A Winter’s Rose

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  God’s truth, he was equally responsible for the deaths of Warkworth’s innocents, and even so, given the same circumstances, he would do it all again. And if he was pleased to have been raised to Earl, it was only because it would better afford him the opportunity to see justice done.

  Wilhelm raised his glass with a slow, unfurling smile. “Another toast… for Roger, who’s like to be howling in his grave over hearing his weedy brother made Earl in his stead.”

  A short rumble of laughter escaped Giles, but he shook his head. “Weedy?” he said, tipping his cup, and peering over the rim. He paused before putting the tankard to his lips. “Weedy?” he asked again. And yet, there was no malice in the insult, and so he let the jibe pass, wondering if Wilhelm must be blind. They held gazes a long, awkward moment, and then Wilhelm shrugged.

  “Tis been overlong since ye been home, Giles… I’d warrant Roger’s got nay memory o’ ye looking as ye do.”

  “Dead men haven’t any memory,” said Giles, and Wilhelm lifted his face to reveal the torment in his gaze.

  “Even so,” he said, raising his cup higher. “A toast to Warkworth’s firstborn. Seems unfair… to work so bloody hard… only to die the way he did.” Wilhelm shook his head, peering down at the table. “I mean you no, insult, Giles. But here you are… Earl…”

  “To Roger,” Giles interrupted, eyeing his brother pointedly. The last thing he wished was for Wilhelm to say something in his cups that he might regret… or worse, that Giles wouldn’t be able to forgive. As it was, he found himself subject to emotions he’d never realized he was capable of… most notably, an insidious, underlying resentment that was being stoked to life by Wilhelm’s persistent judgments.

  God’s truth, he wished he’d known his eldest brother. For that matter, he wished he’d known his father better. But for all that Wilhelm must be grieving for everything he’d lost, Giles was also grieving for all that would never be. He had precious few memories, even of his beloved sisters, and all that remained of his brood was seated here… across this damnable table… and that man found him wanting.

  Now that Wilhelm was calmer, he tried again to reassure him… after a fashion. “Remember, brother, like good vin, vengeance is a toast better served aged.”

  Wilhelm frowned.

  Giles explained. “If you believe for one instant that Morwen and Eustace do not anticipate retribution, you must think again. They will look for it, day in, day out, and then… one day… when they least expect it, we will serve give our salutes from a position of power, and they will drink. Merely because I do not speak of it, does not mean I do not have a plan.”

  “Truly?” Wilhelm asked.

  Giles reached out, clapping Wilhelm on the arm. “Truly. Have faith.”

  Wilhelm offered a tentative smile. “Let’s drink to that,” he said, and he did, tipping the glass fully, quaffing the remainder of his ale. And then he grinned—a wide, face-splitting grin that Giles hadn’t seen in far too long. Pleased to see him smiling for the first time in so long, Giles ordered another round.

  “For Lucy and Alice,” Wilhelm said, raising another toast, and Giles declared, “Here, here!”

  But, then, against caution, Wilhelm ordered another round. “To Lady… Margaret,” he offered this time.

  Three drinks in, and his brother was now grinning perpetually, even if his words didn’t suit his smile. “May her father rot in hell for not coming to our aid,” he said, swigging another gullet full. “I’ll put him there myself if I e’er see his face.”

  Giles gave him a rueful laugh. “I warrant, there’s going to be a crush down there already.”

  “So be it,” said Wilhelm, slamming down the tankard. “One more!” he shouted.

  “Wilhelm nay…”

  His brother waved vigorously at the waitress, who, without question, brought one final round and Giles pushed his own tankard aside as Wilhelm raised another toast. “This one… to Lady Ayleth,” he said, with a catch to his voice.

  Giles sat back in his chair, disgusted, but not for the sake of the toast. And nevertheless, he reached out, raising his empty glass, giving the girl her due, even despite his annoyance over Wilhelm’s persistence in bringing the lady up. Only then… as he set the glass down, he realized something by the look on his brother’s face…

  “She loved youuu,” Wilhelm said, and the last word recalled Giles to a mournful howl. And, suddenly, he understood his brother more clearly—his fury and his grief, all those veiled barbs, and the constant needling…

  So, it seemed, Wilhelm loved a lady who was lost to him, long before the fire. For his part, Giles had never even considered Ayleth of Bamburgh, and all these years, it must bedevil Wilhelm to know it. Perhaps he was looking for proof that Giles had not taken her affections for granted. And nevertheless, they were never betrothed, and Giles never so much as kissed the sweet girl. For all of five minutes, there had been a bit of flirtation between them, and yet, the moment Giles realized he was destined for the seminary, he’d put all his flirtations aside. So, all these months since the fire, every time Wilhelm brought up Lady Ayleth’s name, he’d done so because he was mourning her. There was grief in his countenance now, and it occurred to Giles belatedly that he must have harbored great affection for Ayleth of Bamburgh.

  Alas, if there was any trace of resentment in his tone when he spoke her name, perhaps it was because his station had prevented him from loving where he would, and it was certain Wilhelm would never have been so bold as to speak his heart; therefore, Lady Ayleth had likely gone to her grave never knowing how Wilhelm felt.

  This, then, must be their nameless discord?

  It had never even occurred to Giles that Ayleth had caught his brother’s eye. Understanding dawned as he shoved his tankard forward, rising from his seat, anxious to be away. As the night grew colder, the inn had become nearly as much a crush as the palace, every bloke in the city filtering in from the streets, until there was scarcely standing room.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  It was time to leave, now, before they turned into a pair of maudlin fools, weeping amidst London’s finest. He skirted around the table, put his arm about Wilhelm’s middle, hoisting him up. “We have a long way to travel,” he said. “What say you we stop by Neasham?” he added for incentive.

  “Why?”

  “To give alms for Lady Ayleth’s soul.”

  Wilhelm grinned, reaching one last time for his empty tankard, but Giles pushed it away. “That would be…” He hiccoughed. “Aye,” he said, surging to his feet and swinging an arm about Giles’ shoulder, giving him a rush of relief. The man was a bloody bulwark and if he planted his face into the table, there would be no human being alive who could remove him.

  Chapter 6

  “As iron is eaten away by rust,

  so the envious are consumed by their own passion.” —Antisthenes

  “My, my, wasn’t he a striking fellow?” I ask. “Tall, handsome, well-mannered—naught at all like the brother.”

  “Aye,” my daughter replies, though nothing seems to discompose her. She wears a cloak of tranquility that grates on my nerves, like shards of glass in my slipper. Where in the name of the cauldron she inherited that trait, I do not know, for even now my smile is fragile and ready to shatter.

  “He’ll make a fine stallion. Alas, my dear, he is not for you,” I say, and still, she remains silent, a pillar of genteel strength even as I grit my teeth in fury. “I have someone else in mind,” I say sweetly. “Do you remember William Martel?”

  Stephen’s loyal steward was a rotund man, with a head like a melon, and a face only a mother could love. As of yet, he hadn’t any title to his name, but as loyal as he is to the King, I know Stephen is predisposed to rewarding him, and, after all, Martel is the one man closest to Stephen, with access even to his garderobe and cupboards. Already once, I have persuaded him to do my bidding—when he was steward to Henry. My daughter says naught, and I continue, “Alas, he’s hardly the most att
ractive man, but I have a use for him.”

  “He’s twice my age,” she says, finally, providing the first note of unease I detect.

  I smile victoriously. “Since when does age matter, my dear? Your father was thrice Adeliza’s age when he wed her—fifty-three to her eighteen, and you are older than she.”

  “Well, we know how that went. She bore him no children, and since remarrying for love, she has borne William d'Aubigny five babes, and counting.” There was a wistful sigh in her voice. “By the by… I hear she is expecting again… apparently, that’s why Lord Arundel went rushing out the door.”

  My daughter is a silly little fool. The only reason Adeliza of Louvain did not bear Henry any children is because I cursed her womb. What good would it have done me to allow more brats to his list of successors? But her silky tone grates on my nerves. A flap of nuns passes by. I smile for their sake, nodding serenely, though I am filled with rage—in truth, not so much for my daughter’s forbearing as I am for Stephen’s offense to me. I know that man too well. He will undermine everything I have accomplished, only to best me. Thank the cauldrons his son has more sense, and the sooner I get him on that throne, the better off I will be.

  I laugh softly. “Dearest, do you think I give a damn whether you bear Martel’s brats? In fact, I would greatly prefer you did not, as I will be certain to have myself named heir to your dower, in the event you should pass before I do.” My smile thins, as I cast her a sideways glance. Her enduring silence does not assuage me, and I continue, “It happens all the time you realize? Only think of your dear grandmamau, taken from us all too soon.”

  “Thanks to you,” she says, in her sing-song voice.

  Alas, all my daughters are bitches, but despite Seren’s confidence and even tone, I know she is unnerved.

  “That man is an ogre,” she says, her mettle weakening. “And nevertheless, I maintain faith in our Mother Goddess. Whatever she sees fit to provide me, I will embrace. After all, I must remember Elspeth as my example.”

  Elspeth.

  It is all I can do not to shriek. Her very name sends a burst of heat through my veins, and if I am not careful, it will ignite the world as I pass. If I could have my eldest here before me right now, I would introduce her to suffering unlike anything she has ever endured.

  My daughter.

  My betrayer.

  My little Judas.

  How she could best me, I do not know. None of these backwater girls have ever had the least bit of instruction and whatever magik they possess can never match my own. Simply having dewine blood is not enough to perform great feats. Much the same as an archer may not find his mark with his first shot, simply being a dewine is not proof against failure. Even with practice, success is not assured. She must have found some wellspring to strengthen her, and I would not put it past my mother to have imbued each of my daughters with her dying breath. The thought infuriates me—that woman doted on my brats and never once gave me a bit of praise. How it galls, even now, to hear the fruit of my loins described as beauteous! Unparalleled—as though I, myself, am not gifted with the prophet’s blood!

  “Seren… I would caution you, my dear. Do not tangle with me, or you will find yourself twisted in so many directions you may never recover.”

  Again, she answers with silence—silence!—as though she must be concentrating every effort to block me.

  I turn slowly, regarding her with canny eyes.

  She is blocking me, I realize. And suddenly, as we near my apartments, I catch the tang of fear on my tongue, even as it drifts to me on the aether. I smell it stronger, and stronger as we approach my quarters, and I know instinctively before we arrive: Something has gone awry.

  My reaction is swift as an adder’s. Reaching out, I grasp Seren by the tender flesh of her arm, and wrench open the door to my apartments, pushing her inside. “What in the name of the Goddess have you done?”

  Inside the room, Arwyn faces me, her face pale, and I sense both my daughters trembling as I slam the door, realizing at once that my prickly little Rose is gone.

  “Where is she?”

  Arwyn shakes her head and I narrow my gaze, attempting to read the girl’s thoughts. Like her sister, her mind is now closed to me like a padlock against thieves.

  I bristle, shifting my attention to Seren, doubling my efforts, and Seren, I realize—the tricky little witch—has mastered the art of artifice. Some of her thoughts are open to me, others have receded to the darkest corners of her mind, like little cockroaches hiding from the light. But they cannot persevere, and I will break them. And nevertheless, a frustrated growl bursts from my throat as I shove my loveliest daughter toward her cowering sister. And then… another thought occurs to me, even before the two chance to embrace—the grimoire.

  My eyes fly to the trousseau where I have safeguarded the Book so long. My feet do not move as I summon my mother’s box. The lock clicks. The lid flies open to reveal a void that seeps into the marrow of my bones.

  My grimoire… it is gone.

  The single word that roars from the depths of my lungs is thunderous enough to bring a shiver to the rafters. “Where?”

  “How should I know?” says Seren all-too sweetly. “I was with you!”

  “Liars!” I shout. “Filthy liars!”

  Suddenly there is a knock at the door, and I slam my hand down so both my daughters are brought to their knees, their beautiful faces contorting with pain as their knee-joints crack against the hardwood floors. They should be so fortunate if all I do is break their legs. Summoning all my composure, I press a finger to my lips, bidding them to silence, hoping our visitor will leave.

  Seren’s anger is like a crack of thunder against the silence. “I will not—”

  I don’t care what she is about to say. “Gwnïo ar gau!” I cut my hand through the air, viciously, whispering the words as another knock beats upon the door. And, even as I turn, I sense the stitches piercing the insides of my daughters’ lips, sewing their mouths shut with invisible but infrangible threads. By the time I place my hand on the door knob, they are duly silenced, kneeling dutifully, as though preparing to pray.

  “My lady,” says the matron who greets me. She peers nervously within, and I, of course, have naught to hide, so I swing the door open, smiling with certainty that my daughters appear beatific in their reverent poses. I, too, join my hands together as though in prayer, and my daughters both mimic my gesture and bow their heads as I do.

  “What pious young ladies,” says the maid admiringly. And her brows slant with apology as she adds. “I beg pardon for disturbing you, Lady Blackwood, but his Grace begs you join him in his chambers.”

  It is all I can do not to shriek with despair. “Right now? Are you quite certain?” I tilt her a forbearing glance. “You see, I have only just returned from the hall.”

  “Aye, Lady Blackwood. I am certain. And in his present mood, ye’d best not keep him waiting.”

  She hasn’t any clue how close I am to cutting out her tongue for daring to advise me.

  “My dear, you are too kind,” I say. “You must know well enough the title is no longer mine, but I thank you just as well for your deference—and your advice. Please, my dear, can you not apprise the king that I am… indisposed?”

  The woman shakes her head. “Nay, my lady. He stated quite clearly that you must come at once, and—”

  “And what?”

  She fidgets nervously. “If you do not, he shall provide an escort.”

  I exhale annoyedly and turn to my daughters, cutting them a warning glance. I wave a hand to release them, and say, “Please, my dears, find your sister at once. I expect she will be waiting here, in this room, when I return.”

  Both girl nod at once, and, reluctantly, I move to follow the King’s messenger. Alas, there is no way to avoid this summons, so I must deal with the missing grimoire when I return.

  “Pray she is not lost,” I say to them, and I know the menace in my tone is not lost to the woman at my
door. She shivers as I pull the door closed behind me, and she hurries away, leaving me to follow.

  Never mind… I know the way…

  Chapter 7

  The simple fact that Rosalynde had managed to escape London without any sign of Morwen’s birds was no cause for celebration. Her mother might not care so much about her, but she would never stop searching for the Book.

  The undyed wool gown was chaffing her skin, and she longed to rip off the itchy wimple, but, until she knew for sure that no one was pursuing her, she must keep her wits about her and her disguise in place.

  Intuitively, she sensed that she had already pushed the mare as far as she could for the night, and despite that she’d covered a fair distance, she couldn’t have traveled more than two or three leagues. Sadly, so much as she longed for more distance between her and her mother, she also had to consider the night’s precautions. Tomorrow, once she had her bearings, she could travel longer. In the meantime, hopefully Morwen would think her stupid and reckless and more than prepared to travel the night through. Then, she might not concentrate her hideous birds so near, and, thanks to Elspeth, she hadn’t enough of them to do a wide search.

  Was it too much to hope that she had tested Stephen’s patience once-too-oft, and he’d locked her in a tower?

  Sadly, she had no doubt that, even then, Morwen would find a way to extricate herself. The scope of her influence and power was frightening.

  But she couldn’t worry about that right now—right now, she must find a good place to rest for the night.

  By now, she was certain her mother would have returned to her quarters, and with Mordecai gone, the first thing she would do would be to interrogate Arwyn. Considering what was at stake, Rose had no doubt Arwyn would remain strong, but when Morwen didn’t get the answers she sought, she was bound to be enraged and there was naught so frightening as Morwen in a fit of rage. She feared for Arwyn, but her one consolation was that if Morwen should ever harm her twin, Rosalynde would know it, and right now, she sensed Arwyn’s heart beating strong.