Malcolm's Honor

She didn’t like what she had done, but she could not depend upon a knight without heart or soul, without mercy or conscience to save her, to plead her cause, to protect her from Caradoc before the king. Malcolm was more shadow than substance, more killer than man.

Yet she’d seen the pain on his face when she’d taken his dagger. He hurt in the way of a real man.

Giles leaned against the door frame, sagging from weakness. “She left the prisoners.”

“Even her father?”

“Aye. He curses her alongside the proud Caradoc.”

“I curse her as well.” Bitterness soured Malcolm’s mouth, but he was the king’s protector, the best knight in the realm, a reputation earned by his skill with a sword and the cold hard calculation needed to win in battle. He should have watched the woman more carefully.

“I fear we’ve tarried far too long. The king is awaiting Evenbough.”

“I know the king’s eagerness to face this traitor.” The king’s cousin was dead, a young woman Edward swore to avenge. “I’ll not disappoint my king. Giles, take command of the men and prisoners. See them safely to the king’s dungeon. There had better be no more attacks, no more poisonings, no more surprises.”

“Aye, I will see to it. You’ll hunt down the girl?”

“Hunt her?” Full afternoon light burnished the landscape, and he gazed at the lay of the land, at the rise and fall of hillsides, the denseness of forests and groves. She would not be easy to find. “Aye, the traitor’s daughter is mine. Tell that to Edward.”

Only as the sun skirted the western horizon did Elin truly feel hunted. Twilight threatened, and she could feel the danger behind her. The vengeful knight tracked her, and he grew closer. But she couldn’t see him, even when she paused her mount on a rise and gazed over the valley below. She sensed he was there, somewhere in the gathering dusk.

She’d risked her life to escape him, she knew that. If he found her, she would be as good as dead. If I spy any act of treachery, I will chain you to the wall of the king’s dungeon myself.

Aye, ’twas best to keep ahead of him. She nosed her palfrey off the road. Bare limbs grabbed at her mantle and at the hem of her hood. Cool winds through the forest brought with it the scents of the coming night.

He trailed her with a vengeance, driving his stallion hard as twilight thickened. Spears of darkness pierced the somber trees and cast ever-deepening shadows along the forest floor.

Lady Elinore of Evenbough. She’d betrayed him, deceived him, poisoned him. The warrior maiden was no different from all women.

Sweat dripped off his brow and into his stinging eyes blurring his vision. The sickness still lay claim to him, twisting his stomach, but he cared not how he suffered. With every passing league he felt stronger and more certain of his course.

He drove his destrier deep into the forest, following the crash of broken boughs and crushed undergrowth. Though it was almost night, he could see the imprints of hooves upon the rain-drenched earth.

Blood thickened in his veins and quickened his heart. He was close; he could taste it. Aye, he was closer than he’d thought. Malcolm could sense her, like a hunting wolf knowing the hidden rabbit shivered nearby.

Shiver she should. He was no longer amused, no longer curious. In the inn’s chamber, assisting her with Hugh, he’d lowered his shield. For one moment she’d tempted him, just a bit, and he’d looked at her through a man’s eyes.

He would not make that mistake again.

As midnight gathered, she could not see before or behind her. But she could hear the ghostly sound of hooves upon the forest’s carpet of decaying leaves and rotting branches. Night had slowed her escape, but not the fierce knight’s pursuit. She suspected a man like Malcolm le Farouche saw best in the harsh hours after midnight, when not even stars cast faint light from above, when not even heaven dared to watch.

He was gaining. And likely to overtake her as well. She’d not believed he could trail her, for she worked hard to disguise her tracks. ’Twas impossible to hide all traces, and yet she’d not expected even the king’s greatest knight to find her like this, and so swiftly. Especially after a dose of oakwood.

No man was that powerful or that impossible to defeat.

Fear dampened her palms and made her heart kick with a fast, quivery rhythm. Aye, she grew more afraid with each step. She had no doubt he would condemn her, drag her to the king’s court and certain death. Or worse.

Well, the battle was not yet won. Elin snared her satchel from her saddle and dismounted. The palfrey nosed her with an inquisitive gesture. ’Twas her father’s horse, not her preferred mount, and she hoped the animal would not follow her. She gave the mare a sound smack on the rump. Emitting a startled whinny, the animal leaped and ran, crashing through the undergrowth. That was sure to draw the fierce knight’s attention. And as long as the mare galloped, Elin would have plenty of time to escape.

Like dry leaves in a wind, the quiet crackled as he spurred his great warhorse into a similar gallop. He exploded past low boughs and high brambles, thundering through the night like an ancient god.

She crouched low until he was out of sight, and then she headed north, toward the safety of her devoted aunt’s castle. Elizabeth would protect her by cloistering her away until the traitor Philip of Evenbough was forgotten and his daughter not even a memory in the minds of dangerous men.

He found the palfrey, saddle empty, standing in a clearing, munching on last summer’s dead grasses, for stubborn winter still gripped these lands. He laid a hand against the mare’s neck and felt the heat from a hard ride still damp upon her coat.

How long had she been without a rider? How long did the traitor’s daughter think she could outsmart him?

Malcolm retraced his route, and could tell by the change in the depth of the tracks where she’d dismounted. She was not far. He studied the thousand shades of black upon black in the forest and felt her. Yet he saw no movements, no shifting shadows, no human eyes gazing out at him from behind fern or bramble.

She was very close.

He turned and saw only silent forest. Trees reached tall, with shadowed trunks and knobby limbs, toward the starless sky. Bushes covered the ground.

She had hoped her palfrey would keep wandering, leading him away from her. But she hadn’t bargained on his tracking skills. As the king’s favored knight, he was expected to hunt down any manner of men—to search out where they hid, and where they believed they could hide from the power of the king. Or from Malcolm le Farouche.

The soft imprint, barely discernible, was buried in shadow and decaying leaves.

He laid his hand upon the cold steel hilt and drew his sword. “I’ve not been that ill since my last trip across the Channel.”

He heard the slightest whisper of movement, and knew her intent.

“Drop that upon my head and pay, traitor’s daughter. My temper has been tested beyond endurance. Climb down, else I will come up after you. Believe me, you’ll not like the sting of my fury.”

The limbs above shivered in answer. He heard the creak of wood upon wood and the scrape of branches against moss. She was descending, but what plot did she have now? He would not endure humiliation by a woman a second time.

“What? Are you going to slay an unarmed woman, Sir Cowardly Knight?”

“I warned you, maid, tempt me no further.” He spotted her hanging halfway down the tree trunk and wrapped his left hand around her upper arm. She was so small that his fingers easily encircled her. He hauled her, not roughly, to the ground. “Surrender your dagger.”

“I have no—”

“Give it to me.” Cold anger iced those words.

She heard his threat and the fierce control that even now kept him from violence, and knew she’d pushed him too far. Still, ’twas not easy to surrender. “’Tis in my packs. Check my palfrey.”

“You lie, little manipulator.” He drew himself taller, fiercer, then lifted his sword and swung.

She stumbled back, hitting her spine against the tree. Rough bark bit her flesh. Sweet Mary, his blade cut the air soundlessly. In the space of a breath, her fingers curled around the cold hilt of the dagger at her waist and she drew it out. Steel sparked upon steel.

“Unhand the weapon.” He tore the knife from her grip with an inhuman strength, spurred by rage. “Do not think to lie to me again, or you will regret it.”

She believed him. By the rood, she believed him. For the first time in her short life, she’d met an enemy she could not conquer, could not outsmart and could not fight. He stood like stone in the night, living stone that could not be chipped or beaten or destroyed.

She trembled. “You’ll take me to Caradoc and the king.”

“Aye, but ’twill be a gentler fate after enduring my wrath.” He drove the tip of his sword into the soft mossy earth, impaling it there.

Elin watched, horror spearing through her chest and into her heart, as he pulled the length of rope from his saddle and dragged her hard against him. He held her with bruising force to the span of his steeled chest.