on the stones near the crenellations.

“Elin, begin. Our men must be advancing!”

She fitted a bolt into place. She placed the bow on the steady stone wall and drew back the windlass. The string stretched taut, building tension. Behind her she heard the shouts of battle and the clash of swords. Below her she felt the stealth of the advancing troops. The drawbridge squeaked as it was lowered. Men's surprised shouts came from the adjacent tower. The hiss of arrows sliced the air. The shout of a wounded soldier rose from below.

She could not do this.
She could not kill anyone. And yet Malcolm's knights depended upon her to defend them.

“Protect our men!” Justus shouted. “You need not try to kill the mercenaries. Just aim your bow in their direction
and fire as many bolts as you can. 'Twill distract them from trying to destroy our men.”

She released the nut. The bolt hissed through the air. She reloaded the crossbow, and fired at random, again and again. With fear beating in her heart, she worked as fast as she could, raining arrows on those horrible murderers.

The battle on the wall behind her continued. How long could Justus fight so many men alone? He was outnumbered, just as Malcolm was. How could either of them win?

The night looked bleak, with heavy rolling clouds cloaking the sky. Giles was wrong. Heaven did not smile upon them this night. Only darkness watched as the battle raged.

 

Despite the wound in his back, Malcolm served the last of the paid killers a fast death. No more came, and he heard the rising shouts of alarm from the darkness above.

“You're wounded!” Giles tossed down his sword and helm. “Let me see. Fie, 'tis a bloody rent. I failed in protecting your back.”

“You were busy protecting yours.” He did not feel the pain. Too much fury roiled within his veins. “Come, you need to help our men. By the sound, they are within the castle.”

“If your wife did not betray us to the enemy.” Giles inspected the wound. “Malcolm, you cannot fight with this.”

“What choice do I have?” He could not lift that shoulder and arm well, but it did not matter. “What would you have me do? Go hide in the kitchen with the women? Grab your weapon and follow me.”

They saw the flare of torches suddenly light up the battlements. Mercenaries dashed the length of the high walls, their shouted orders sharp with alarm.

“Mayhap I was wrong about your wife,” Giles admitted with humility. “I was harsh to her.”

As was I.
Yet she'd not failed them this night, just as she vowed. “Make certain she returns to the kitchens where she's safe. I am handing over the command to you. I have an old battle to fight.”

Malcolm kicked open the keep's door and was relieved when no armed warriors greeted them. He headed up the stairs. “We have their garrison outnumbered. Protect the men, Giles, and see to their victory. If I die, tell Edward of these events. Tell him I want you to take my place. And be good to Elin.”

“Speak not of such things! You're injured and rambling from blood loss. Pray, do not—”

“The men need you, Giles.” He towered on the steps above, cold as steel. “Obey me.”

“Then let me say this. 'Tis been an honor serving you, Fierce One. May you teach that vile betrayer the greatest of lessons.” Giles turned, weapons in hand, and disappeared down the unlit corridor.

Aye, he would serve Edward well.

Only the distant sounds of ringing shouts and clashing swords echoed throughout the keep. Malcolm ascended into the thick shadows, and not even his boots made noise upon the stones. His fate awaited him up these stairs, a destiny that had been born in the brutal deserts of a faraway land.

A sword rose out of the dark corridor. Instincts honed, Malcolm attacked. He knocked the sword away with swift ease. “Where is Rees?” he demanded as he shoved the armed soldier against the cold wall.

“Malcolm? You're hurting me!” Elin scolded.

“Why are you sneaking about?” Malcolm saw that it wasn't weapons she carried but a basket of crocks and bandages. He heard a shout from down below and knew the
battle was already close. By the rood, he could not spare the time to guard her. “Run to the kitchens ere it is too late.”

“The kitchens? Malcolm, you're bleeding.” Surprise lit her voice. Or was that concern? “Why, 'tis a deep and dangerous wound. Come, my chamber is just up these stairs. I can mend that so you can continue to fight.”

Her eyes alone could lure a man and surprise him with their depths. For whatever her nature, Elin of Evenbough was no traitor, and her concern touched him, but it was misplaced. “Do as I say. You'll be safe enough in the kitchens.”

He released her, and it took willpower to turn his back on her. “Obey me, Elin.” He wanted her safe.

“Where are you going?” Her voice rang in the corridor, high with emotion. “Have some sense. You'll faint or bleed to death ere you lift that sword ten times. Let me—”

“Nay, dove. You've fought like a true warrior this night. Your brother no doubt watches from above and is proud of you.” He kept walking, but looked over his shoulder. He saw the glint of tears upon the little dove's face.

It only made him hate what he'd become. He was no fit husband for a woman of gentleness and fire. 'Twas just as well. Rees awaited him in the dark, and two men without souls would find their just punishments.

“I
knew you would come, le Farouche.” Rees's deep voice grated with a cold confidence. “Your knights attack in vain. My men are greater than yours, trained to kill and not to defend. 'Twas always your weakness, the need to protect others.”

“There was a time you thought otherwise.”

“'Twas a time when I called you friend.” A single taper filled the room with webby shadows, and they flickered across Rees's face. “Le Farouche, you and I are wiser now.”

“True. I no longer trust a friend.” All these years, Malcolm had not forgotten. And that rage burned like ice in his veins. “You handed me over to the Saracens and sold your king for gold. Did that gold serve you well?”

“Aye, I've enjoyed pleasures you have never dreamed of. Yet I've not grown soft. I am still a seasoned warrior.” Rees unsheathed his sword, ornately hewn so that it glittered like fire when the meager light touched it. “A warrior able now to defeat you.”

“You could not win in the Outremer.” Calm and cold all the way to his soul, Malcolm faced the man who had cost him much more. “And you will not win now. I took
down fifty of your warriors in the bailey with just two of my men.”

“Ah, I'd not forgotten the great legends of Malcolm le Farouche.” Still, Rees circled. Tension crackled in the thickened air. “They even know of you in Spain. Too bad the tales are only exaggerations. They do not know of your weaknesses.”

Malcolm let Rees set the pace as they slowly circled through the undulating light and shadow. “I care not what others think. Did you believe you could defeat me for this castle?” He chuckled when Rees volleyed, a vicious thrust that he knocked aside with one sparking blow. “Run while you still can.”

Rage reddened the mercenary's face. “Mayhap the legends are right. You're not the weakling I once knew.”

Malcolm easily parried Rees's next thrust. His rage grew colder and more deadly. He swung with lethal power and Rees's sword met his, stroke for stroke. “I will enjoy collecting the bounty on your head.”

“You will not live to count it.” Rees's blow ricocheted hard up Malcolm's arm.

“I say I will.” He returned a blinding blow and was pleased to see the flash of pain upon the mercenary's face. Malcolm lunged and drew the first blood. “I have not yet grown deadly. Surrender now.”

“Not upon my life.” Rees swiped the blood from his cheek with his free hand. “I hear Edward gave you an insult for a bride. Not a beautiful wife any man would die to possess, but a hellish witch who tried to kill you. Is that how the great king rewards his most loyal knight? You give your life for him every day, and yet he values you so little. How angry you must be.”

“If I were you, I would not waste my breath on harmless insults.” Malcolm lunged again. Rees's sword was swift
and mighty, but Malcolm's was faster. More blood flecked the traitor's face.

Malcolm struck swiftly, once and twice, drawing blood each time. But he felt the weakness growing. Elin had been right. He would weaken as more blood sluiced from his wound.

Rees chuckled. “You nearly tripped on your own feet, le Farouche. Put down your sword, and I'll not separate you from your head. I will pay you well to fight for me.”

“You think I would trust you?” Malcolm circled quickly to hide his wound from his enemy's sight. “Gold cannot tempt me. It gleams like heaven's light and drives men to dark acts.”

“There is power in that brand of darkness.”

“I choose death, then. I'll not be swayed from my loyalties. I would rather die by your sword.” Malcolm raised his blade.

When blow met blow, he felt the hot burst of blood pour from the wound in his back. He thrust fast and hard, landing strike after strike, feeling the life bleed out of him.

If he died, then by the rood he would take this whoreson with him.

 

Riveted by the sight of power and rage, Elin could only stare into the chamber where the two men fought. A single taper tossed weak light over the aggressors. The candle's flame twisted and writhed as if in pain, losing its battle to the darkness.

Still the men fought with great strikes of their broad-swords, clashing with enough power to vibrate the mortar and stone. She spied the sheen of blood staining the back of her husband's hauberk. Sweet Mary, how could she best help him?

“Remain silent,” Justus whispered, standing a hairs-
breadth behind her. “To distract him now would be to cause his death.”

“But he's bleeding.”
Badly.
She clutched the sword to her chest. She could fight, but she was not strong enough to defeat that mercenary. She'd never seen battle like this before. The sheer might of muscle drove each powerful strike. 'Twas as if two unearthly powers clashed and struggled for victory. Both men, as enormous as myth, circled and thrust and thrust again.

She shoved her broadsword into Justus's hands. “Malcolm's men occupy the castle. Stop this fight. The battle is won.”

“Nay, the Fierce One fights for far more. Rees is his greatest enemy, the man responsible for his capture and torture by those Saracen dogs.”

She studied the deadly mercenary. “There are no legends of the great le Farouche chained in a dungeon.”

“Some acts of courage are too painful to be told. They make for unpleasant stories.” Justus pressed the sword back into her hands. “The Fierce One must face his enemy.”

Was Justus mad? More blood sluiced down Malcolm's back. He could not go on without weakening or fainting. “Look how he's injured. His blood stains the rushes.”

“Aye, but the deeper injuries, the ones that will never heal, pain him more.”

Elin felt Justus's sorrow whip through her, leaving a crushing sadness she couldn't bear. She wanted to throw down her basket, rush out into the chamber with her crossbow and sword and aid the great knight. Her hatred of le Farouche felt petty now. He was injured and suffering, like any man did.

The battle turned fierce when the enemy's sword struck Malcolm's fighting arm. 'Twas a blow of strength and steel,
and she clamped a hand to her mouth to cover her gasp of horror. She saw that Malcolm's armor had broken, and blood stained those chains, too.

He is going to lose.
She dropped to her knees and felt the sting of tears hot on her cheeks. Already, in her heart, she knew how this contest would end. She'd seen evil men triumph too many times in her life. Malcolm was now twice injured, and he stumbled, weak from blood loss. The red-faced monster of a man raised his sword for a deathblow.

Nay!
She felt her heart rend with the knell of the ringing blow. She could not bear to see Malcolm killed. She buried her face in her arms and wept. Silence vibrated in the chamber. The battle was over.

Footsteps scraped upon the stone floor. “You cry for the mercenary, dove?”

Could it be?
She looked up the thick, muscled columns of his legs to the broad glory of his chest. His rugged face was lined with soul deep fatigue and stained with blood.

“You live! I cannot believe…” By what miracle had he won? Yet he stood before her, victorious and real. “Look how you bleed. 'Tis another miracle that you can stand upright. Let me see the wound to your arm.”

“No need to feign concern.” Weary eyes studied her and condemned her. He swung away. “Justus, I want this body taken to Edward.”

“Aye, I'll take Orson with me.”

“Good choice. Let our king see the man who betrayed him to the enemy, who would still take his life for enough pieces of gold.” Shoulders strong but head hanging, Malcolm limped across the chamber, eased down upon a sturdy trunk in the far corner and buried his face in his hands.

Should she stay? He did not seem to want her. Yet how could she go? Her heart still pounded with the sight of him fighting for vengeance. In victory, he was even more a man
of dark strength and great power. She'd never seen the like, and both fear and awe filled her being.

Elin's every instinct told her to run, to put as much distance as she could between herself and this bringer of death. If he could destroy a man of his own strength, then what would he do to a woman a third his size? And yet…

Not even to save her own life would she run. Malcolm the Fierce had tried to save her brother in the Outremer. He'd suffered untold tortures to free Edward from his Saracen captors. He risked his life every day out of loyalty to his king.

He was a man of honor. Elin dared to cross the room, her soft leather boots whispering upon the soiled rushes. She forced down the tears that ached in her throat and burned in her eyes.

He did not look up at her approach. “Go away, dove.”

She knelt at his side, tears brimming in her eyes.

“Leave me be. 'Tis a mortal wound.”

“I must do what I can.”

He would not meet her gaze. “Spend your talents on the other knights, the ones who fought for your castle.”

“They fought by your orders, not mine, and for
your
castle.” Elin dug through her basket and laid out the wrapped tools. “Justus, send for boiling water immediately. I'll need someone with a steady hand to assist.”

Malcolm's giant fists clenched. “Elin! Heed my orders and leave me to die in peace.”

He was not even afraid of death. Tenderness flamed within her chest for this man of such greatness. And sympathy for him brought more tears to her eyes. “You want peace?”

“A moment of it would be nice.”

“'Tis my job as your wife to vex you, so abandon all hope for a peaceful death.” She hid her tears behind her
sharp retort and turned to her basket. “Besides, you're now too weak to argue with me. I could push you over with my little finger.”

“Justus, take her from the room.” Fury crashed in his voice like thunder over a valley.

Justus hesitated in the threshold. The respect he held for his commander shone in his eyes. “Nay, my friend, this is one order I will not obey.” Then he disappeared, intent upon fetching the water.

“This is your fault.” Malcolm turned to her, rage staining his voice. “Twice this night my men have disobeyed my commands.”

“Not from my example.” She set out the mortar and pestle, the bowls and new bandages, on a fresh piece of linen. Her fingers trembled. “Mayhap these men respect you so much they want you to live. I cannot fathom why.”

“They're good and true knights.”

“No doubt made that way by
your
example, le Farouche.” Sentiment lodged like a hard ball in her throat, refusing to budge. She didn't like this man, truly.

So why was her heart aching? Why did tears burn her eyes and blur her vision? “Scoundrels they are, every last one of them. Now remove your armor.”

Again he covered his face with his hands. He turned his back to her, his steel-covered chest and shoulders burnished by the flickering persistence of the candle's light.

“Let me help you.” She knelt to untie a protective plate from his shoulder.

He refused to look at her. She could see the hard, clenched line of his jaw and feel the great remorse in his soul. Her hands fumbled with the unfamiliar pieces, and yet he did not stop her. She grabbed the hem of the mailed hauberk and began hefting it up his abdomen.

Steps came from behind and a pail of steaming water dropped to the floor at her knee. “You do it wrong.”

“Fie!” It was not likable Justus, but foul Giles who brought the water. “I am no squire.”

“You may have saved Hugh that night, but we've still not heard if he survived all your poisonous brews.” Giles jerked the chain mail from her fingers and worked the armored shirt off, careful of the wounds.

Malcolm's eyes squeezed shut, and he didn't so much as groan in pain. The amount of blood that stained his quilted hauberk made her heart weak.

“Fetch some wine,” Malcolm ordered in that voice as deep as the night. He did not sound like a man in great pain.

“I shall send for it.” Giles's gaze met Elin's, full of grief. He rolled off Malcolm's last protective garment, his face haggard with concern for his commander.

Elin gasped. A horrible wound rent Malcolm's perfectly shaped back. He twisted to look up at her, and her limbs weakened. His bronzed skin drew all the light from the room. The wondrous stretch of his muscled shoulders and chest gleamed like pure gold.

They called him the Fierce One, but he was not. She could see this now. He was hewn of a strength so great it only seemed fierce.

A knight raced into the chamber. “Your wine, sir.”

“My thanks.”

As Elin knelt to study the wound in his back, she realized his greatness. No man could fight to the death, walk across the room and sip wine with this manner of injury. No one except Malcolm the Fierce.

She refused to let him die. “Hand me that goblet.”

When Malcolm did not heed her, she grabbed her leather
sacks of herbs and sprinkled the correct dosage into the dark liquid he held.

“Hold your potions, dove.” He sounded harsh, but when she looked into his eyes, she saw that he was not.

“You no longer give the orders, le Farouche. I do.” She held the goblet firm, her hands covering his stronger ones, and pressed the golden rim to his lips. “I've an army of knights ready at my command.”

“
Your
command?”

“Aye. I wager these men would do aught to save your life. All I have to do is say the word.” She watched his lips brush the goblet's rim. She was so close she could see the stubble of whiskers on his chin and the fine lines etched at the corners of his eyes. Nay, he was no legend, but a man of flesh and bone.

“I'm not worth your ministrations, dove. Tend to those who are.”

“You intend to die, then?”

But he smiled, actually smiled—a gentle curve of his hard mouth. “Dying is the only way to escape our marriage.”