Page 57 of The Daughters of Avalon
Whoever was here couldn’t have been gone long, he surmised. And nevertheless, they were gone, and he wished he’d come sooner—although, in truth, he couldn’t have done so without raising suspicions. As it was, Rufford, Beauchamp’s longtime steward, had looked him askance and would have shotback a dozen inquiries but for the simple fact that he must have sensed Malcom would never welcome the intrusion.
Malcom didn’t answer in such a fashion to his own steward; he would never tolerate it from Beauchamp’s. He was an Earl of the realm, a respected member of the King’s Guard and the Rex Militum. There was no one in Beauchamp’s demesne he should be answering to. Not today. Not any day.
He stood now, studying the room a long while, then walked out of the cottage, and stood looking over the garden before shifting his focus over the Vale of Ewyas…
He could see the entirety of the grounds from this vantage, and in the distance, he watched a falconer set loose a dark-feathered bird—perhaps a peregrine.
It was unfathomable how much money had been poured into this remote priory—a brand-new hatchery, an aviary—quite substantial by the looks of it—a well-vested chapel, plus that doddering old priest who probably knew more than he claimed. He wondered idly: Whose money was invested here? Stephen’s? Henry’s? Matilda’s? All three, and then some? More importantly, to whom did the priory answer? Not to God, because Malcom didn’t sense his presence here at all.
In fact, as well visited as the priory appeared to be, and as much hustle and bustle as there was today, he felt a dark underbelly to this institution… an oppression that made him wonder how Elspeth and her sisters could possibly have lived in such a place for so long.
And yet, there was no proof she ever did.
The cottage, save for the abundance of chairs in such a small hovel, seemed to be little more than a gardener’s hut. If, in fact, five young ladies had ever resided there, someone must have swept through the house and removed all traces of their existence.
Why?
Contemplating all the possible answers, Malcom took to his horse without speaking to the chaplain, eager to be away. And just because the chaplain bothered to mention the Rhiw Pyscod, he took the well-worn footpath west to Llangorse—a fortuitous choice, because about an hour down the road he discovered what he was searching for. It was an old prison tumbril. One of the wheels had broken and the vehicle rested precariously on the old Roman path.
Malcom approached cautiously, though he needn’t have; dressed in his finery, the men all hailed him—three in total, only one a swordsman.
The swordsman was the one who greeted Malcom, but he scratched his head, looking askance as though he were hoping for something more. “Art come from the priory, m’lord?”
The prisoner behind the bars met Malcom’s gaze—a woman, dark haired, amber eyes—and he believed he detected a hint of a smile. Malcom daren’t allow his gaze to linger. He nodded to the swordsman. “The good father said you’d found some trouble.”
“I’d say. Damned old paddy. I’ll warrant ’tis seen more bodies dragged to the gallows than any other. If I had my druthers, I’d slay the witch and set the wagon afire. Better yet, I’d fix her a stake, and burn her right here, use the wood for kindling.”
Frowning, Malcom dismounted, positioning Merry Bells precisely where the path diverted, sloping downward, fully expecting to have to make a run for it. He removed his sword from the saddle scabbard, sliding it into his sword belt as though it were a matter of habit. He patted Merry Bells, then casually walked over to examine the wreck, paying little attention to its passenger.
The spokes on one wheel had somehow split—all of them. Simply put, the wagon needed a new wheel. “There’s no repairing this,” he said. “You’ll need a new trundle.”
“Aye, m’lord, but I already knew that, and so I said.” And once again, he peered down the footpath, scowling. “Where’s Randel?”
Malcom forced a smile, patting his belly. “Lingering to fill his gut with fish, I suppose. He’ll be along soon,” he said, realizing it must be true and that he must have missed Randel at Llanthony. The messenger must have been coming as Malcom was going.
Satisfied for the instant, the swordsman nodded, and then explained how the accident occurred. They were moving along nicely, without much trouble. Suddenly they struck a stone that wasn’t there before. The damned thing appeared out of nowhere. He was sure the witch had placed it there because Randel swore it wasn’t in their path before. Every week, carts and horses and people filed down this road, and clearly this had never happened before. They heard the crack and the wagon nearly tumbled down the hill. They should have let it go, he groused. The passenger was naught but a filthy witch, best left to the lord’s judgment.
Malcom met the prisoner’s gaze and found her eyes twinkled with barely concealed mirth.
Do not address me, Malcom Ceann Ràs.
Startled, Malcom looked away, surprised by her use of a name he’d been given by his kinsmen—a name he hadn’t heard in far too long.
He turned to look at the man beside him, to be sure no one else had heard. But nay, the man was prattling on and on. Malcom cast another glance at the girl in the tumbril. Beneath the dirt, she was pretty, and he could detect a resemblance to Elspeth, but her color was darker, and her eyes, when she looked at him, seemed to cross unnaturally. She shook her head slowly and Malcom averted his gaze, pretending to examine the broken wheel. He stooped to wiggle a spoke.
Do not linger, Lord Aldergh. You haven’t time. Randel will return anon.
Startling him again, the girl suddenly squawked an ungodly sound, hurling a cloth object at him, smacking him so hard that Malcom’s head popped to one side and he stabbed himself with a wheel spoke. “Be damned!” he said, with genuine annoyance.
“Never mind that stupid bitch,” the swordsman said. “She’ll get what she deserves.”
Frowning, Malcom drew a hand across his cheek, where the spoke had stabbed him and came away with a trace of blood. God’s bones, by the time he returned to Aldergh, he would bear a whole new round of scars.
Take that book to Elspeth. By it she will know you speak true. Tell her this for me: I merely called you. I did not beguile you.
Quite unused to this manner of speaking, and uncomfortable with the scrutiny of these men, particularly under the circumstances, Malcom peered down at the small bound volume that lay discarded on the ground.
It appeared to be naught more than a lump of dirty cloth. But he hesitated a moment too long.
