Page 41 of The Daughters of Avalon
It was inordinately clear that Beauchamp was pleased over the proposal he’d made to wed his sister to the lord of Drakewich. His mood was high, and his mouth hadn’t stopped yapping for nearly an hour, expounding on subjects that Malcom didn’t feel comfortable discussing. And yet, very clearly, the man had gone above and beyond, for the last meal Malcom had here was hardly so fine. “So, my lord, tell me… do you anticipate this will be the end of Matilda?”
Malcom shrugged. “The lady is stubborn,” he said distractedly. “I cannot see as she will stop until she has what she considers to be hers. But I ken she no longer has the resources to persevere. Robert is dead.” He considered what news was public knowledge, and added, “Word is that Wallingford has grown ill as well.”
Beauchamp nodded. “Brian Fitz Count?” He made a flourish with his hand, jostling his wine over the top of his cup. “Or rather should I say Fitz Cunt?” He smiled deviously, self-amused. “I cannot abide that fool. If anyone believes he isn’t beard-splitting Matilda, I’d have a thing or two to say about that.”
Bored with such utter nonsense, but allowing Beauchamp to carry on, Malcom lost himself amidst half-drunken reverie, thinking about his recent commission in Wales.
As far as he saw it, if the taking of a single life could save a thousand more, this was theraison d'étatfor the Rex Militum. The death of one culpable man was a far lesser tragedy than to have an entire countryside showered in the blood of innocents. As it was, he couldn’t stomach the sweeping loss of life after thirteen years of warfare. For someone like Wallingford, who was complicit in the instigations of this war, and who’d been planning insurgency from the beginning, Malcom saw his demise no differently than he did facing his enemy on a battlefield. Whilst there was a lot he might be conflicted over, he wasnotconflicted over that. They’d received word that Wallingford intended to visit Llanthony to award the priory yet another grant for the sake of his soul. It was Malcom’s assignment to intercept the man, attempt negotiations and dispose of him if necessary. But their intelligence had proven faulty, and it had cost him a squire. Still, he couldn’t regret having gone, elsewise he’d never have encountered Elspeth… whose absence from this hall was beginning to turn his last nerve. Glancing at the stairwell, he took another sip of his nasty wine.
“Pious bitch,” Beauchamp was saying of the Empress. But, of course, Malcom would never use such words, though Matilda was, indeed, haughty and betimes mean and quick to anger, like her father—not to mention, more pious than was necessary.
But then, again, that brought to mind a point that had long been festering: There were still a number of the old tribes about Wales—as there were in Scotia—men and women who’d never relish being told to bend the knee to a God they did not know. It seemed to Malcom that if Stephen so much wished to gain Welsh support, rather than murdering his enemies, he should be looking for gentler ways to join their houses. But, of course, d’Lucy was noeegit: He could well have proposed such a thing already… which would explain Elspeth.
“Haughty as you please,” Beauchamp persisted, perseverating like a mad dog with a bone. “But I tell you, no man enjoys being told what to do byanywoman, no matter what her station.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Malcom replied absently, careful to keep the brogue from his words now that he was lighter on his toes. “I can think of a few occasions to prostrate myself before a lady.”
Beauchamp guffawed loudly. He gave Malcom a thump of his elbow, highly amused. “Ah, you Scots are ever randy bastards,” he said, and he took a hefty swig from his tankard. “As for me…” He set the tankard down with a hard thud. “I’ve not yet found a proper lady who could wet my whistle as well as my sister could.”
Startled by the proclamation, Malcom straightened in his chair.
Beauchamp must have anticipated an objection, because he said very quickly. “Not that I haveeveror would ever, mind you.” He swiped his hand through the air. “My sister’s as chaste as the Virgin herself.”
By God. The wine must be getting to him, Malcom decided, because he suddenly had unspeakable images cavorting through his head, and it was quite a bit more distasteful than Beauchamp’s dirty wine. God help him. If he didn’t know better—know Beauchamp was too greedy to compromise his only sister—an asset—he would have to worry for the poor lass.
As it was, the erection that had begun to slowly tease him over the thought of Elspeth lying abovestairs in that bed, grew perfectly flaccid, and he was inordinately relieved when Beauchamp returned the conversation to Henry’s women. “So, what’s this I hear about Adeliza still scheming to put her stepdaughter on the throne? Meddling cow.”
Malcom tried harder to eradicate the distasteful images from his head. “I would put little credence in any such rumor. D’Aubigny would not stand for it. He’s Stephen’s loyal man.”
Eyeing the harpist, Beauchamp leaned backward in his chair. “Pah!” he said, throwing up a hand. “D’Aubigny is besotted by Henry’s widow. Did you not hear say he’s granted a shit pile of land at Wymondham to build the lady a leper hospital?
“And,” he continued, dredging up old news, “what of Matilda? At his lady’s behest, he allowed that nasty shrew to shelter at Arundel, and then he then let her go when Stephen bade him not to.”
“So he did,” Malcom said, growing impatient, though not merely with the conversation. It had been a long, long night and day, and he’d yet to get a good rest, and more and more he reconsidered the wisdom in hanging about. He had a father who could be dying, and he owed the man more thanthis, no matter what quarrels lay between them.
“I would have thought Stephen would charge him for that.”
“What would you have had him do?” Malcom asked, arching a brow, casting Beauchamp a pointed glance. “Stephen, himself, released his cousin twice. ’Tis why I serve the man. I admire the respect he bears his kin, and particularly his lady kin. Why would he then punish D’Aubigny when D’Aubigny is more loyal than most?”
Feeling judged, perhaps, Beauchamp grumbled. “Betimes our king is as flaccid as an old cock. But thankfully, he’s got that Welsh witch to see to him.”
Welsh witch…
Morwen.
Something teased at Malcom’s subconscious, though he couldn’t bring it to light—mostly because he was preoccupied with Elspeth. Every so oft, his eyes were drawn to the stairwell at the back of the hall, only hoping for a glimpse of the woman he’d so boldly claimed to be his bride.
Would she tell Dominique?
Would she confess all?
If, indeed, she did so, Malcom would have more explanations to make, because so far as Beauchamp knew, he’d wed her by leave of their king, and there was no one here but Elspeth who could possibly deny it. At long last, he spotted a flutter of movement at the back of the hall.
And there she was…
Dominique was the first to appear, leading the way, her smile beatific, as ever. Yes, indeed, the girl was quite lovely, with a kindly demeanor. She would make some man a fine, fine wife. And only for the briefest instant, he wondered how he could have rebuffed her… particularly if she, herself, needed saving, for even now, her brother’s jest sat like a pile of rot in Malcom’s gut.
But then Elspeth arrived behind her, and Dominique was forgotten. Setting down his cup as Elspeth descended the stairwell, he stood.
