A Winter’s Rose

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Surprised by the outburst, Rosalynde watched as his chest puffed, and he cast a glance over his shoulder, perhaps to gauge his brother’s expression.

  Behind her, Lord Giles offered a nearly inaudible grunt of frustration, but he said naught in response to his brother’s boast. She sensed that Wilhelm was more a burr in his saddle—or, more to the occasion, a plain-faced nun he couldn’t be rid of, and so he tolerated her. But though, in truth, Wilhelm was the larger man, she had a sense that Giles de Vere was no man to be trifled with and she only wondered why the brother didn’t fear him.

  Then again, Rosalynde didn’t fear her sisters either—not Elspeth nor Rhi, and most certainly not Arwyn or Seren. However, none of her sisters expected obeisance, even though Elspeth liked to control every aspect of every situation. And regardless, for all that they’d lived five girls to a crude little cottage, with no mother or father, they’d rarely ever fought, save for the occasional squabble over chores. They’d depended too much on each other, and it had taken every bit of their wit and energy to endure life at the priory.

  It was incredible what could be accomplished altogether, and how difficult life could be alone. But this, too, was a manifestation of the hud—the unity of spirit, and power of shared prayer. Even now, Rosalynde could feel her sisters’ love. They were her strength in this mad, mad world, and she didn’t know what she would do without them. Perhaps these two brothers simply needed a reason to look beyond their petty quarrels, and her mother would surely give it to them if she ever found them.

  Sadly, if Rosalynde hoped to find herself relieved by their company, the longer they traveled together, the more agitated she became, and the more she missed her sweet sisters… the more she worried about her glamour.

  And yet, so long as Giles de Vere kept pushing her away—gently, of course—she shouldn’t worry about the spell.

  Bored and ill at ease in perfect view of the heavens, Rosalynde longed for friendly conversation. “So, then… you are lord of Warkworth?” she asked.

  “Earl,” interjected the brother. He had been silent until this point, and it seemed to Rose that he’d been waiting for an opportunity to pounce.

  “Appointed yesterday,” said Giles, though he left it at that, making Rosalynde all the more curious. And yet, shouldn’t that be something marvelous to crow about?

  Clearly, the news didn’t please the brother, and there must be a bit of the devil in Rosalynde, because she couldn’t let it go—particularly since Lord Giles seemed so ready to shove her away every time she sought the sanctuary of his coat. “What a wonderful boon,” she said.

  “So it is.”

  “So, then, my lord, you must expound… what great deed have you performed to earn such a prestigious title? Did you perchance manage to save our King from his cousin… again?”

  Wilhelm snickered, but, alas, if there was a note of sarcasm in Rosalynde’s tone, she didn’t bother to regret it. Everybody knew there were an unseemly number of newly appointed Earls during Stephen’s reign, and he had, indeed, named a few of them for having saved him from Matilda. That thought amused her, though she hardly anticipated the answer he gave her. “I lived, whilst my father died,” he said a little bitterly, and Rosalynde frowned.

  “Oh,” she said, deflated. “Pardon, my lord.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said curtly, putting a hand to her back and pushing her gently forward.

  Rosalynde frowned, annoyed.

  It didn’t make sense that her given champion should utterly abhor her, but perhaps it was unreasonable to think he might see beyond her glamour, especially since she didn’t want him to. “Well, my lord… I hope you find peace in God.”

  “Thank you, Sister,” he said, and fell again into a narrow silence—a quietude that neither brother gave any indication of wishing to end.

  Ah, well… at least boredom wouldn’t be the death of her…

  Her mother might be, though considering that Giles was here, without Seren, something must have happened in London to waylay the hateful witch.

  Conceivably, there was one person she could ask, but how could she broach the subject when she shouldn’t even have any knowledge that Giles was supposed to wed her sister?

  Oh, what a tangle…

  Chapter 12

  If twenty times the girl had leaned back against him, twenty times Giles pushed her away. The bitter truth was that she wasn’t very attractive, and so much as he didn’t wish to be attracted to a nun, neither did he care to feel this particular nun’s soft curves against his well-worn leathers.

  And, don’t think he hadn’t noticed how much she wiggled—probably equally as annoyed by the material of her crude gown as Giles was by her proximity.

  Forsooth, as cold as it was, he wondered irately why she did not wear the cloak Wilhelm discovered in his satchel, instead of trying to burrow into his. Though he didn’t recognize the breed of animal, hers was rimmed with soft, black fur, and it would surely keep her warmer than Giles had a mind to.

  What a mystery, she was, traveling with more gold than his brother earned in a given year, and wearing clothes that would have chafed his own skin raw, when she owned a cloak that could easily have passed as fashionable in Stephen’s court. There was something about her… something that struck him as odd.

  Despite her lack of sophistication, he believed she could be a lady, in truth—mayhap the spoiled daughter of a Welsh lord. Her accent was faint, but he recognized it just the same, and she wore a certain gleam in her eye… one he’d met in too many dissenters, and so much as her spirit did appeal to him… her face did not.

  She wiggled backward, yet again, nestling her firm little backside too intimately into the crook of his thighs, and there it was again—a snicker—Giles frowned.

  To his utter dismay, his body hadn’t the first clue his brain must be disgusted by the woman seated before him.

  His mutinous cock betrayed him, stirring, if only slightly, and he scooted back, again, this time as far as he could manage and still remain in the saddle. Any further, and he would be seated on the mare’s rump.

  In answer, the girl leaned again, this time resting her head on his shoulder and Giles frowned. “Have you grown weary of traveling already, Sister Rosalynde?”

  “Oh, nay, my lord,” she said, sweet as honey—not at all in keeping with her appearance. And nevertheless, with her back to him, he could almost imagine her to be… well, more like he’d imagined her to be when he’d first laid eyes upon her sleeping in the thicket. And regardless, there was too much glee in her tone… as though she enjoyed baiting him.

  But why? If, in truth, she’d somehow gleaned his feelings about her appearance, she should be rightfully offended—unlike his nose.

  Bloody hell.

  Her hair smelled of… roses.

  And while there was nothing quite so extraordinary about a Rose smelling like a rose—still, he frowned, wishing he could, at least for the time being, forget the girl’s unpleasant face.

  Sweet lord, he didn’t wish to lean into that intoxicating scent… and neither did he appreciate her dark, shining hair spilling over his shoulder so familiarly as a lover’s. Warmed by the noonday sun, it shone like red velvet.

  Moreover, there was something about Sister Rosalynde that reminded him of the siren from his dreams… that beauteous water nymph that time after time had lured him to the depths of the sea. She’d had a similar gleam in her eyes that hardened his cock so painfully he awoke in the mornings with a burning desire that would not diminish until he took himself into his own hands. As soon as he found a moment alone, he must indulge himself again, as he didn’t consider it to be in anybody’s best interest for a man to burn.

  “You seem to be very much at ease,” he said, this time allowing her rest.

  “Aye, my lord. Because, after all, you’ve been so kind.” He caught a smile in her voice, and, inexplicably, it made his cock stir again. She inhaled deeply, her ample breasts brushing against his arm, and he shu
ddered over the sensation. “I was lost until you found me.”

  “Ah, yeah,” he rejoined, perhaps testing her. “And what man, having a hundred sheep, if he has lost one, does not leave the ninety, to go after the one…”

  “Ninety-nine,” she said.

  “Ninety-nine,” he amended. “You do know your scripture, Sister Rosalynde.”

  She was silent a moment. “Alas, not so well as I should. But you also know yours?”

  “I do, indeed,” said Giles. “Until recently, I was… conscripted to…” He peered at Wilhelm, who seemed to be doing his utmost to ignore them. “The seminary.”

  “I see,” she said.

  He very much doubted she did, and yet what he did and where he’d been until the day he’d returned to England was not a matter for public consumption. He cast a glance at his moody brother. Even despite their recent discussion, something was bedeviling Wilhelm, though Giles couldn’t put a finger on it. He was tired, that much he could see. He was beginning to slouch in his saddle, but as tired as Giles might be, himself, he didn’t intend to stop until Wilhelm begged for mercy. If he had to hand the nun over to keep him awake, he would do it—except… for some odd reason, he realized he didn’t want to. And, more, the longer she remained burrowed in his arms, the stronger his desire to pull her back against him and keep her safe. The scent of her was like some witchery… lulling him into a state of bliss, making him long for his siren, invented though she must be.

  “My lord, we’ve been traveling the King’s Road for some time. Perhaps we should return to the woods?”

  Sister Rosalynde peered over her shoulder yet again, and Giles cringed at the presentation of her face so near. It wasn’t so much that she was unattractive, but to look at her made him feel drunk, and it didn’t help much that he was already exhausted and growing more so by the second. He hadn’t slept all night long. And so much as he didn’t regret it, because of the return of his sable, he was growing more and more vexed by the mile—both at this sweet, unsuspecting nun, and his lame-brained, ill-tempered brother.

  “We’ll be fine,” he reassured her, and hating himself for the rudeness, he gave her a twirling motion with his finger, so she would turn back around. If he must be forced to suffer the tantalizing curves of her body, he’d rather suffer his own imagination. But, if only… because she was perfectly formed. So much as he didn’t wish to know that, he did, and it was impossible to deny it—as impossible to ignore as her sweet, beguiling scent, and he blamed it on his wasted state.

  Consequently, the more confused he grew, the more cantankerous he became. “Sister, please, must you lean… so… close?”

  Beside him, his brother chuckled, and Giles tensed.

  Clearly, Wilhelm was enjoying his discomfort, and, evidently, he’d forgotten everything they’d discussed back in that tavern, else none of it had meant a bloody thing to him. It was enough to sour his mood.

  “Say Wilhelm… do you recall my suggesting we stop by Neasham?”

  “Of course,” Wilhelm said, impatiently. “You said we could deliver Sister Rosalynde with time to spare.”

  “Nay, brother… before that… in the tavern… do you not recall I said we should stop to give alms for Lady Ayleth’s soul?”

  His brother did not answer—not at once, and when he did, his voice was thick with emotion. “Nay,” he said. “I did not.”

  Chapter 13

  Lady Ayleth?

  Who was this woman who’d aroused such raw emotion betwixt these brothers?

  Instinctively, she sensed Lady Ayleth must be the needle beneath their bums, the cause of their enmity, the pebble in their boots. But whoever she was, she must also be quite dead—or dying—since Rosalynde didn’t believe one gave alms for the souls of the living.

  Alms, as well as she could glean, were paid by the devout for the souls in purgatory, so they might be freed to see the pearly gates of Heaven. However, according to her own beliefs, there was only this world, and the Other World. And, if, indeed, there was a third place, according to dewine tradition, it wasn’t a place mortals could bargain their way out of.

  The Nether Realm was a great black void where all things simply ceased to be, just as the Isle of Avalon and the Great Witch Cerridwen. It was as mysterious a place, even to a dewine, as the fae glens.

  And yet, whatever the case, her heart ached for these brothers, even as she suffered a strange pang that could only be described as envy. Oh, to have a man love her so deeply that he would vie with his brother, even beyond her death. She sighed wistfully.

  As a girl, she’d so much loved all those troubadour’s songs. Every so often, as she and her sisters had toiled in their garden, bored and forgotten, she had dreamt of a beautiful champion who would ride to her rescue. In her dreams— she peered over her shoulder—he looked like Giles.

  So, then, could this Lady Ayleth be the reason Giles de Vere had abandoned her beauteous sister in London?

  Sad to say, if sweet, beautiful Seren did not manage to turn this man’s heart or soften the pain of his loss, what hope had Rose to do the same? And why in the name of the Goddess would she aspire to do so? Had she gone mad?

  Two days alone without her sisters and already she was pining over a man.

  And regardless, she rebuked herself, simply because Elspeth had married her champion did not mean Rosalynde should do the same—nor was it even clear yet that Giles was any sort of champion at all. The man was a newly appointed Earl to England’s Usurper, and he might never dare risk his new title for the likes of Rosalynde, nor even Seren, for that matter.

  And here was the plain truth: Rose was bound for Aldergh and her sister’s husband was an enemy to the crown.

  She was not some plain, hapless nun; she was a daughter of Avalon, a child of the Goddess. And just as soon as this came to be known, Giles de Vere would return her to her mother. Because if he so much as dared to oppose his King, he would sooner find himself dispossessed and perhaps even imprisoned.

  As for Rosalynde… well… she would do well enough to put all her romantic notions aside—forget the bard’s tales, forget notions of courtly love and champions.

  This was not the time for fantasies, and there was too much at stake here—war games, politiks, deception, brothers at odds—the realm was in peril. And if there was one thing she must accept, it was that Elspeth was right. She might not share Elspeth’s love for politiks, nor any true affection for Matilda, but she now understood what a precarious path they were traveling as a nation, and if Matilda did not reclaim their father’s throne, England might be lost.

  For all these many months in London, Rosalynde had been so preoccupied with her own troubles that she hadn’t had much of an inkling what was happening elsewhere in the realm. To her mind, there were only two places of consequence—Blackwood, where she believed Rhi was being held, and Aldergh, where her sister Elspeth had gone. Unlike Elspeth, she hadn’t much interest to know about the Empress Matilda, what she was doing, who was whispering in her ear, or where she was going. Alas, she and her true sisters had more immediate concerns, and despite that she shared blood ties with Henry’s daughter, Rosalynde could scarcely even recall Henry, much less a distant half-sister.

  Now, in the fourteenth winter since Henry’s death, why should she bother to care about a sister who was twenty-seven years her senior, and who’d never once troubled herself over their welfare?

  Quite certainly, Matilda didn’t care about them, and, for all that Elspeth seemed to admire the lady, she mustn’t care about Elspeth either.

  And yet why should she?

  Their father had sired many, many bastards, and despite that Matilda had loved Robert of Gloucester, it was probably because they were more of an age. She and Matilda were not, and they scarcely knew of each other. When Matilda left England to be married at the age of twelve, Rosalynde wasn’t even born yet. When she returned to court after her husband died, Elspeth herself was but two. Three years later, when she’d married Geoffrey d’ An
jou, even then, Rosalynde and Arwyn were scarce seedlings in their mother’s womb.

  Half a lifetime had already passed for Matilda by the time Rosalynde and Arwyn came wailing into the world. And, for those few times their half-sister had paid attendance to their father in London after their birth, she could scarce have been asked to bother with Morwen’s brats. In her shoes, Rosalynde wouldn’t have either. Not only was Morwen Henry’s Beauchamp’s whore—a woman who’d disrespected her mother’s memory—but even then, Matilda and Morwen had been at odds.

  None of that mattered here and now. What did matter was her real sisters, and no man should come between them.

  And anyway, she didn’t even know for sure that Giles had repudiated Seren. For all Rosalynde knew, it simply hadn’t been appropriate for him to bring her home—and here she sat pining over a man who didn’t even know her true face.

  How ludicrous was that?

  Perhaps, after all, Giles was looking forward to wedding her sister… and mayhap Seren, too, had found him appealing. Who wouldn’t? Only now, Rosalynde was behaving like a wanton, prepared to throw herself into his arms—and why? Because she had some silly notion that the Goddess may have deigned to send her a champion… as she had for Elspeth?

  This was hardly a fae’s tale. Lives were at stake, and hers no less than anyone else’s. She hoped, in truth, that the Goddess had been gracious enough to send her a champion, but it mustn’t be for flights of fancy. She had her mother’s grimoire in her possession, and if she didn’t keep her wits about her, she would lose it, and lose her life, as well.

  Moreover, if she wasn’t careful, she would send these brothers to their deaths, as well.

  That was a sobering thought.

  Brooding now, she held the grimoire close, trying to remember what she knew of Giles de Vere—not much.

  He was a younger son, come into his inheritance after the death of his sire and an elder brother. Morwen had had little more to say about the man, but Rosalynde had never sensed that her mother wished to give Seren up so easily—not to some lowly northern Lord, who hadn’t any true power or influence. In fact, she’d had the impression that Morwen was furious over the betrothal and that she might thwart the King if she could. Perhaps, after all, that’s what waylaid her? Perhaps she’d angered Stephen and he had locked her away, as his wife so oft threatened to do.