Malcolm'S Honor (Historical, 519) (11 page)

“'Tis a good plan.” Her throat aching, she sprinkled more medicine into his wine, then pressed the goblet to his lips again. “But Giles here will no doubt turn me in as a traitor for not trying to save you, so grant me this one favor.”

“I thought we agreed upon no favors.”

“Then I ask a boon of a dying man. Live, and help me to look good before the king.”

A wry grin quirked the corner of his mouth. “I've noticed you were a woman much concerned with appearances.”

“Aye, that is why I married the greatest knight in the land.”

“Stop with this teasing. You make me laugh.” He coughed. “How that hurts.”

“Well, 'tis a better fate than being poisoned.” She guided the goblet to his lips one last time, then took it from his beautiful hands. “Come, lie down. I want to inflict what pain I can while you're awake to suffer.”

“Now we get to the truth of things.” But he stood and ambled to the bed, refusing all offers of help. He was strong and proud, even now. He bit back a moan as he settled upon the mattress. “Glad I am that this is now my bed. 'Tis soft.”

“What? A soft bed will not make you suffer.” She let her voice tease, to hide her growing fear that this husband of hers would soon make her a widow. “Mayhap Giles will bring up bricks for a bed.”

“Pray, do not make me laugh. It hurts.”

“Good. I must repay you for your treatment of me. Be glad I've decided not to chain you up in the dungeon.”

“I said, do not make me lau…” He fell silent, his great body still.

“Oh, my lord.” Giles fell silent.

“'Tis only a sleeping draught I gave him.” Elin bowed her chin so the knight couldn't guess her foolish sentimental feelings. “Pour some water into that basin.”

Giles jumped to comply. “Have you treated this manner of wound?”

“Not an injury like this.” She sat on the bed to study the gash. “Look, the blade sliced through his lower ribs and into his vitals. Ask Florie, the woman in the kitchen, to send for the old wise woman. I'll need her help to save Malcolm's life.”

“'Twill be done.” Giles barked orders at one of the men in the room.

Only then did she notice that a hundred knights had
crowded into the solar. They now ringed the bed, keeping silent vigil over this man they honored.

 

Dawn came and still the soldiers remained. Elin rubbed her eyes, gritty and dry with exhaustion, and found another candle for old Tamassa. A peach glow glossed the windows and radiated into the room. But the first light of day did not touch the man on the bed. He lay motionless, with only the slight lift of his chest to show that he lived.

“He's a strong man.” Tamassa pressed salve to the stitched wound in his arm. “If he does not succumb to a deadly fever, I wager he may be awake and grumbling by noon.”

“
This
man? Nay.” Elin lit the fresh candle with the stub of the old, then exchanged them. “He'll be in a sword fight by then.”

“If not two,” Malcolm moaned from the bed. He didn't move, but his gaze fastened upon hers. For a heartbeat they seemed connected, and she read his thanks. Her chest hurt with the silent gesture. Truly, he was not so terrible of a man.

The hundred knights still crowded into the solar and a hundred more in the corridor all fell to their knees in thanksgiving. The clang of steel striking stone resounded like a thunderclap.

“You're a hard man to kill.” She laid her hand to Malcolm's brow and felt his body's heat. His dark hair tumbled across her fingers like roughly textured silk. “We feared you would not live.”

“So did I. I lost far too much blood.”

“Aye, 'tis why you must not move now.” There was no fever, and it was not merely gratefulness she felt. “Lie still, Fierce One. Your enemies are all subdued. For now.”

His hand covered hers. His grip was weak and yet, to her, he was still a knight of myth and legend.

“Here. Drink.” She held a cup to his lips.

He sipped until the goblet was empty and closed his eyes. But his fingers remained curled around hers, the need in his grip never waning.

She sat by his side. Sunlight moved through the room and faded with twilight, and she did not leave. The full moon peeked into the chamber to worship him with its magical light, and still she would not leave this man of power and might.

 

Nightmares were etched upon his lids—dark, hopeless images of pain and torture he swore would kill him. Yet he lived, so they made him a slave. They worked him like a dog in the brutal desert, and he labored and sweated and bled beneath a relentless sun.

Malcolm opened his eyes, and the images faded. Dawn glowed in the chamber, glinting on the windows and casting a golden hue across the floor. Grateful he was that the hard night was past.

“My hopes are dashed. You live.” She sat at his side, exhaustion harsh upon her delicate face, a face that was soft with concern. “I cherished grand hopes of being a widow with no man to rule me.”

He could not stop his grin. “Edward would have you married again. I recommended Giles.”

“Giles!” Elin reached for a goblet. “Why, I think he would make a terrible husband. Too sentimental. He's been crying and praying and having the priest give him penance. He blames himself for that wound to your back.”

“Ian, then?”

She wrinkled her nose and pressed the cool rim of a goblet to his lips. He drank as she spoke. “Ian is decidedly
handsome. Mayhap the most comely of the lot, but he is far too arrogant. I would have to teach him humility.”

Malcolm sputtered, nearly choking on the spiced wine. “I believe he would suffer too much, married to you.”

“Then Justus, mayhap. He is at least pleasing. And absent. He raced with that dead man's body to Edward like Lucifer was on his tail. I like absence to be a trait in a husband. Yet now it matters not. You live.”

“More's the pity.” He swallowed both his chuckle and his wine. He had to be careful. Elin had earned his admiration with her courage, and she might win more with her sense of humor. He had work to do. He struggled to sit, despite the pain. “Does Ian command the men?”

“Where do you think you're going?” Her hand splayed across his chest and pushed, but he resisted. She sighed in exasperation. “Malcolm, stay in that bed. You must let those stitches heal.”

“I've incurred injuries and labored hard the next day.” He hated those memories and how close they were to the surface of his thoughts. “I've work to do.”

“Do it when you are well.” She pushed with all her strength against him.

“I am not so weak that I will let a woman push me around.” He laughed, and it hurt. “Dove, cease this before you harm yourself. I've slept a night—”

“Two nights.”

“Two? Then I've had more than enough time to heal. Let me up.” His heart kicked at the sight of concern stark upon her face. She fought him, using all her strength to keep him in bed.

“You shall listen to me, you big brute.”

“Even as you fight me, you may be tearing open my wounds.” He meant to tease, but horror filled her angelic face and she released him.

“Oh, Malcolm.” She bowed her head, a woman's softness gleaming in her eyes—eyes that revealed a tender heart. She was not so disagreeable after all. She bit her bottom lip with worry. “I want your wounds to heal. You're a fearsome man.”

“So I have been told.”

“I believe we can work together. As I see it—”

The gentle morning's light touched her, adding its glow to her complexion and its fire to her golden curls. She looked like all he was not and could never be—fire and softness, spirit and heart.

“—the king need never know.” Her voice dipped with excitement. “You'll remain true to him if you allow me to leave. You will never need to see me again, and I'll have my freedom.”

“Freedom?” What was she talking about?

“Aye. We can disregard this marriage. You can go your way, and I mine. You are Edward's greatest knight. Surely you could say I proved too troublesome—”

Now he saw what she proposed. The warmth in his chest faded. “What manner of man would that make me, that I could not subdue one tiny woman?”

“Mayhap you could plead unhappiness?”

“Nay, there will be no freedom for you, dove. Only duty, just as I have.”

Her brightness dimmed. “You're right. 'Tis not the time to plot our separation. There will be time later, when you're strong enough to discuss such plans. Let me send for some broth. You must eat.”

He caught her wrist as she stood, ready to dart away from him. “There will be no separation.”

Although 'twas better for the girl if there was. A part of him ached to let her go, to agree to whatever plan she devised, and he would tell Edward…

Well, he could tell him something.

But a baron needed sons, sons who would remain loyal to the king and defend him from all threats from without and within.

“No separation? You mean to make good on this marriage?” The gentleness on her face faded, replaced by an obvious horror. “But in the king's forest after I poisoned you, you tried to strike me down with your sword.”

“'Twas the quickest way to find your dagger.”

“Then you chained me to the dungeon wall. Pray, what horrid actions will you take next? I'm but a piece of furniture to you, to be used and tossed away according to your pleasure.” Like flame she burned with a pure brilliance. “I'll not be your wife, Malcolm le Farouche. I will be your enemy instead.”

Fie on the nature of woman, always manipulative. But when he looked at her, he saw tears—so bright and clear and genuine, his chest ached with an old sadness. “I do not wish to be enemies with my wife.”

“What would you have me do? Tremble beneath the great knight's power? You can do as you want with me. My sword and my dagger are worthless. I might be warrior trained, but I cannot fight the way you do. Few men in this world can.”

“We do not need to fight, dove. I'll not harm you.”

“Then tell me you want no children.”

The pain from his wounds now felt unbearable. “I will want sons from you, Elin. Though I'm not pleased with our match, I cannot deny that any sons of yours will make fine warriors.”

More tears leaked from her eyes, eyes so blue they made him think of dreams, the rarest kind even a man like him had once believed in. “You
will
destroy me, then? Chain me in the jail of marriage?”

“I am no jailer, dove.”

“Nay, you're the great Malcolm le Farouche, the strongest knight in the realm. 'Tis worse.” She shot up from the bed, the bulky man's tunic she wore hiding the sway of her lissome form. Her boots stomped angrily across the stone floor.

“I'll fetch your meal.” She halted in the doorway to glare at him through her silvered tears. Then she fled, leaving him with a horrible, helpless feeling.

Had she helped him with the hope that he would release her from this marriage? He hardly noticed the pain from his wound, the ache in his chest was so great.

He should have expected much plotting from a traitor's daughter, but he'd hoped to find even a small bit of honor in the woman now his wife.

But in this he was wrong.

He tugged on a tunic and chausses, careful not to move his injuries overly much, and strapped on his sword. His gaze landed on the chair where she'd perched at his side. Had she remained there throughout the two nights and a day as he slept? Then he remembered the gentle strength of her hand in his and cursed Edward for this marriage.

“Y
ou should not have allowed him out of bed,” Tamassa scolded from the kitchen doorway, her face crinkled with disapproval, her eyes accusing. “He could bleed anew and there would be naught we can do, he's lost so much blood. And there's the worry of a fever.”

“What would you have me do? Chain him to the bed?” Elin ladled broth into a trencher. Anger still burned in her chest, hard and hot. He wanted a real marriage and sons—and sex. She quaked at that thought.

“You're his wife, Elin. You must make the Fierce One see reason. He has much responsibility upon his shoulders. He needs comfort and care from his wife.”

Malcolm did not need her. The images of his unconquerable power still remained bright and crisp in her mind. “Do not worry, Tamassa. I plan to change his bandages and cleanse his wounds after he eats.”

“See that you do. I've been summoned to a difficult birth over at Ravenwood. 'Tis one of the serving wenches carrying another of Caradoc's bastards.”

Elin's knees weakened and she nearly spilled the trencher. A cry rose in her throat at the thought of what
Caradoc must have done to that poor woman. “Do you need me to assist?”

“Nay. All will be well.” Tamassa marched toward the door, distaste for the neighboring baron twisting her weathered face. “Summon me if the Fierce One weakens.”

Elin set down the trencher, hands shaking. If she had never learned how to wield a sword, then she would be in that poor servant's position.

“You're one lucky lady.” Florie sighed as she placed a trencher piled with smoked meats, cheeses and bread next to the steamy broth. “'Tis an honor to be a servant in the castle of the great le Farouche. But to be his wife? Why, what an honor you hold. Those shoulders alone could make an old woman like me swoon.”

“Truly, Florie, the king decreed the marriage between us. It is no love match.” Elin found a tray and loaded it.

“No love match? I cannot remember the last time I saw you working in this kitchen.”

Truly, Elin had no soft feelings for her husband. “I'm here because he's weak and needs food.”

“He commands an entire garrison of men. Any one of them would wait upon him, but you are the one here.” Florie gave the most exasperating wink.

“I am here because I do not wish for him to die. The king would blame me, and then who will defend my castle?” Elin hurried out into the sunlight falling between the kitchens and the keep, and blinked in the welcome brightness.

Florie's words lingered in her mind. What kind of husband would Malcolm make? Would he be domineering? Harsh? Uncaring? How could she protect herself against such treatment? She could not escape, for Malcolm was a great tracker. She could not fight him, for he was the
strongest of all warriors. She could not refuse him, for the king had ordered them to marry.

Malcolm made it clear he expected sons. What would it be like to share his bed?

She shivered, even as the sunshine warmed her.

 

“We've tortured him, but still he will not talk.” Ian met Malcolm in the corridor that stretched along the row of barred dungeon cells.

“Mayhap he tells the truth.” Malcolm couldn't hide his limp, but he gritted his teeth, determined to hide his pain. He longed for the comfort of his soft bed, and could not bring himself to admit he needed more rest. He wondered what Elin would do when she returned to the solar with food and found him missing.

Ian scowled. “That foul mercenary is being obstinate. He claims he was paid to fight and that is all.”

Malcolm halted before the cell that held the prisoner. He saw a man in pain, shoulders hunched, eyes shadowed. They were not furtive, but proud. “Soldier, why have you not given my commander the name he seeks?”

“I told him I fought for Rees the Great. I had no command, but was a common warrior.” There was integrity to that voice and strength in the mercenary's spine. He did not look away when Malcolm met his gaze. He appeared neither arrogant nor rebellious. “I have no knowledge of the answer you seek. I asked to speak with you, but your commander refused.”

“You were injured and we feared you would die,” Ian explained quietly. “I feared he would keep silent if he knew his leader had succeeded in his quest.”

“I will speak with him now.”

Ian unchained the door. “Careful, lord. He is treacher
ous, and you are deathly pale. I shall remain at your side, should he try to cause you harm.”

Malcolm felt grateful for his friend's concern. Ian had guessed his true condition. It took all his strength to remain standing. He ambled into the cell, where dampness made the stones slick beneath his unsteady feet.

“Sit here, my lord.” Ian provided a crude stool.

Malcolm thanked him, glad for the darkness that hid his wince of pain. “What are you called?”

“I was once Rory of Baines. Now am I known as the Fearless. I'm a third son of a lesser lord of little worth.”

As Malcolm's eyes adjusted to the thick darkness, he could see the slant of nose and cheek and a calm steady gaze. “How long have you fought for Rees?”

“Since the Outremer. He saved my life and I swore my fealty to him then.”

Malcolm understood well the ties of loyalty. “Did you know what manner of man he was? Even when he brought you here to defeat the king's baron?”

“Not for some time. But I had given him my loyalty and my word, so it mattered not.” Rory shrugged, then winced with pain. “We were told we came to England to fight the Great One's enemy, the one who'd turned the king against him.”

Malcolm could hear the ring of truth in those words. “'Tis true that Rees and I were enemies.”

“And if you defeated him, you are truly a great warrior. While I mourn his loss, he was not a good man.”

Malcolm heard the whisper of steps upon stone and turned. Shadows cloaked her, but already he knew the sound of her gait. Why had Elin followed him here? To haul him back to the solar? “Ian, have food sent for the prisoner. And put a halt to the beatings.”

Ian sheathed his sword. “'Tis not a wise move, my lord, but it will be done.”

Malcolm limped out of the cell to see the corner of a tray in the shadows. Elin hesitated on the last step, glancing around with wide eyes. How pale she looked and how exhausted. Her golden-red curls caught the light and shimmered. Even in her squire's clothing she looked every bit as regal as a princess.

The tray she held wobbled. “I've been looking hither and yon for you.”

That she brought him food touched him. He'd not had anyone take that much care of him in a long while. “Come down, dove.”

She shook her head, causing her wool tunic and silken curls to rustle. “I cannot.”

“I'll not chain you to the wall. This time.” He held out his hand and wrapped his fingers around her slender forearm. So warm she was, yet she trembled. His chest tightened. Again he saw her fear.

How could he reassure her? “Elin, you were kind to follow me here, but 'tis not—”

She shoved the tray into his hands. “This will give you sustenance to torture the poor man further.”

“Elin.” But she was gone, a swift movement in the shadows. The single rush torch caught her in its glow for one brief moment, illuminating the stark dismay on her face.

“Let her go.” Ian dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “You think the choking chains of marriage are forever, but fear not, good friend. I see an easy solution. Swive her until she is increasing—it should not take more than a month or so—then hide her away in your farthest holding. You'll not have to see her again, unless you want a second son.”

“And all say
I
am a heartless bastard.”

“'Tis why you are the best and I am the second best knight in the land.” Ian stepped into the light. “We're heartless to the core. Aught else would be weakness.”

It was true. There lived no gentleness inside Malcolm's heart. None that he could use to comfort a noblewoman's fears. None that could make a husband out of a warrior hardened by years of battle.

His gaze lingered on the corridor where Elin had fled. He did not cherish the task of taking her to bed and making her his wife. She was far too young and fragile to be bound to a man like him.

 

Swive her until she is increasing, then hide her away in your farthest holding.
Ian's words rang in her ears as she worked throughout the day. Rees the Great's warriors had done much damage to the castle during their brief stay.

While Malcolm remained indoors, probably torturing the prisoner in the dungeon, she and Giles helped the freemen clear the bailey and take stock of the destruction. Ian even showed up to help for a short while, and every time she saw him, she remembered his horrid advice.

Well, she would agree to living in a far-off holding. But it was the swiving that terrified her. Would Malcolm want her in his bed tonight?

She kept her distance from him all the day through. She couldn't help feeling sorry for the mercenary in the dungeon. She knew just how he felt.

People bustled in steady streams through the bailey, busy with work. The freemen and servants discussed how fortunate they were to have such a great knight as their lord, declaring that King Edward had blessed them with a true honor.

Despite her fear, Elin could not contradict them. She
alone knew what this battle had cost Malcolm. His reputation and his honor were hard won.

“Elin.” Ian returned when the shadows lengthened along the ground. “The lord requests your presence.”

“Tell him I am helping the freemen. Their workshops and homes have been laid to ruin. I—”

“Lady, he wishes you to look at his wound.” Censure wrinkled that peacock's face.

Alarm sliced through her chest. She had failed to tend to him today, as she'd vowed to do. “Tell me, is he bleeding?”

“He would not say.”

Elin couldn't explain her flash of anger, because she did
not
care for le Farouche. “He might well be the greatest knight in the realm, but he is still a man of flesh and bone. He is human, after all. He does not seem to think so.”

She found him in the solar gazing out the window. Even without his armor, he looked hard. Muscles bunched and twisted beneath his wool tunic. Slanting sunlight flashed on the glass and sent shards of light across his rugged face and shoulders. He didn't look terrifying, but she knew he was like a sleeping dragon, his power latent but ready.

“I saw you working beside the freemen.” His gaze fell heavy and curious upon her face. “I should have expected the warrior dove not to laze in her chamber when there was work to be done.”

Elin hid her pleasure at his compliment behind a shrug and circled around him. “Florie will not often allow me in the kitchen. I once set it afire.”

“Let me guess. You are unskilled in the domestic arts.” He pulled off his tunic in one agile tug. Muscles rippled beneath bronzed skin.

Her heart stopped beating at the sight. “My father forced me to learn. But after Peter taught me warriors' skills, Fa
ther could no longer force me to sit and attend to my sewing. I was better at the sword than he.”

“I, too, had to learn swordplay to survive.” Malcolm sighed, a sound of regret. He gazed out the window overlooking the inner and outer baileys below.

His skin gleamed beneath the kiss of the sun, drawing her gaze and holding it. His back was ridged with cords of muscles that bunched and stretched all the way to the band of his chausses. Oh, the power of him. His beautiful male strength made the breath catch in her chest and her stomach flutter.

His skin was hot to the touch. She untied the bandages and unwound them. He did not move or wince, although she knew even her careful handling had to cause him pain. She saw again the mass of scars deep in his skin. She could see the snakelike ridges from a whip, representing more blows than she could count, long cuts as if from a sword's blade, and short scars as if from torture.

She remembered Justus's words. Malcolm had spent a year too horrible to mention in a Saracen dungeon. All the sharp insults she'd planned faded upon her tongue. Whatever manner of husband he would be, he had lived her worst fears and survived them.

She peeled away the last of the bandages, fearing what she would see. When she saw the wound, relief fluttered through her. Only a dab of fresh blood came away with the herb-soaked cloth. “You are a lucky man, but you need more rest.”

“I've rested far too much.”

“Then why do you sound exhausted?”

“Weary, not exhausted.” He gazed out at the spreading hills and vales, the fresh green fields and thriving forests. “I believe Edward was right. I was not aware how I needed a home until I first gazed out this window.”

“'Tis a beautiful sight.” She spread a thick glob of healing salve on Malcolm's wound. A small amount of warmth gathered in her heart.

Although the injury looked raw and terrible, he didn't wince at her ministrations. “I have not looked upon beauty in so long it hurts my eyes.”

“There are beautiful women at court. I've no doubt you took what appealed to you.”

“There are many types of beauty.”

She felt the muscles of his back work beneath her fingers. He twisted to look at her, his eyes speculative. “Elin, I've taken only what has been offered me.”

“You are like all men. You can take what you want and do not have to wait for an offer.”

“Nay, I am not like all other men.” Was he laughing at her? She could not tell by the sparkles in his eyes, for his mouth was downturned. “I am not Caradoc.”

“'Tis true.” A great sentimental tenderness ached in her heart. “Some men are more brutish than others.”

“I suppose I
am
brutish.” He chuckled and faced the window. “Do you worry about sharing my bed this night?”