Malcolm's Honor

Malcolm watched the new day dawn, and the brightness of it never touched him. For he knew there would be no mercy for the warrior dove. ’Twas the way of the world, and the futility of it deadened him. He gathered his men, because it was yet another day of serving the king.

“Elinore of Evenbough?” Booted feet halted before her.

Cold, hungry and stiff, Elin tilted back her head. Her gaze traveled up the hosed legs to the fine tunic bearing the king’s standard.

“Are you Lady Elinore of Evenbough?” This time it was a rough demand.

“Aye.” She tucked her ankles together. “Am I to go to the king? Will he hear my tale? I—”

“Silence!” Unlike Malcolm the Fierce, this man’s voice seemed to resonate with cruelty, as if he treasured doing violence.

She felt the tug on her chains, and the brutal oaf nearly pulled her arms from their sockets before he unlocked her. She stood and her irons clattered. Her knees wobbled. Fiery pricks of pain shot through her limbs, numb from cold and lack of circulation.

“Come.” The guard shoved her roughly, and caught her when she stumbled. “He awaits.”

“Who? Malcolm?”

Why his name came to her lips, she could not imagine, nor the hope that accompanied it. That man had dragged her here and chained her up like a misbehaving dog.

All night she had thought upon it, unable to sleep. The night noises of the dungeon were terrifying, and she had much time to think upon her crimes. She had poisoned the king’s men and she was the daughter of a traitor. No king would allow her to live.

The only man who could stay her execution was Malcolm. And if he’d come for her—

“Nay, Edward has granted Lord Caradoc a boon.” The guard’s laugh rang with glee, as if he enjoyed bringing the worst of news. “’Tis Caradoc who awaits you.”

Defeat lodged like a blade between her ribs. Caradoc was planning to claim that they were betrothed. What had she done to deserve this end? She would refuse it—that’s what she would do. She would rather have a swift death at the hands of the executioner than allow Caradoc the right to finish the rape he’d started years ago.

“Elin, how pathetic you look.” That putrid swine rose from a cushioned chair in a private chamber. He wore an elaborate tunic of embroidered gold on red velvet, and he looked like a rooster, all trussed up for show.

“Caradoc. I am not surprised to see you. As I walked down the corridor, I could not quite place the unpleasant odor—”

“I warn you, Elin.” His hand entrapped her wrist, his grip much used to inflicting violence. His eyes gleamed coldly, bold and naked and brutal. “Tempt me not, for I hold the power to spare your life.”

“What makes you think I want it spared?” She jutted her chin and met his flat gaze.

“No mortal wishes to face the agony of being drawn and quartered. ’Twould be a shame to waste your beauty on the edge of a blade.”

Fear at the king’s judgment lodged hard in her stomach. “’Tis preferable to what you propose.”

His thumb rubbed bruising caresses on her skin. He would not let her go, even as she struggled. “You will marry me, Elin, and your life will be saved. That is, if you hold your tongue and refrain from insulting the king.”

“Insult him? He needs none of my insults, for he is related to you. That is pox enough on his name.”

“Now you anger me.” His hand swung back, ready to land a blow.

She planted her feet and lifted her chin, prepared for the strike.

It never came. Malcolm clamped his unyielding grip around Caradoc’s wrist. “Edward awaits the girl.”

’Twas all he said, and he avoided her gaze. She’d been wrong in believing he might come to free her. He despised her. He’d not forgiven her. She could see it in the cold steel of his face as he released the king’s nephew. His free hand remained on the hilt of his sword.

He’d come to make certain she would not escape her punishment. A cold anger brewed, low and deep. How she despised him, despised both men.

The fierce knight’s fingers bit into her shoulder, as if to remind her of his authority. He would escort her down the passageway to her execution.

She clamped her jaw, determined to hold back the tears balled in her throat. She shook with terror, yet she did not fight le Farouche as he herded her down a long corridor. “I suppose you take great pleasure in my execution.”

“I take no satisfaction.”

She heard no anger in his voice, yet his rage had been unmistakable when he’d chained her in the king’s dungeon. “I sickened your men. I humiliated you.”

“You made me writhe on the ground in intestinal agony, ’tis what you did.” A muscle jumped in his jaw, the only sign of emotion on the rogue’s face. “You leveled a half-dozen warriors with your evil herbs.”

“Herbs are not evil. Only man has the capacity for that.”

“And woman.” His chain mail jangled, echoing in the stone corridor.

“I suppose you intend to stand by my side and make sure I take the noose obediently. Or will you terrify me into it?”

“Your words are far too bold for a disgraced woman facing death.” His gaze did not meet hers, but his voice held censure. He nodded to the guards who flanked a pair of great iron doors. “Consider acting contrite before Edward.”

“What, you give me advice?” Her stomach curdled, and she tried to swallow the sob in her voice. She did not want him to know how terrified she truly was. “A cowardly knight like you? I’d think you would advise me on how best to swing from a noose.”

“Do not call me a cowardly knight.” Low and harsh rang his warning, as lethal as a wolf’s growl.

The ringing din of voices within the hall silenced. Elin looked up to see a tall man robed in brilliance, and she knew at once she gazed upon the king, upon Edward, and that he had heard all that she’d said to his favorite knight.

Heat flamed her face. ’Twas far too late to act meek and contrite now, not that she was good at acting. She might be a traitor’s daughter, but no one, not even Malcolm the Fierce, could call her a coward.

She set her chin and stepped forward. “Your highness—”

“Do not speak until I request it of you.” Like a hard punch, she heard the king’s icy condemnation and knew the truth: death awaited her.

“On your knees, traitor.” A rough hand shoved her to the ground, but it wasn’t Malcolm’s grip or Malcolm’s roughness.

Her kneecaps struck stone, and pain shot upward. She bit back a curse, and then realized she did not kneel alone. Her father huddled at her left shoulder. To see him again made her heart stammer. She both feared the man and pitied him. She couldn’t rightly say she cherished her father, but to see him like this…

Though his head was bowed, he looked furtive. His brown hair, greasy now, had grayed since she’d seen him last. His proud face was haggard, with many wrinkles and lines.

“Philip.” The king’s voice boomed, and riveted the onlookers. Even Elin started at the innate authority in his royal manner. “You have been found guilty of murder and treason. Now, after much consideration, I will sentence you.”

There was no startled gasp from the crowd, and no remorse shown on the king’s face as he delivered his judgment. “Your lands and title will be seized. All your wealth now becomes mine. You shall be immediately hanged, drawn and quartered, a just penalty for the death and suffering you brought to my cousin and her protectors.”

“’Twas not me,” Philip cried pitifully. “I will give you all I own, sire. But pray, spare my life.”

“As you showed no mercy, none will be shown to you.” Edward lifted a hand, as if dismissing a scornful fly on a dung heap. “Guards, give him his just punishment.”

“But you misunderstand, dear sire.” Philip’s eyes sparkled with cunning. “I was Edith’s lover, but not her only one. The killer you seek is Caradoc—”