A Winter’s Rose

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  For the first time in all his living days, he felt a kinship with his half-brother—a man who’d served his father loyally, and who’d vowed to serve Warkworth’s heir, even despite his endless debates.

  They passed a young boy alone on the street and Giles noted his gaunt face and rags. As best he could whilst supporting his brother’s uncomfortable weight, he reached for his purse found a penny, and tossed it to the boy. After all, it was the Twelfth Night, and when should a man offer charity if not on the eve of the Magi? The lad smiled as he hurried to catch the shining copper, saying, “Bless you, good sir! Bless you!”

  “Bless me!” exclaimed Wilhelm. “Bless… every… one!”

  “Aye,” said Giles. “Indeed.” After all, they had each other, and they still had Warkworth. And, if they were lucky, someday his love-starved brother would find himself another love and Warkworth’s halls might still ring with children’s laughter. Pleased, after all, that he and Wilhelm had found some accord, he felt better… for a time… until they returned to the stables and found that one of the coursers was missing. What was more, it was the sable belonging to Giles. And what more, all the stable hands had clearly abandoned their duties to go home and eat pie.

  “I tole ye,” said Wilhelm, brandishing a finger. “Tole ye… but ye ne’er lis—ten.” He hiccoughed.

  Bloody hell. Giles hated being wrong—particularly when it concerned Wilhelm. But it wasn’t just that he knew Wilhelm would not let him live this down, he’d paid good money for those bloody coursers and he’d spent hours upon hours training the sable. Still, though he was furious, he reminded himself that it was the Twelfth Night and he had only himself to blame. He should have known better than to leave good horses hobbled outside the stables, no matter the season.

  God’s teeth, at least they had the one remaining, and they were lucky it was still hobbled where he’d left it.

  As God was his witness, if he was fortunate enough to catch the thief who’d stolen his sable on the eve of the Magi, he was going to rip out the man’s heart, because he clearly wasn’t using it anyway.

  With some effort, he mounted Wilhelm’s courser, then, hoisted his brother’s dead weight onto the back of the horse.

  “I tole ye,” Wilhelm sang again, poking a finger into the back of Giles’s head, and then, immediately after ascending, he tumbled forward, his chin plummeting into Giles’s back with the force of ten stone. And then before Giles could take offense—or curse his father for raising up a bastard so the man had so little fear of his betters—Wilhelm drunkenly wrapped his arms about Giles, hugging tightly as he had when Giles was six.

  God’s breath, would he never outgrow his brother’s ribbing? He was a grown man already—lord of Warkworth, heir to his father’s seat—but his elder, half-brother clearly had no fear of him. Perhaps, Giles should have provided more cause for it—after all, he wasn’t the man his brother supposed. If his fellow guardsmen ever witnessed such a thing, they would piss their pants laughing. They would marvel over his patience, and then, in truth, endeavor to call him St. Giles. But it would be the last words they uttered, and well they knew it, and only the fool at his back would ever dare.

  For all his height and breadth, Giles could easily flatten Wilhelm on his back. The fact that he would not do so, was because… well, he loved the sot.

  Reassuring himself that it was all for the best, he settled his ire. There was no way his brother could have maintained his saddle in the condition he was in. Even now, he was clutching Giles about the middle—like some oversized maid—grinding his whiskered jaw into his shoulder.

  Cursing softly, ready to be shed of London’s buggery and filth, he wasted no time returning to the King’s Road, hoping the bastard who’d stolen his horse would treat the lady with the respect she deserved.

  They’d ridden only about an hour before Wilhelm awoke long enough to grouse. “He musta sold her… thinking… why should I take ha’penny when I can fill my purse—” He burped, the smell foul, then dropped his chin back down, catching Giles again between the shoulders. “Ye shoulda let me choke him… off,” he complained.

  “Save your fury for Morwen, Will.”

  “Alas, brother… an’ ye would not let me choke her… off… either,” his brother complained.

  Giles laughed, though ruefully. “Not yet,” he promised. “All in due time.”

  “Ye’re too bloody soft,” Wilhelm lamented, “Ye shoulda told the pillock to… piss off.”

  Giles sighed but held his tongue. After a moment, his brother’s snores rattled his eardrums, but at least he was no longer singing and there were no more words coming out of Wilhelm’s face—jibes or otherwise.

  The night was cold, but not so cold he appreciated the mantle of flesh on his back, and thanks to Wilhelm’s added weight, they were traveling at such a snail’s pace the mare could have slept erstwhile she walked.

  His brother certainly did.

  God’s bones, at this rate, they’d never catch their thief, but he was going to try. And still, he sighed, because Wilhelm was not his enemy; he was only a jealous fathead. And, in the long run, he wanted exactly what his brother wanted—even regarding the lady Seren.

  He no more intended to be saddled with a mole in their midst than he enjoyed riding two-to-a saddle with the ox at his back. If only to counter Wilhelm’s snores—not because he relished the season, nor because he longed for a burning Yule log, or because he was bloody glad for the company of his brother—he adopted the ear worm his brother left him.

  Alas my love you do me wrong

  To cast me off discourteously;

  For I have loved you, oh, so long

  Delighting in your company.

  * * *

  Greensleeves was my delight,

  Greensleeves my heart of gold

  Greensleeves was my heart of joy

  And who but my lady Greensleeves.

  Chapter 9

  Nearly half a dozen times through the long night, Giles had considered stopping for a piss and a rest.

  He didn’t for a number of reasons: To begin with, there was every possibility his thief would be traveling north. The deduction was elementary: He knew of an inn near-about, where the most unsavory of characters were wont to gather. There was no way to say whether his thief could be en route to this place, but there weren’t many establishments along these roads, so if he found the inn, he would, conceivably, discover his thief, and then he would give the knuckle-dragger a Yuletide gift he wouldn’t soon forget.

  And if he didn’t find his thief, there would be other stolen horses to purchase.

  He followed his gut, pressing forth, never imagining how close he was, until, right before sunrise, he made a fortuitous discovery. Wilhelm may have passed on by, but Giles had a nose for his horse; her scent tickled his nostrils.

  She must have scented Giles as well, because she nickered softly, and Giles reined in abruptly, dislodging Wilhelm’s head.

  “Wha—”

  Giles elbowed his brother in the belly. “Shhhhh!” he said.

  Sensing trouble, Wilhelm sat upright, sobering.

  Dismounting quietly, Giles made his way toward the sound of grazing and what he discovered in the thicket hobbled his tongue as surely as she had hobbled his sable.

  God’s bones! His thief was a woman—a nun.

  She lay sleeping peacefully, her wimple askew and her veil concealing only half her face. Even so, Giles found himself tongue-tied, and would have roused the girl, except… there was something about her that disoriented him.

  He’d seen her face before, if only in his dreams. But nay… this girl was like a chimera—undefinable at the edges…

  Tilting his head, Giles studied the nun, and couldn’t say whether she was young and lovely… or if she was old and unattractive. Her nose wavered between pert and small to hooked and crooked. But… if he looked very, very intently, her skin appeared so perfect as to seem translucent…

  * * *

  Achi
ng and sore from her crude bed, disoriented from her fitful rest, Rosalynde cracked her lids and found a strange pair of eyes peering down into her face—not Arwyn’s or Elspeth’s, who each had violet-blue eyes, nor Seren, whose eyes were the silvery blue of a winter sky, nor Rhi, whose eyes were gold, like a wolf’s. Nor were they precisely like Morwen’s eyes—so uncannily black that one could scarce see where her pupils ended, and her irises began… these were the eyes of a stranger.

  Squealing, she scrambled to her feet, only belatedly remembering to retrieve her book. Her heart hammering with fear, she nevertheless bent to seize it, and noticed that the man didn’t bother to stop her.

  He merely stared.

  “Who are you?” she demanded to know.

  “Who am I?” he asked, his dark eyes crinkling slightly at the corners. “You know… I wondered the same about you.” He was still posed on one knee, making no effort to rise, but his gaze shifted to the mare grazing nearby.

  Rosalynde blinked. “I—”

  He lips curved into a roguish grin. “Perhaps the horse got your tongue?”

  Rosalynde blinked, completely at a loss for words. For this very occasion, she’d had an entire fabrication prepared, but at the instant, all thought fled her head.

  Fortunately, his eyes never once alit upon her grimoire, so he mustn’t have been sent by her mother. If so, he’d have seized the book by now and probably killed her long before she’d chanced to open her eyes. Repairing the veil with a hand, Rosalynde studied him as he watched her. And still, he cocked his head as though awaiting some response.

  Behind him, a movement caught her attention, and her eyes widened fearfully as she caught sight of yet another man—a giant, with arms as big as trunks and a body like an ox.

  “Don’t worry about him,” the man declared. “My brother is harmless.”

  The giant rose to his full height and snarled, and Rosalynde hugged her book tighter, not entirely certain he spoke true. His “brother” was scowling at her as though he’d like to rip her limb from limb. It was all she could do not to run.

  “I—” Her gaze returned to the kneeling man, who, by now, had still made no move to rise, and, in fact, he put an elbow to his knee and leaned forward, staring rudely.

  His voice was smooth as honey. “Tell me, Sister, is that—” He pointed to the mare. “Your horse?” He lifted his finely-hewn chin, and Rosalynde had a terrible sense that his question was a trap. If she answered in the affirmative, he would assign his harmless brother to do his worst.

  “Not precisely,” she said, with a lift of her chin, and realizing a nun would never affect such hubris, she lowered her gaze.

  * * *

  Whatever chimera Giles thought he’d imagined was gone. It was, perhaps, no more than a trick of the light.

  Weary as he was after the long night’s journey, he raked a hand through his hair, shaking off his fatigue.

  Scarcely dressed for the weather, this woman stood shivering, clutching her book with a look of desperation that called to his heart. Her countenance was indisputably matronly, and this was meant to be kind. She had jowls, like a hound, and her nose was crooked, as though it had been broken many times. Much to his dismay, he was relieved when she repaired the veil, but it wasn’t like him to be so ill-affected by anyone’s appearance, and therefore, even before she began her woeful tale, he suffered the grave misfortune of feeling sorry for her, and favorably predisposed to helping if he could. “I hired a guide in London town,” she was quick to explain. “Once we were on the road, he beset me and stole my purse.” She shook her head, jowls jiggling as she pressed the tome to her breast. “I was afraid… so I hid.”

  Who in God’s name would burgle a poor nun? Frowning, Giles peered back at Wilhelm, who was scowling now as well, although perhaps he was more offended that Giles would have called him harmless.

  “A guide, you say?”

  Wilhelm said naught, but he lifted his brow, as though to challenge Giles. But, what, in God’s name would he have Giles do? Leave the poor woman distraught? She was alone, in treacherous woods reputed to be full of brigands. “Aye, sir,” she said.

  “You paid him? How much?”

  The nun sighed despondently. “I had five gold marks. He took it all but left me the mare.”

  Wilhelm gave a low whistle and Giles shook his head.

  “Good Sister. Did no one e’er advise ye ne’er to travel with so much silver, especially through these parts?”

  The woman straightened to her full height—not at all formidable, though her demeanor would have him believe she thought otherwise.

  “Aye, sir, and yet, where do you suppose I should have left my purse?” She looked as though she might weep, even with the impertinent tilt of her head. “I left home with all I owned, to offer my worth to God.”

  Giles blew out a sigh. “Well… I suppose it will have to be God’s score to settle,” he said. “But I’m sorry to inform you that the mare is not yours. She is mine.”

  The woman’s eyes widened. “Yours?”

  “Aye, she’s mine. So, it seems, your guide burgled me as well, and if God does not settle the score, I may yet tend to him myself…. only the fool will have to stand in line.”

  “Well!” She exclaimed, with as much animus as Wilhelm was displaying. “That fish paste!”

  Giles found himself chortling. “What is your name?”

  “Rosalynde.”

  “Aye, well, Sister Rosalynde, you mustn’t fret,” he said, hoping to soothe her. “We’ll not leave you stranded. Only tell me, where is it do you wish to go?”

  Chapter 10

  His dark eyes glinted, and his smile transformed his face like to that of a delivering angel’s.

  For a moment, Rosalynde was too dumb to speak.

  There were legends that told of a distant kinsman—the Merlin of Britain, better known to her people as the prophet Taliesin. He was purported to be the most beautiful man in all the realm. For love of him, Cerridwen’s own daughter had defied her witch mother, and in turn Cerridwen doomed the entire isle of Avalon to the Endless Sea. This instant, Rosalynde could well believe a face like that could change the fates… this man might well change hers.

  She could scarcely believe her good fortune. She lifted a hand to her breast in surprise. “Where do I wish to go?”

  “I believe it’s what I asked.”

  But, nay. Of course, he would wish to help her. There was naught surprising about that. She was a woman in distress—and not merely a woman, but a woman of the cloth. What man worth his salt would ever abandon a sister in her time of need?

  “We haven’t time for twaddle,” said the brother, and Rosalynde’s hopes were dashed.

  She looked from one man to the other, uncertain which of the two was the one in charge. For what it was worth, despite the bigger man’s perpetual frown and his aggressive posture, the other man seemed more… well… perhaps dangerous—even if the other did not perceive it.

  Like Elspeth, Rosalynde could sometimes read auras and the beautiful man facing her had a thin but distinct thread of black in his life force—no red, which implied to Rosalynde that whatever it was that informed his colors, it was not tied to his emotions. In other words, he could slice a man’s throat, but it was not a thing he would do in anger. Fortuitously for her, she didn’t sense that throat-cutting was a pastime he was inclined to, else the black in his aura would be more prominent.

  Still, it was there, and it gave her pause… and she was glad now that she had taken time to conceal her pentacle. Anyone who might stumble over the diagram who did not understand the Craft might think it to be Satan’s work. It most certainly was not. Simply by nature, all dewines were inclined to follow good Christian tenets. Their priests and priestesses were not unlike Christian priests, who in their hearts and minds were closer to God. Her grandmamau claimed all gods were one god, born of the same Great Mother, from whose very womb had sprung the world itself.

  Looking back and forth between
these two brothers, Rosalynde watched as the handsome man’s jaw tightened, though rather than appear frightening, he was more arresting—like the graven image of a golden idol. And mayhap this was why the other one did not take him seriously: He was too stunningly beautiful to appear threatening. Apparently, only Rosalynde sensed the quiet rage burning behind his words. “You return to Warkworth. I will escort the lady myself.”

  “Giles.”

  “Wilhelm.”

  “Nay,” said the other man resentfully. “I’ll not leave you.” And Rosalynde took a defensive step backward.

  Giles?

  Giles of Warkworth?

  Wasn’t that the name of the lord expected to wed her sister? And yet, it could not be—if so, he had clearly and inexplicably found her sister wanting, else Seren would be with him now. So far as Rosalynde knew, her sister was supposed to have returned to Warkworth with her betrothed.

  Giles’s dark eyes shone like tourmalines—as impossibly dark as his hair was fair. “Accompany me, or nay, I will not leave this Sister alone.” He turned to cast a pointed glance at his brother and Rosalynde could feel the underlying tension mounting between them. Whatever it was that was troubling these two men, she wanted no part of it.

  “Well,” she said, considering her mother, “I should be going…” As it was, she feared to tarry longer, and she hadn’t any desire to embroil herself betwixt these two siblings. Even so much as she longed to inquire about her sister, she daren’t do so. “You may have the mare,” she said, waving good-bye, but neither of the brothers bothered to look at her. “I’ll be going!” she said louder.

  “Nay!” said Giles, turning to stab Rose with a razor-sharp glare, and yet she sensed his anger wasn’t directed at her. “I. Said. I. Will. Escort. You.”

  “Oh. Very well,” said Rosalynde, as he turned again to look at the one called Wilhelm.