Chapter Two
Even at this late hour, Elspeth was glad she’d chosen to ride astride her palfrey.
The Scot’s air was fresh, and the landscape was spectacular—moorlands, interspersed with pinewoods that were filled with evergreens as tall as any she’d ever seen. She could smell them as they passed, a tantalizingly sweet aroma that reminded her of Wales, and tarts left cooling on windowsills.
It was at times like these that she most missed her grandmamau, and she wondered, idly—because she daren’t linger on morose thoughts—what her sisters must be doing right now, and when she would be seeing them again.
Deep in her soul, a silky voice whispered, “Don’t worry, Elspeth, everything will be alright.” And be that as it may, her belly was jostling, like day-old pudding, and she had a thirst great enough to swallow a burn. However, a wagon wouldn’t have made the journey any easier, and at least this way, she could control the pace, and she was far enough from her confinement that she wasn’t worried about going into labor. She had months yet to go. Excited to see Malcom’s sire again, and to meet his entire family, she would have suffered twice the discomfort for merely a chance to spend the yuletide with kinsmen. Aside from her own sisters, she’d never much known familial closeness, and she’d never properly celebrated the winter solstice. And, of course, she was all the more pleased to know that, after more than ten years, Malcom himself would be returning to his fold. “How long have we to go?”
“Art ready to stop for the day?”
She cast her husband a tilted glance, arching a brow. “I did not say that, husband. I merely asked how long we had to journey.” She placed a hand to her belly.
Of course, Malcom noticed, and he frowned. “Has the babe grown displeased?”
Elspeth reassured him. “The babe is fine, love. And were he not so fine, I am quite certain he would say so.” Malcom gave her a befuddled look and Elspeth reminded him, “You should know by now that there are more ways to speak than with words.”
“Nay, but you said he?”
Elspeth smiled, realizing now why he was looking at her so… animatedly. By now, she had come to think of the baby as a he, only because she had a strong sense of the gender. However, it could still easily be a girl. And it wasn’t as though her dewine senses could reveal such things—at least not hers. But, indeed, Elspeth had dreamt of a boy with dark hair and bright sea-green eyes, so, perhaps, it could be a boy, though she wasn’t about to say so and get Malcom’s hopes up, only to dash them. “It was a slip of the tongue.”
“Ah, well,” he said. “And still, perhaps we should stop for the day?”
“Only tell me, how long have we to go?” Elspeth persisted.
“At our pace, a few hours, perhaps more.”
Elspeth waved him away. “Tis well and good,” she said. “I promise to speak up if I need to rest, and in the meantime, if Cora can keep the pace, so can I.”
Peering over her shoulder, she waved at the maid, who was riding in the wagon, guarding their gifts—as though her fierce look alone might be sufficient to ward away brigands. And, well, it could be true… as sweet as Cora might be, she was a fire-breathing dragon when the occasion merited. The woman had come to them along with the estate, and so far as Elspeth could tell, she was the only one—Page’s father included—who had ever cared much for Malcom’s mother.
Malcom nodded, hardly appeased, though he was coming to know Elspeth well enough to know she’d not take kindly to his telling her what to do. She was fine, and if she were not so fine, she would say so. To this day, eight months removed from the day he’d discovered her affinity for the Craft, he could still not quite grow accustomed to the fact that she was more capable than most. Aside from the constant bounce, bounce, bounce, bounce she was perfectly at ease in the saddle, and to prepare herself for this journey, she had taken to riding daily, even against her husband’s protests. They were traveling now with a small retinue, and Cora as well, because Malcom had insisted, in case the journey was too arduous and put her into labor. However, Elspeth knew she was in no danger of delivering this babe any day soon, and she knew as much because she knew to the minute when her child was conceived—that day in the woods, on the way to Aldergh, that very first time she and Malcom made love. It had been her greatest desire to carry his babe, and the Goddess had fulfilled her heart’s desire.
Thankfully, it didn’t become apparent that she was breeding, until long after the skirmish with her mother, and then more than a month after his sire departed. What a surprise this would be to all—a Yuletide gift, even if the babe would not join them until closer to Candlemas.
At any rate, she didn’t wish to stop yet. She couldn’t wait to arrive—and for that matter, she had never in all her life met a man more gleeful for the acquaintance of a sibling.
She smiled at Malcom, all the while caressing her belly, hoping that someday she would bear her wee son a brother or a sister. “I warrant your brother must be anticipating your arrival with bated breath. Every younger must admire his elder.”
Properly distracted from the state of her wellbeing, Malcom grinned, and said, “He canna anticipate this more than I do.”
This, Elspeth knew to be true. “You are quite wonderful with children, Malcom. Wee Davie loved the bow you gave him, and I expect Alex will love the sword as well.” It was a spectacular gift for a young boy—the infamous sword of the Devil Bellême. “Did I ever tell you I once met that man? When I was five.”
“Robert de Bellême?”
Elspeth nodded, and Malcom said, “I believe I was twelve when he died, but we heard tales of his terrors as far north as Chreagach Mhor.”
Elspeth nodded soberly. “He remained fodder for our nightmares for many, many years after his death. Alex will be pleased to be gifted such an illustrious sword. But, tell me, do you not worry overmuch that such an infamous weapon will bear the spirit of its maker?”
“I wielded it for years before I commissioned my own.”
“Did you?”
“Alas, though some might say my deeds were the acts of a demon—and I cannot deny it—I was so greedy for my own legacy, I would have done such things with or without the possession of Bellême’s sword. In fact, I did not even own the sword when I took possession of Aldergh, and neither did I wield it during the battle of the Standard.”
The battle wherein he’d faced his father. His expression darkened, and so did his aura, and Elspeth let it go. She wouldn’t dare tell him now that it was possible to imbue such items with the essence of their makers. It was a common form of magic. And no matter; if Malcom did not believe it, it could not be true, because in order to imbue anything with power of any sort, its bearer must believe it, and the recipient as well. Therefore, Alex, too, must be prepared to embrace Bellême’s legacy as his truth. And only an ignoble soul would ever embrace the hud du. From every tale Elspeth had ever heard, Alex was a sweet little boy, hardly capable of villainy.
As for the Battle of the Standard, Malcom only rarely spoke of it and Elspeth never asked—not because she didn’t care to hear his accounts, but because his aura always shifted from the placid hues that were his normal shades to hues of red and black. She could detect these dark threads in his aura even now, and therefore when Malcom fell into silence, she let him brood. She loved him well enough to not wish him to have to suffer his ill-begotten memories, and neither would it suit anyone who must abide his presence thereafter. As wife to an Earl, she had a duty to her people—far more so than she’d ever had as the ill-conceived daughter of a King. As for her husband, his present days were fraught with so much tension, councils with David of Scotia, councils with the northern castellans, and councils with some of Matilda’s emissaries. If only for a short time, she would have him forget the strife that awaited. England, alas, was suffering a calm before the storm, and loyal subjects like Malcom were caught in a tempest, but the day would soon arrive when peace was restored. Until that day, Elspeth was pleased Malcom could enjoy a heartfelt reunion with the family he adored.
She tried to imagine what Page FitzSimon must be like, and thought she could envision the lady simply by the accounts she’d been given. Always, Cora had had so much to say about the lady, and Elspeth hoped with all her might that the daughter of Aldergh’s first lord would appreciate the gifts they were bringing—a coffer full of her mother’s belongings, including many of Lady Eleanore’s dresses and a brooch etched with the image of Saint Ninian. Cora claimed that Page used to steal into her mother’s room to wear it, and rather than give it to her after her mother was gone, her father secreted it away—along with all the rest of her mother’s belongings. What a miserly bastard.
Alas, the closer they came to his birthland, the quieter Malcom grew, and Elspeth sensed he was trying to make peace with himself before their arrival. One way or another, he must endeavor to forgive himself. And better now than later. She contented herself with her reverie, enjoying the sights, and little by little, as they rode northward, the woodlands gave way to craggy moorlands, and finally, just before the gloaming, they caught sight of a rugged fortress high atop a cliffside. From Elspeth’s vantage, the sight took her breath away.
“Chreagach Mhor,” Malcom said, reining in his mount.
Elspeth, too, halted, and, without a word, their companions did so as well. The wagon behind them squealed to a laborious halt, and after a moment, she could feel the swell of Malcom’s changing aura envelop her—a heady mixture of excitement, nervousness and pride—the pale orange she’d come to know and love, with hints of blue, like the colors of a low-burning flame. “Art ready?” she asked.
He turned to face her with a grin, and said, “Never more.”