Malcolm'S Honor (Historical, 519) (4 page)

“Nay.” That humor waned, as silent as the night. “You amuse me—the cruel world does not. Take care in how you act from this moment on. You have tended my men. That will serve you well in the king's court. I will tell how you worked of your own free will until day's light without food or water or rest.”

“I came to tend Hugh. I shall not have a dead man on my conscience. I returned to care for his wound, not to prove my innocence or earn a better judgment from the king.”

“You
ought
to worry about proof, or you will watch your entrails be cut from your body as they draw and quarter you. I have seen enough of such punishment to know it one of the cruelest. You will be alive when they begin
butchering you. Remember, innocent or guilty, all that matters is proof of innocence.”

“And I have no proof, no lies to cover, no one to bribe, no way to show I know what my father plotted.”

“You know he plotted?”

“He plots constantly. And as he sits weeping there in the shadows, he still plots a way to escape.” Tears knotted her throat and she fell silent. Anger, fear and an enormous chill of betrayal cloaked her body. What had her father done, involving her in his escape? Had she known he sought to evade the king's protector, she would have held fast to her bedpost and refused to let go.

Now she would face court. With no way to prove her innocence, save Caradoc, the king's nephew, trussed up to an oak tree. She could not ask his help. Not from a cheater, a killer and a wife beater. To enlist his aid would mean she would have to agree to his outrageous claims of marriage.

What she needed was a plot of her own. She needed to avoid the king's court, Caradoc's influence and the strong sword of Malcolm le Farouche. Already the lavender tint to the horizon began fading to peach. Soon the sun would rise, and they would journey toward London and her fate as a traitor's daughter.

An idea came to her, and she could not take time to think through the consequences. Being kind to the fierce one would not be easy, though she vowed to do it. For both her life and her freedom. “You bleed, sir.”

“What? No insults? No name-calling? Not ‘sirrah,' or ‘cowardly knave'?”

Let him mock her. He might be twice as strong, but she was twice as smart. “Nay, I must apologize for my disrespect. You speak truth. I have a rebellious nature, but I have neither the power nor the will to conspire against the king. I will seek to show from this moment forth that I am
innocent, and each action will prove this to you and to the king.”

“Well chosen. I will do all I can to aid your cause, for you have given all to tend my wounded men.” The frown faded from his mouth. Though he did not smile, she saw a glimmer of kindness, another puzzle to this man of steel and might. “How fares Hugh?”

“He lives yet.” She selected a clean cloth from the many slung over her shoulder and dipped it into the trencher she held. She stepped close to him—close enough to inhale his night forest and man scent, to feel the heat from his body and see the stubbled growth on his jaw. She dabbed at the cut to his lip and he winced, but did not step away. “Hugh cannot be moved.”

“We cannot remain here.” He gestured with an upturned palm at the road.

“To move your knight is to kill him. He must remain still for the stitched wounds inside to heal. Else I guarantee he will bleed to death. I recall a village not a league from here. It must have an inn. I believe Sir Hugh can travel that far.”

Malcolm caught her hand, his fingers curling around her wrist and forcing the cloth from his face. The power of his gaze, unbending and lethal as the steel sword at his belt, speared her.

“Is this a plot?” he demanded. “Are you attempting to fool me into a trap you and your lover have devised?”

“Lover? You mean Caradoc?” Outrage knifed through her. “What has that addlepated knave told you?”

“Only that he is your betrothed.” Was that amusement she saw flash in his dark eyes?

“As I said, 'tis untrue. He covets my father's holdings. Seeing him bound like a scoundrel gives me great pleasure.”

Malcolm laughed, the sound rich and friendly this time, not mocking. “You need not tend my wounds, dove. They will heal in time. Day breaks. See to Hugh and prepare him for travel. We will leave him at this inn you know of. If I spy any act of treachery, I will chain you to the wall of the king's dungeon myself.”

Aye, but you will never be able to find me.
Fear trembled through her, and yet she forced a smile to her lips. Her heart thumped with some unnatural reaction to this man of sword and death, dark like the shadows even as the sun rose and brought light to the world.

A
sense of doom settled in Malcolm's chest as he watched three of his knights lay an unconscious Hugh upon a rickety bed covered in fresh linen. He did not care what the traitor's daughter predicted. They had brought Hugh here to die.

Malcolm could not stomach how he'd failed the young knight, who'd often proclaimed his eagerness to serve his king and fight beneath the Fierce One's command. Bitterness soured Malcolm's mouth.

“I'll need hot water. You—” Elin pointed a slim finger at one of his men “—see to it.”

“Dove, these are
my
men to command. Lulach, Hugh needs fresh water. We cannot send the traitor's daughter for it.”

“True.” Anger burned in resentful eyes, for Lulach, as Malcolm suspected others did, blamed Elin and her father for Hugh's injuries. “I'll go, but make no mistake. I'm no criminal woman's handmaiden.”

Malcolm watched Elin of Evenbough blanch, and saw the denial sharpen her face. She muttered something beneath her breath—and he knew he would have objected had he heard it—then she knelt gracefully at Hugh's side.

The poor knight's chances were not good; Malcolm
knew this even before she rolled back layers of wool and linen. A neatly stitched gash stretched from Hugh's ribs to his groin. She bent to study it, her golden hair, with a hint of red, like a flame that caught and shimmered in the sunlight slanting through the open door. She was liquid fire, and when she tilted her face up to meet his gaze, his chest burned as if a firestorm raged there, wicked and untamed.

“I see no sign of fever. Look, no redness marks the edges of the wound.” A measure of joy filled her voice. Not triumph or pride, for Malcolm knew those well enough, but gladness. And her gladness surprised him. “I predict Hugh will live.”

“Do you always predict what you cannot control?”

“What? You doubt my abilities?”

“Aye, I doubt all women.” The girl was too green. She'd not seen death and dying the way he had. A gray pallor clung to the wounded man's face and took hold, growing stronger as the light shifted and deepened.

“Truly, a man such as you sees naught but dying. What do you know of the living?” She turned her shoulder to him, as if he'd insulted her.

He could not argue. For once the dove was correct.

“Where's Alma?” Her low voice wobbled a bit.

“I sent her to aid the innkeeper's wife, who is crippled with joint pain. They are not accustomed to receiving so many men at once. 'Tis a small village, and these roads not often traveled. Only a traitor evading the king's knights might choose this path.”

“You needn't remind me of my plight.” Elin bowed her head, searching through the satchel she carried. Crocks clattered together, and the dull clunks and thunks chimed noisily in the somber tension of the air. “Bring me Alma.”

“Nay, dove. If you need assistance, I shall give it.”

“You?” Her eyes widened, and she lifted one corner of
her mouth in disbelief. Then, mayhap remembering her vow to behave, she erased that sneer from her delicate lips, pearled with early morning light. “You admit you know naught of healing.”

“I can hold a trencher well enough.” He hid his chuckle behind a cough, amused at her valiant effort not to insult him. Aye, the poor girl was trying, but like an untamed horse facing the prospect of a saddle, she could not hide her unwillingness. “Besides, you are my prisoner. I'll not leave your side, traitor's daughter.”

Temper flared in her eyes, glaring like sunlight on water. Her fists curled, but no anger sounded in her voice. She was like any woman, always pretending. “I will honor your offer of assistance, for you are the greatest knight in all the realm.”

“Not so great.” He waited, and although he sensed them, no insults spewed from her sharp tongue. He accepted the trencher of steaming water Lulach handed him. “I've seen many manner of men, dove, and not one has been so noble as to bear that title.”

“In this we agree.” She tapped herbs into the water, her gaze avoiding his. “Do you think the king will believe Caradoc's claim?”

“I cannot say. The king has a mind of his own, though he's known to be fair. It depends on your father. Whether he chooses to speak the truth, or if he is swayed by Caradoc's false promises to help save him.”

“Caradoc, aye, he is my fear.” She dipped the cloth into the trencher, leaning close. Her delicately shaped mouth frowned as she worked, and with it her entire face. Soft lines eased across her brow and crinkled at the corners of her eyes. His gaze flickered across the cut of her lips.

Aye, she was young, far too spirited for his taste and
much too soft. Yet his chest tightened, and air caught with a painful hitch between his ribs.

“Caradoc is a man of much weakness, many lies,” he admitted.

“What? You believe me? That I am not betrothed to him?” Her measuring gaze latched on to his.

He could see the intelligence in those eyes, the thoughts forming behind them. “I know the like of Ravenwood far too well. I've seen many brutes of that ilk.”

“He's nephew to the king.”

“Aye. I'm well acquainted with that fact.”

Hugh murmured, as if fighting to awaken. Malcolm reached for his hand so the young knight would know he was not alone. But Elin's fingers were already there, and her compassion glimmered, as unmistakable as the steady glow of sunlight into the dim room. Hugh quieted, and she continued her work bathing his wound.

“Then he will awaken?”

“Aye.” She cast Malcolm a mischievous smile, quick and fleeting. “You doubt my knowledge, but you'll soon see. Hugh will live.”

“Then he'll owe his life to you.”

“Nay, to Alma.
She
pecked like a troubled conscience until I had to return to aid him.”

But Malcolm knew the truth when he saw it. “Nay, I think you returned to aid your betrothed.”

She sparkled with humor. “Go ahead, tease. You shall see what a sacrifice I made in returning, once you spend an entire day with Caradoc. Your knights are likely to behead him just to stop his insults.”

“Does he cast an insult more sharp than yours?”

She almost laughed, and with the sunlight alive in her fiery curls, she was transformed before his eyes into a nymph of beauty and mischief. “I admit I studied Cara
doc's skill, for although I hate the man, I do admire his foul temper.”

“'Tis a skill you practice then? Like wielding a sword?”

“Aye. I am a woman who does both.”

He laughed. How this girl-woman amused him. He'd not been amused by much in more years than he could count. He handed her a fresh bandage when she gestured for one. “Caradoc is trussed up in the stable under guard. At last report, he still had his head.”

Elin gazed at Malcolm with that fire flickering in her eyes, as mesmerizing as a mirage in the desert, when heat and earth and imagination created illusions. “Will the king judge me innocent of treason, but condemn me in marriage to his nephew?”

“'Tis more likely than Edward deciding to have you hanged, drawn and quartered.” A warning twisted in Malcolm's guts and prickled along the back of his neck. “As long as you continue to prove your innocence to me, you will live.”

“You are not my judge.”

“Nay, but I am your jailer.”

But not for long.
Elin thought of the dried oakwood tucked into a pouch in one of her herb crocks. Even a small amount of the berry could render a grown man ill for hours. Ill enough to allow her escape.

Malcolm caught hold of her hand, his big callused fingers rough and strangely fascinating as they covered hers. “Quit your worries, dove. Edward will be pleased that you saved young Hugh's life.”

For a brief instant she saw behind the heartless eyes, to the ghost of the man he must have once been before he turned killer and traded his soul for the coin it would bring.

'Twas almost a shame she'd have to poison him. But
death or marriage to Caradoc? She would not go quietly toward either darkness.

 

“The crone is serving Giles and the prisoners in the stable. The innkeeper's wife could not do it.” Lulach settled on the bench and quickly drained the tankard of ale. “I must hurry, ere the old woman begins a plot to free the traitors.”

“Rest and eat, the crone will cause no trouble.” Malcolm took his eating knife from his belt. “'Tis the younger one we must watch.”

“She is a witch, that one. Able to defeat us with her spells and powers.”

“Nay, she's no sorceress. Look how she works.” He gestured to the young woman emerging from the kitchen, steaming trenchers in hand, her fine wool mantle shivering around her slim thighs with every step she took.

Lulach growled, still disbelieving. “Beware she does not cast a spell over our meal and sicken us.”

“I've seen sorcery, and 'tis not what the traitor woman practices with her simple herbs.” Any memories of the Outremer filled Malcolm with blackness and horror. He forced those images to the back of his mind. “But still, I trust her not.”

“'Tis wise.” Lulach carefully studied the food Elin had helped prepare after tending Hugh.

“More mead?” The dove's voice sang as pleasantly as a morning breeze. With a smile, she handed Malcolm a second tankard.

The back of his neck crawled. Aye, he could sense she was up to no good. When they departed after the meal, he would tie her again to the saddle. While he could not bear to leave Hugh, his king expected the traitor without delay.
They would have to leave the injured man behind. The life of a knight was not fair.

“Elin?” He caught the female by the elbow, and she turned to him with concern in her eyes.

“What is it, le Farouche? Is it the food—”

“Nay. I am considering asking Alma to stay with…” His stomach twisted, and he placed a hand there.

An agonized groan sounded in the room behind him, rumbling like a thunderclap. Another groan was followed by an unpleasant sound.

“She's poisoned us!” Giles accused, arriving breathless in the doorway. Sunlight shifted around his form and betrayed how he trembled. “Men are dropping like flies in the stable. Even the prisoners. Look, I begin to sweat.”

Discord rose as rough shouts and threats resonated in the smoke-ridden air. As if she was guilty, Elin's eyes widened and she spun away. Malcolm reached out and snared her by the sleeve, but only briefly.

“Silence,” he roared, temper raging with the force of a storm at sea. His stomach squeezed again, and he fell to his knees. “Lady Elinore, what have you done?”

“What I had to do.” She laid a hand on his forehead, a touch of compassion. Her caress soothed like water against the shore.

“Kill the king's men, and you'll pay with more than just your life.” He tried to climb to his knees, but his senses spun. His vision blurred. He remained crouched like a dog upon the earthen floor.

“The poison is not a lethal dose. I was careful. Do not fret, Sir Malcolm. You'll live.”

A sick taste filled his mouth. Strength seeped from his limbs until he could only lie motionless in the dirt. “Then when this poison loosens its hold on me, believe this. I will hunt you down. You cannot hide from me.”

“I can try.” She knelt over him and took the dagger from his belt. He saw her soft leather boots, small and finely tailored, as she stepped over him.

“Elin!” he shouted. “Do not do this! I beg of you.”

But the tap of her step against dirt and stone faded away into nothing, nothing at all.

She was gone, the vile betrayer, and he wretched, groaning in misery.

He would hunt her down. Malcolm the Fierce would not rest until he had the traitor woman's head.

 

“I cannot leave.” Alma dug in her heels. “There is Hugh to think of. And look, these men will need an herbed tea to calm their stomachs.”

“Nay, I want their stomachs churning.” Elin gave the cinch a good pull. “Listen, only danger lies ahead for me.”

“Danger?”

“Why did Father bring us on this journey? We have no explanation. Perchance he planned something sinister. Then innocent protestations will not save us.”

“What if justice prevails? I see no danger then.”

“Not for you. But Father's barony may be lost, and who will be at court to beg favors from Edward? Caradoc. He claims we are betrothed, and there will be no debate. Why should the king not secure the barony with his own blood?”

“'Tis logic you speak. And truth.” Alma frowned, her brows drawn together in serious thought. “Yet I cannot leave Hugh. He needs much care.”

“Aye. It weighs heavily on my conscience.” Elin rubbed her forehead, then turned to her waiting palfrey.

“Elin!” 'Twas Caradoc's voice, thin with sickness. “You've not fallen ill from this vile food. Free me, and I'll take these black knights to Edward's punishment.”

Alarm beat in her chest. She leaned close, whispering to
Alma. “See what he plans? There still remains doubt over the true cause of his wife's death. Can you blame me?”

“Nay. Do as you must.” Troubled, Alma laid her hand over the cross at her neck. “Promise to take care. I love you as a daughter and could not bear to lose you.” Tears misted the old woman's eyes.

And burned in Elin's throat. “You've been a mother to me, Alma. If le Farouche harms you, he will answer to me, king's protector or nay.”

“Aye, fierce you are.” Alma's affection whispered in her voice, soft like an east wind. She lifted the chain from her neck. The silver cross, hand hewn, caught a flash of sunlight from a crack in the roof.

“Nay, I cannot—”

“Take this with my blessing. 'Twill bring you safely to Elizabeth's.” She secured the chain around Elin's neck, tears on her face. “My prayers are with you.”