Malcolm'S Honor (Historical, 519) (23 page)

“'Tis what you wished.”

“I wished for my own seed to take root within you, not some weak-fleshed dotard's!” He roared like a wounded lion, and the anguished fury reverberated along stone and wood. He towered over her, gleaming in the high torchlight, as fearsome and mighty as Zeus enraged. “If a babe prospers in your belly, then do not call it mine.”

“
Caradoc?
You think—” Fear froze her, made her feel small and insignificant. She could see now he truly believed her to be false. “Malcolm, this babe I think I carry is your child. Believe what lies you choose, but I know this to be true.”

“Enough!”
His mouth twisted. The cords in his neck
and chest strained with agony. “You kill me with these lies.”

“You still do not believe me?”

“I do not.”

After their nights of passion, did the bond between them mean so little? Perchance it did not exist on his part. Mayhap he would never love her as she loved him. He'd said as much. And now she believed it—believed that no such emotion could grow in a heart so empty and dark.

A muscle jumped in his clenched jaw, yet no regret or remorse gleamed in his bleak eyes. “You are again my prisoner, Lady Elinore of Evenbough. Attempt to escape this solar and you will know the cruelty in my heart.”

“Pray, you cannot believe—”

But to her horror, he grabbed the pile of his clothes on the way out the door. Darkness claimed him as he moved into the shadows, then was gone.

And he accused
her
of duplicity. All this time she'd risked her heart. She'd thought she saw in him a brand of affection that made her stronger and better.

Or so she'd believed. And believed falsely.

Tears welled in her eyes. What a fool she'd been, to think that a man could love as a woman could. Her tender breasts and absent monthly flux told her she might be carrying his babe—a babe not conceived in love and trust, after all, but in the cold hard way of Malcolm le Farouche.

He'd only wanted an heir.

A bleak darkness gathered in her chest and brought a pain so sharp she could not breathe.

Swive her until she is increasing, then hide her away in your farthest holding.
This is what he'd intended all along. Fie, but she was a fool to trust a man. Such a sentimental sop! What would Malcolm do now that he believed those
false tales? And who'd reported that she loved another man?

Her tears of rage ceased as she leaped to action. She tore off her nightdress and exchanged it for chausses and a tunic. She might be a wife, but she was still warrior trained. And by the saints, she would not sit idle like a mewing weakling. She belted her sword at her hips.

The door whispered open, revealing Ian on the threshold. He looked as invincible as the armor upon his chest.

“Ian. Quickly. Do not stand there slack jawed. I must rush to Caradoc of Ravenwood. I would have his head for the lies he tells.” She charged past the arrogant commander.

“Not so quick, my lady.” His fingers clamped over her upper arm, spinning her backward into his chest. Metal pinched and bruised her flesh. “You have much to answer to in shaming my longtime friend. Did you know we served the king together even before the Outremer?”

A prickle of warning ran across her nape. “Like Rees the Great?”

“Friends we all were, until the Outremer. 'Tis amazing how a true loyalty can meld into true hatred.” His fingers clamped tighter, his gauntlet digging hard into her muscles.

She knew better than to cry out. Men like Ian wanted to inflict pain. “Unhand me. I can walk on my own.”

“I do not intend to release you. Better for Malcolm to think you betray him. 'Twill be easier than the truth.” His sneer taunted her.

And ignited her temper. He took a step, and she dug in her heels, fighting him. Her leather boots merely skimmed the rough stone floor, and she could not stop him. Like the swing of a sword's blade, she guessed the truth. “
You
are the traitor.”

“Me?
You
sleep with Caradoc.
You
plot Malcolm's
death.” Ian's mouth twisted with mockery. He dragged her down one step, and the hard stone slammed into her legs. A moan scraped through her raw throat. She struggled for freedom, but his grip on her tightened yet again. Fie, but he was a strong oaf. Tears stung her eyes.

“What a coward you are, overpowering a woman half your size.” Again she wrenched hard and managed to pull her sword from her scabbard. The upswing struck his gauntlet and did not hurt, but the act startled him.

She tore away from his grip, her weapon held ready. “You are a worthless traitor, and I'll die before I let you guard my husband's back.”

“That can be arranged, shrew.” Ian drew his blade and jabbed.

She met his quick thrust, and the clash sent her stumbling backward down two steps. The force of the impact of his blade against hers shot pain up her arm. She was strong, but Ian was stronger. How could she defeat him? He was the second best knight in the realm. Fear pattered in her chest. And rage. This man wanted to hurt Malcolm. This man had turned Malcolm against her.

Ian lunged, but she parried, then struck hard with her sword. The blade cuffed him on the chin. 'Twas a lucky stroke, that was all, but she was glad to claim first blood.

“You will pay for that, hellcat,” the tarnished knight vowed. “Long have I suffered, watching your outrageous ways. Were I your husband, I would beat you into submission, you untamed shrew. And before I blame you for Malcolm's murder, I
will
teach you submission.”

His threats drove a shivering fear deep into her limbs. If she did not defeat Ian now, he would try to kill Malcolm, her warrior with the wounded heart.

Ian's sword clashed against hers once more, and the brute force nearly knocked the weapon from her grip. She
took the hilt in both hands and thrust once, twice, thrice. Each time, Ian blocked and returned with a strike of his own.

“Lay down your weapon, witch. I merely toy with you. The next blow will take your head with it.”

“Then 'twill be hard to blame me for Malcolm's murder if I am not alive to do the deed.” She lunged quickly, and her sword ducked beneath his.

Though the bones of her hand rammed the hilt of his sword with crushing pain, she hung on to her blade. Catching the hem of his mailed hauberk, she drove the tip into his unprotected stomach. It was not a deep wound, but his howl of fury reverberated off shadows and stone. Half running, half stumbling, she made it to the landing.

“Help!” she screamed, racing for the great hall. “Justus! Hugh!”

Helwain stepped out of the shadows and onto the landing, blocking her escape. He raised his sword against her and knocked her blade from her hand.

She was outnumbered.

“Not so brave now?” Ian's triumph twisted his hard face. “Scream all you want, wench. I ordered every knight to the walls, to defend in case of attack. There is no one to hear you.” He smiled with Caradoc's twisted smile.

Elin saw the resemblance between the two men. “Why are you doing this?”

Ian raised his blade. “Why? Because after you are blamed for Malcolm's death, the king will grant me Evenbough and a baron's title, which by rights should be mine.”

“You fetid, festering rat. Edward will see through your plot. He'll not believe—”

She saw Ian's sword swing. In a flash, the hilt struck pain through her skull, and then there was only blackness.

 

The anguish of Elin's betrayal fueled Malcolm's fast trek to Ravenwood Castle. It terrified the guards at the gate and drove acid into his heart. He wanted vengeance. He wanted to lay hands upon the man who'd won from Elin what Malcolm could not.

“Caradoc!” He shoved aside the knight who guarded the door. “Caradoc!”

No answer came from the chamber within. Malcolm heard the clash of steel behind him, echoing in the dark corridors. The opponents raising swords against his men were few. He'd threatened to charge all who opposed him with aiding a traitor to the king. This and his wrath had guaranteed his passage into the heart of Ravenwood Castle.

“Caradoc, unbar this door.” He beat upon the wood with his fists.

From within he heard the rustle of bedcovers. He kicked the door once, then again. Wood splintered at the third assault, ripping both the hinges from the wall and the bar that held it shut. The door hit the floor like a drawbridge opening, allowing him into the solar. He saw the flash of a sword in the candlelight and charged.

“Have you gone mad, le Farouche?” Caradoc parried, then dodged behind the bedpost. “I heard madness is rampant on your father's side of the family.”

“I discovered 'twas you who paid for the mercenaries.” Malcolm tasted hatred upon his tongue, toxic and cold. “What? You cannot fight me without ten men to my one? Or should you hire another warrior to drive a blade into my back?”

“Helwain failed in his quest.” Caradoc's eyes glittered with mockery. Again he evaded the blade, a better dancer than swordsman. “As did Elin. I had more faith in her abilities than Helwain's.”

Fury pounded behind Malcolm's eyes. “Do you plot against the king?”

“Edward is my beloved uncle.”

“I've had enough lies this night.” Malcolm snapped his sword low and struck the hilt from Caradoc's weak hand. The blade flew across the room. “Admit it, fiend, or you will die.”

“I die either way. Mayhap we can strike a bargain, you and I.”

Rage blinded him. With a roar, Malcolm lunged, and the milksop darted around the bed. “I have more than suspicions to charge you with, Caradoc. I have Helwain's confession. 'Tis enough for you to hang.”

“Bold threats, usurper.” Caradoc took another lap around the bed.

“Usurper?”
Malcolm charged over the mattress and drove Caradoc into the corner. “Explain.”

Candlelight flickered across the villain's face. “Elin and I had an ugly tiff when her father accidentally killed Cousin Edith. 'Tis why she refused to acknowledge me.”

“You lie. I wager that you had some hand in your cousin's death.” Loathing caught in his throat. “You aided Philip, and then turned against him. That is how Edward knew who to arrest.”

Triumph glittered in laughing eyes. “Nay, the traitor was Philip alone. I have a rightful claim to Elinore.”

“What rightful claim?”

“Lift the box on the table by the bed. I have the betrothal agreement. You don't believe me? See for yourself.”

Malcolm's sword trembled. For once he sensed truth in the deceiver's words.

“What?” Caradoc chortled. “Is the great le Farouche weakening?”

His sword arched, drawing a streak of blood along Caradoc's neck. “Enough insults, traitor.”

“First a cuckold, then a failure.”

A growl tore from his throat. Malcolm flipped open the jeweled box with his free hand and saw the sheen of parchment. He grabbed the scroll and broke the seal.

“I see your hand straying to your dagger.” At the edge of control, Malcolm slammed the side of his blade against the traitor's neck. “One quiver of my arm will bring your death, knave.”

“Have you killed her? Is this what drives your rage?” Caradoc laughed. “Your sword scares me not. My death would bring Edward's wrath, and the day will not come when you risk angering your precious king.”

“That day has arrived.” Malcolm scanned the betrothal agreement and the marriage record. His stomach plummeted with the sad knowledge this mocking pansy spoke the truth: Elin was Caradoc's wife.

Whatever conflict separated the pair, Elin had sought shelter in Malcolm's arms. She'd made false vows. She'd made a ruse of the love she claimed.

A rage so bleak and black pummeled his chest that Malcolm felt his ribs would break. His sword shook and he could taste the need for revenge upon his tongue. Caradoc's laughter drove him beyond control, past the discipline of a lifetime, to a place of feeling and sorrow and pain.

Then footsteps sounded on the stones behind him. Justus led a small troop into the chamber. “Let me chain Caradoc. The king will want the truth from him, and the king's torturers are the best in the land.”

Malcolm sheathed his sword. “Bind him, and toss him in the dungeon.”

“The great le Farouche is no longer fierce.” Caradoc's glee shivered through the darkness. “The king will believe
my tale, Malcolm. And 'twill be your head he seeks. You wait and see.”

“He is a festering pox,” Justus muttered as he trailed Malcolm down the dark, abandoned corridor. “He lies.”

But what is the truth?
“He and Elin are man and wife.” The words choked Malcolm, and he could say no more.

He wished he had never met the traitor's daughter on that dark road to the coast. He wished he had never allowed her to lay claim to his heart.

Fie, he was but a fool, wishing for love and dreams. A greater fool than Caradoc, who coveted the royal throne.

Malcolm's heart closed like twilight fading to night, and no light and no softness remained.

A
warm, grass-scented breeze caressed her face. Dawn played upon the edge of her eyelids, but she dared not open her eyes. Pain drilled through her skull, and the rocking motion against her stomach and hips told her she was tied over the back of a horse. A hard hand pressed against her spine, imprisoning her. He'd trussed her up and gagged her, and the discomfort of it brought her temper to life.

Ian, that swine! Fury roiled, but she had to control it. She had to think of a way to escape and save Malcolm.

“I do not like this,” a man's voice—Helwain's—grumbled above the quiet clomp of the horses. “'Twill not take le Farouche long to defeat Caradoc. We must hide the woman and return you to Evenbough ere he finishes at Ravenwood.”

“He is too preoccupied raging over his wife's supposed treachery to notice my plans.” Ian's voice was sour with hatred, and his hand pressed harder upon her back.

She struggled to keep from reacting. She had but one dagger hidden beneath her tunic and she could not risk trying to retrieve it now. She only had one chance. Just one. She would wait for the right moment.

Ian kicked his mount into a gallop, and she slammed
hard against the animal's back. Air whooshed out of her chest despite the gag stuffed in her mouth.

“Are you awake, my lady?” How he mocked her with that sarcastic tone. “No sense feigning. I can feel your heartbeat, fast and furious. Glad I am to know you fear me. You
should
be afraid. This ride from Evenbough will be your last.”

Fie, but she hated this traitor. She had to find a way to defeat him. If she could somehow loosen the ropes at her wrists and grab her dagger—

“We've arrived at your final resting place.” Ian skidded his destrier to a rough halt, and from the sound of his voice she knew the tarnished knight took much pleasure in her pain. “Helwain, take the witch.”

She needed more time to loosen the bindings. All she could do was kick out with both feet at Caradoc's hireling. Her toe cracked him in the jaw, from the sound of it. His teeth clacked together, and he cursed. A cuff from a sword's hilt struck hard against her spine.

Pain dizzied her.

“That is why I bound you well, Elin.” Dawn's light brushed Ian with dark shadows as he rolled her into his arms.

Helpless, she stared up at him. With the gag in her mouth, she could not even curse him. Malcolm would discover Ian's treachery. She had to believe it. Her husband was an intelligent man. He would discover the truth about Ian. And then Malcolm would crush this betrayer.

“He'll not come for you.” Ian's face twisted with an ugly, triumphant smile. “He believes the babe is Caradoc's. I will continue to make certain Malcolm knows how many times you slept with your lover.”

Her heart broke into smaller pieces. The pain sheared
her, and she hardly cared how roughly Ian shoved her onto Helwain's bulky shoulder.

“Malcolm is a proud man.” Ian continued to taunt her as he dismounted. “Once he believes you've betrayed him, he'll want you out of his life.”

She saw a flash of sky and the high tower of a small stone keep. And she remembered Malcolm's fury. He did not love her. He did not believe she could be carrying his child.

If only she could reach her knife. Helwain strode steadily toward a stone wall. Dew flecked an untended yard. She twisted her wrist, struggling to loosen one hand from the ropes.

Helwain carried her through a doorway and down the keep's narrow stairwell. Memories rushed back, of her father carrying her the same way, and fear wedged in her throat.

Not the dungeon.
She twisted, desperate to break away. Helwain grabbed her before she could wriggle off his shoulder.

Ian's cruel laugh reverberated along the shadowy stones. “I heard you're not fond of dungeons, lady. Mayhap you will hate the resting place I prepared for you.”

A torch burned dimly in the back corner and drew her gaze to the small oubliette in the wall—a tiny cell where prisoners were forgotten and left to die. A cramped hole full of darkness and nightmares.
By the rood, she could not bear it.

Helwain hauled her off his shoulder and dropped her on the ground. With her hands tied, she could not break her fall. She hit stone, and pain sliced through flesh and bone. She could not cry out because of the gag in her mouth.

“Have no hope, Elin.” Ian smiled, enjoying his cruel victory. “Malcolm will never come to save you. If you hear
footsteps, it will be me. Come to kill you for the murder of my dear friend. I can hardly wait.”

Curses died upon her tongue. A horrible falling sensation filled her chest. Ian was right. Malcolm would not care if she went missing from his castle or his life. He hated her now.

Tears blurred her vision, but she refused to let them fall. Ian laid a linen cloth over her and wrapped it around her body. So bound, she felt the ropes tighten around her knees and waist and ribs. Ian and Helwain hefted her into the tiny cell. Shivers coursed across her skin. Horror raged in her throat.

Ian bade her goodbye as he sealed the opening. The tiny walls felt as if they were closing in. A cold fear quaked through her. Fie, but she would not give in. That's what Ian wanted. She would not give that crowing coward the satisfaction of her fear or her death.

 

“Where is she?” Malcolm threw open the door and stormed into the passageway.
“Where is my wife?”

Only startled silence answered. The collection of knights stared at him like statues of glittering steel. Were they all such cowards that they feared his wrath?

“Rory, where is Elin?”

The warrior blanched. “No one knows. Ian sent us all to the walls to keep watch for treachery. I told him I doubted Caradoc could hire more mercenaries after both Rees the Great's and Nels the Hawk's defeat. 'Tis why he resorted to using Helwain. Mayhap there's another who is disloyal among our ranks.”

Malcolm's very suspicion. And Elin's false vows rang in his head.
I will never hurt you. I give you my word.
As with any woman, her quest for power over a man had been
disguised as love—a false love he was needy enough to believe in.

Never would he be tricked again.

“Rory, send a messenger to Ravenwood Castle. Tell Justus to expect Elin. I want her held in the dungeon, and search her for weapons. She will accompany Caradoc to the king's court.”

He marched past his men and down the curving stairs. Dark spots on the stone caught his eye. He knelt to study the trail of blood droplets on the last few steps and noticed the sword scuffs on the walls.

“Where is Ian?” he bellowed at the servants in the great hall, who prepared the tables for the meal.

“We know not,” a page gathered enough courage to whisper.

Malcolm hurled open the door and strode out into the morning. Squinting in the light of the rising sun, he studied the bustling bailey.
Where the hell was Ian?

“My lord?”

Malcolm spun at the sound of his commander's voice. Dirt marked the knight's surcoat and dried blood stained his face. “Explain your absence,” Malcolm ordered.

Ian bowed his chin, hiding his eyes. “Your lady wife escaped the solar and I attempted to stop her. My regrets, Malcolm, but I failed. She fought me with sword and dagger. I didn't wish to harm her, knowing how you once cherished her. She claimed to be Caradoc's wife, and intended to free him. She dashed through the bolt-hole and into the night ere I could stop her.”

The thought of Elin lying with that dandified capon drove Malcolm once more to the edge of control. He charged up the stairs to the battlements above. He didn't want any of his men to know of this great, shameful weak
ness. He heard Ian's step on the stones behind him. It seemed there was no escape.

Ian set a weapon on the ramparts with a clink of steel against stone. “It proves her guilt.”

She lied from the first moment we met.
'Twas a hard truth to swallow. It stuck in his throat like a fishbone. Why had he expected Elin to be different?

Because he'd hoped somewhere to find again the peace and love he'd once known as a boy in a small English valley. To know again a time of innocence and light.

“No one thinks you a fool, Malcolm.” Ian knelt down, gazing out over the village and sowed fields. Cast in shadow, he squinted in the bright sun. “I speak now as friend to friend, not as retained knight to baron. Well I understand your attachment to your lady wife. With her, you sought to make yourself noble. 'Tis always a bastard's quest, to earn what his father denied him.”

“All I dared hope for was peace, a woman's tenderness and a son of my own.” It all felt lost to him now.

“Then we as bastards fight to give our sons legitimacy.”

“Aye.”

Ian left, with duties to oversee. Malcolm remained on the battlements to plan his next move, drinking in the beauty of the land. But it was Elin who remained in his soul and would not leave. Elin who dominated his thoughts—the beauty of her touch, the passion of their joinings, the sweetness of sleeping at her side.

After all she'd done, after all her lies, he wanted her still.

The glint of sunlight upon the dagger caught Malcolm's eye.

'Twas Caradoc's blade, forged in his village.
This
was the blade Elin had used in her attack against Ian?
It proves her guilt,
Ian had declared.

Never had Malcolm seen Elin use violence to attack,
only to protect. And the castle's blacksmith now made all her daggers.

Malcolm searched the bailey below and spotted Ian. Faintly the sound of his orders lifted above the clatter of the busy castle yard. Ian was mounting up to follow Elin's tracks.

Tracks? She headed for Ravenwood. Justus would be waiting there. What need did Ian have to follow her trail through the woods?

Again that icy prickle of warning gripped Malcolm's spine. Perchance it was the soft morning light, but Ian's profile resembled Caradoc's. He held the same flicker of mockery in his eyes. And his chin was carved with the same dimple. Malcolm blinked again, certain he was wrong, but the resemblance remained.

'Tis always a bastard's quest, to earn what his father denied him.
Malcolm plummeted down the stairs to the bailey below, but Ian was already mounted.

“Hold. I shall go with you.” Malcolm signaled for his squire. “I have unfinished business with Ravenwood.”

Ian's gaze narrowed. Was it cunning or simply intelligence that gleamed there? “I will be honored with your presence.”

“Mayhap we can find Elin together.” He slid the false dagger in his belt. “I have a matter to settle with her.”

“That of Caradoc's babe?” All innocent, that comment.

Malcolm's guts prickled with the sour sting. Those words carried barbs meant to hurt. He shrugged his anger aside. “Aye. That is the matter I wish to punish her for. Rory, gather a dozen men to accompany us.”

“But lord, what of the threat of attack on Evenbough?” Ian's hand covered his hilt.

“The absence of twelve knights will not result in the
castle's downfall.” Malcolm took the stallion's reins from his squire. “Let us follow wherever Elin's tracks lead.”

Panic twisted Ian's face, then disappeared.

The rage revived in Malcolm's chest. Why had he not seen it? Ian wanted legitimacy, as all bastards did. Was it this that had driven him? Had he wanted a baron's title? Was he furious that Malcolm had been granted that honor by the king?

Worse, had Ian planted false rumors and reported false events? And yet Caradoc had confirmed Ian's tales. The brothers worked together in this.

Leaving Lulach in charge of the castle's defense, Malcolm led the way down the drawbridge and into the dew thick fields. He saw two separate tracks. A faint, older trail had knocked the drops from wildflowers and grasses. A bolder path marked Ian's return to Evenbough.

Malcolm sidled his destrier alongside his commander's. “Look, my wife's trail heads east.”

“She turned toward Ravenwood once she reached the trees.”

Malcolm watched the lie flicker in eyes as dark as Caradoc's. “Let us follow her trail. No doubt it will lead us where you say.” Although he had his doubts.

“Then let us all proceed to Ravenwood.” Ian's hand settled again on his sword's hilt.

“Look, Elin's trail continues east.” Malcolm, too, laid his hand on his weapon. “And she rides a warhorse and not her favorite palfrey. 'Tis strange.”

“Very strange.” Rory sidled next to Malcolm.

For a brief flash, he feared the mercenary's loyalty was false, but then he saw the tension cording the muscles in the knight's neck. Rory suspected Ian, too. Thank the rood for this curiously staunch knight.

“Mayhap she needed a fast mount to aid her plans to
flee.” Again Ian's gaze swept the contingency of armed men.

“You've not chosen your usual destrier, Ian.” Malcolm nudged his stallion with his thighs, circling his foe. “You ride the swiftest animal in the stables. To aid your plan to flee?”

Ian kicked the destrier backward, before Rory could close the circle. “My own mount was tired from a hard ride.”

“A hard ride tracking Elin to Ravenwood?” Malcolm closed in, the malignant taste of bottled rage hot upon his tongue. “Where is my wife, Ian?”

The cursed deceiver spun his horse and whipped the animal into a panicked gallop. With a roar, Malcolm followed, driving his stallion into a full run. Still, the gap between them grew.

“Did you think to kill me?” he roared. “Did you plan to let Elin take the blame for my murder?”

Ian whipped his mount harder. Malcolm urged his destrier to a courageous pace. 'Twas a lot to ask of a loyal warhorse, and the stallion valiantly raced over hill and through dale, full out, ears plastered back.