To be sure, the Queen Consort was no wilting flower. As diminutive as the lady might be, she swept through Westminster’s halls with a stature that cowed men twice her size. Nor did she concern herself with niceties. The one time the sisters had been left alone in her company, she’d informed them rather baldly that her mother should be persona non grata, and that the only reason she was not, was because of her. Simply because Morwen was useful, the Queen would continue to pave the way for the Pendragons in her court, but if a one of them crossed her, they would see how fast they would be put out the door.
Rosalynde also remembered Elspeth telling a story about the day they were summoned to meet Stephen for the first time—right after his coronation. Rosalynde was far too young to remember the occasion, but apparently, the Queen had marched into their mother’s quarters and informed Morwen in no uncertain terms to be discreet with her lord king, lest she defy her husband and feed Morwen’s eyeballs to her precious birds.
No one spoke to Morwen that way. No one. But, after all, there must be something dark in Stephen’s queen, because what sort of wife conspired with a husband’s paramour? What sort of mother encouraged a son—England’s heir—to disport where her husband had already dared?
In Rosalynde’s opinion, if, in truth, England fell to ruin, the fault would lie as much with Maude as it did with Morwen.
But, for all that he’d stolen her father’s crown, Stephen seemed more reasonable. Certainly, he was kinder, and Rosalynde had a niggling sense that he was a man caught in a spider’s web, and his queen was as much a poppet master as her mother. Alas, she also sensed the King was growing weary of his throne. Rumor had it that he was preparing to abdicate to his son—completely unheard of in England, though they often did such things in France—and if he did, Morwen and Stephen’s Queen would gnash their teeth like wolves, and God help Eustace, the poor, arrogant fool. He was too stupid, greedy, shortsighted and godless to survive them. They would rent him in two like a rag doll.
The thought gave Rosalynde a shiver, and she shivered again, feeling the first signs of cold. And not merely the cold…
It was all she could do to keep her head from lolling and her eyes wide open. In her current state, she doubted she would have any recourse against her mother. She would lie down at Morwen’s feet and snore herself into an early grave.
Gooseflesh erupted on her skin as Giles slid an arm about her waist, pulling her close, lending his warmth and his support. This time her shivers had naught do with the weather.
“Rest,” he said. “We’ll stop soon.”
The tenderness in his voice startled her, and the warmth of his breath against her nape made her heart flutter wildly. She said not a word—couldn’t speak, because now the tightness of her throat strangled her words. But she nodded, shivering as she laid her head back to rest against his shoulder.
Goddess have mercy, despite having spent the past hour talking herself out of girlish fancies, she dared to revel in the warmth and safety of his arms.
Chapter 14
She was in a castle that could only be Blackwood.
Born in London, neither Rosalynde nor Arwyn had ever chanced to see their family estate in Bannau Brycheiniog, but she recalled every word of Elspeth’s stories, and she envisioned it clearly… the ivy-tangled courtyard with the sacred cauldron once tended by Gwion, that boy who’d stolen the Witch Goddess’s potion. Pregnant still, and fat with its great iron belly, the cauldron sat above a ring of blackened stones, the fire beneath it burning with an eternal flame. Rose couldn’t see what was being brewed within, but she watched smoke curled above the cauldron and rose into the open courtyard, toward a cloudless blue sky, rushing past lichen-covered stone…
And then, suddenly, she herself was the smoke… drifting through rusted metal bars and coalescing into a solid form…
Here, from her prison bower, she had a view of the Endless Sea… and outside her door stood a man… leaning against the wall, facing away, so she couldn’t see his face, though she could still hear his voice. “There is no future but the one your mother has ordained.”
Familiar laughter. “Ah, my lord… the Goddess truly works in mysterious ways. You have yet to realize what you would give to win your true desire.”
Silence.
“And what if my desire is you?”
Like wisps of smoke from the cauldron, her lips curved into a slow smile, and she laughed again, very softly, even as her nipples hardened with desire. “And you jest, my lord… but you will learn… the heart wants what it wants.”
Silence.
“No matter what you may call yourself, your blood is Welsh, lest you forget… and I know what you really want.”
She was not afraid, though his words should engender fear. “You will never leave here… Rhiannon,” he said, angry, and then she heard him push off the wall and walk away.
His footsteps echoed sharply on the ancient stone.
Silence was the gift of his departure.
Rhiannon!
Rosalynde’s eyes flew wide to find it was late afternoon.
She was horrified to discover herself resting like a limp doll in Giles’s arms. Straightening at once, embarrassed, she saw that he’d lain a hand atop her grimoire, holding it fast, and without meaning to, Rosalynde wrenched the Book away with a gasp.
“Pardon,” he said. “I feared you would drop it and I didn’t wish to wake you.”
Disoriented still, Rosalynde jerked forward, trying to gauge how far they’d come. As far as she could tell, they were still alive… and still on the King’s Road.
On the road, their ambling shadows formed gargoyles—two of them: one big one small—with hoofed protuberances pawing at the ground, and thick bodies with strange appendages growing from their middles, five jouncing heads. For a befuddled instant, she studied the grotesque shadows, realizing that Wilhelm must have fallen behind, and she turned to find him hunched over his horse, somehow dozing. “How long have I been sleeping?” she asked.
“A bit longer than Wilhelm.”
Rose tilted her head, stretching the cords of her neck, and turned again to peer at Wilhelm, marveling over the contortion of his body and his curious ability to sleep in his saddle. At least she’d had Giles to hold her, and for that she was thankful. And nevertheless, she was horrified to discover that, like Rhiannon’s had in her dream, her nipples were pebbled and straining against the course wool of her nun’s habit. Defensively, she pressed the grimoire closer.
Ignoring her traitorous body, she considered the dream. Could it be that her sister had given her a glimpse into her cage? Or, was it only an invention of Rosalynde’s tired, overwrought mind?
Some dewines could descry by dreams—Rhiannon did so all the time, but Rosalynde had never once had any occurrence herself, and she only knew it because Rhiannon had told her so, not because her sister had ever infiltrated her dreams before. And yet, no dewine worth her blood would ever ignore a message from the aether, and it was quite possible Rhiannon had discovered a safer way to mindspeak.
“I’m guessing you mustn’t have rested well last night,” Giles said. “Much to be expected, there aren’t many ladies I know who could sleep so well in the woods.”
Clearly, he didn’t know her. Rosalynde could sleep anywhere, and the forest was like a second home to her.
Once, she’d fallen asleep in an elm tree, like a cat, and her sisters worried all day long until she’d returned to the priory that evening. Even so, she was chagrined to confess, even if only to herself, that she had rested far more easily in Giles’s arms than she had in her warded pentacle.
“Speaking of woods, my lord...” She peered up, looking at clear skies—completely unobstructed by the boughs of trees, in perfect view of Morwen’s black-feathered spies. “Should we not seek the shade for a while?”
She turned to look at him with pleading eyes.
* * *
Giles blinked at the sight of her very, very blue eyes… but he’d imagined
they were green—a shade of green that recalled him to rich, thick moss, not this peculiar shade of blue that made him think of bellflowers.
“What is it?” she asked.
Giles scratched his chin, uncertain what it was, precisely.
“My lord?” She asked again, and he shook his head, averting his gaze, suffering the same bewildering sense of recognition he’d experienced this morning when he’d met her.
“Tis naught,” he said, determining that he must be over-weary.
So long as she’d been sleeping, he’d let her rest because he’d wanted to put as much distance between them and Darkwood as possible. He didn’t care to alarm the girl, but he had a sense they were being followed, even despite that he couldn’t see anyone. It was entirely possible they’d caught the attention of one of Darkwood’s brigands, and the man was skilled enough to know how to track them, and perhaps wise enough to know that he couldn’t prevail against two armed warriors—which also implied he must be alone, perhaps waiting for an opportune moment.
He hadn’t bothered alerting Wilhelm only because his sword lay resting as quietly as the woman in his arms. Regretfully, stopping for the evening was inevitable and now was as good a time as any. He was the only one who hadn’t managed to catch a kip in the saddle.
And, anyway, he’d already proven his point. Wilhelm had been dozing nearly as long as Rosalynde, and if he denied it, Giles had the girl as his witness. Clearly, his brother had judged himself in superior form. Alas, he was merely the bigger man. And, regardless, it annoyed Giles to no end that this unlooked-for competition had reduced him to a youth, fresh off the field, with balls bigger than his brains, and a yen to prove himself where he oughtn’t bloody care to.
Sister Rosalynde was still looking at him, pleading, and he gave a short whistle, heard a waking snort, then an immediate shift in Wilhelm’s gait. Without turning, he waved his brother into the woods, where the late afternoon sun sluiced through the limbs of naked oaks.
He found a spot near a small burn, where he could see clearly in three directions, and there he dismounted, then helped Sister Rosalynde down from his horse, making sure she was steady on her feet before releasing her...
Blue.
Her eyes were, indeed, blue. Bright as bellflowers.
And more… under the soft, dappled light of the forest, she appeared… different.
Softer, perhaps?
Peering up, over the dingy white veil she wore, her lovely blue eyes were filled with concern, and she held the book between them like a shield.
Amused, Giles released her, and gave the book a nod. “There’s room in my satchel,” he suggested. “Along with your cloak…”
“Nay, thank you,” she said quickly, casting a glance at the sword in his scabbard, the shining rain guard catching her attention as it glinted by the sun. She gasped suddenly, gave a hasty pardon and hurried away, giving him the impression that his sword had intimidated her.
Shrugging, he watched her go, wondering again why she wouldn’t wear her cloak. Clearly, she was cold, or she wouldn’t have been so insistent about climbing beneath his own, and yet…
He had a feeling there was more to Sister Rosalynde than what she’d claimed… and despite her outward appearance, there was something about the lady that appealed to him. There was a spark of brilliance behind those chameleon eyes.
“Do not wander,” he called after her. “Hurry back, or I’ll come looking.”
Chapter 15
Not only could Giles not be sure they weren’t alone in these woods, but his brother was in a fine state to be hunting. Suffering the effects of too much ale and too little sleep, Wilhelm was cantankerous and restless, and Giles didn’t intend for Sister Rosalynde to be mistaken for quarry whilst kneeling behind a bush. He gave her plenty long enough to see to her affairs, before he went searching, sword in hand.
He’d found her repairing the hem of her gown, but she’d complained fiercely when he’d insisted that she return. Now she sat, pouting and worrying her hands raw as Giles finished gathering kindling for the fire.
But it struck him, as he watched her, that for all her worrying, she didn’t appear overly concerned about Giles, nor about Wilhelm for that matter—a man thrice her size. She was barely constraining her temper, and the look in her eyes reminded him of a cornered wolf—wary and desperate, quite prepared to bite the hand feeding her.
He also had a very strong sense that, despite her weariness, she didn’t wish to stop for the evening, and he recalled how nervous she’d been about staying on the King’s Road, in perfect view of fellow travelers.
Perhaps she knew something about the man who was following them?
Perhaps she was running from a husband, or a father?
Whatever the case, the more time he spent with Sister Rosalynde, the more certain he was that she wasn’t who she claimed to be. He’d known many women in service to God, and for what it was worth, she didn’t appear to him to be any sort of candidate for the veil.
He gave her a patient smile as he adjusted the kindling and gave it another click of his fire-steel, annoyed that he hadn’t been able to find more suitable wood. “If you must return, I would happily escort you.”
“Nay,” she said, peevishly. And then, with a tilt of her head, she asked, “Did no one ever teach you that ladies must have privacy? We do not brandish our… swords… in public, as men are wont to do.”
Giles choked on his laughter.
It wasn’t immediately clear which sword she’d intended as her meaning. But, either way, it was clearly a rebuke.
God help her sisters at Neasham—and then, a thought occurred to him: Perhaps, with her five gold marks, she’d intended to bribe her way into the nunnery. Only now that her money was gone, she would have one hell of a time convincing the prioress to take on another mouth to feed—particularly one so colorful as hers.
Nevertheless, she clearly prized her scripture. She hadn’t let that bloody book out of her sight since the moment he’d laid eyes upon her.
And regardless, with that impudent lift of her chin, she would be wasted in a priory. She was spirited, strong and bright. And while, in truth, her face might not be so exquisite as his intended’s, the more he looked at her… the more he recognized a certain quality that spoke to his heart.
There was an inner light that shone from Sister Rosalynde’s eyes. Even with her odd face and penchant for the veil, he would prefer this woman any day over Seren Pendragon.
But Seren Pendragon was the least of his concerns, and so, too, should be this mouthy nun. He had more urgent matters to settle… not the least of which was the disenfranchising of a King and his idiot son. The Count of Mortain was swiftly becoming a scourge to England. He was dangerous, petty and reckless, and if he continued, unmanaged, he would plunge the entire nation into hell itself. What was more, Morwen Pendragon would be the fallen angel who would usher them in. And this was not puffery, nor a disgruntled lord speaking… nor a man who’d lost his kindred to an idiot’s rampage.
If any other man had done half what Eustace had purportedly done, undermining what little of his father’s good will remained, he would have been drawn and quartered. Instead, the mouthy bugger beat his hairless chest even as he laid waste to England, taxing loyal lords, until even those who’d willingly supported his father now begged to see Duke Henry reclaim England’s throne—and so he would.
So he would.
In the meantime, Giles wanted naught more than to take his new title—and his lovely betrothed—and shove them both up Stephen’s arse. Beautiful as the lady might be, her mother would stop at naught to see her will done. And Giles knew as well as Wilhelm that it was by her counsel that Eustace had burned Warkworth to the ground. Still, even knowing this, he’d stood in Stephen’s hall, watching those complicit fools twitter like birds into each other’s ears, and it was all he could do not to unsheathe his sword, there and then, and climb the stairs to the dais to claim their heads.
Alas, he c
ould not so easily have wiped the smug smile off Morwen Pendragon’s face without sacrificing his own life and Wilhelm’s as well.
Or, for that matter, putting everything at risk.
But now he had another axe to bear for Wilhelm’s sake. After everything his brother had endured, he had been forced to stand by Giles’s side and watch as they’d awarded him an Earldom—inexplicably—whilst neither their father nor Roger ever achieved the honor—and, no less, in the presence of Morwen Pendragon. Giles would like to gut them all, if only for pouring fuel over the fire of Wilhelm’s rage. His once good-natured bother was no longer the gladsome fool. The Wilhelm he’d known was dead… perished the night of the fire. He was now pettish and brooding, and as tiresome as it was becoming, Giles was determined to endure it with patience. He only wished he could tell the bloody fool that vengeance was forthcoming. But, all in good time, for the church itself had an investment in Stephen’s ruin.
“My lord?”
Giles couldn’t say he’d forgotten she was there—not precisely—though he’d made it a point not to look at her again. More and more, he was growing ambivalent to her presence, inexplicably drawn to the lady even though she was not at all his type. And even if she were—Good Christ, she was a nun, a woman of the cloth. It was quite unsettling to feel his cock stir in her presence—and more so over the petting of her stupid book.
“Are we truly to kindle a fire?”
There was disapproval in her tone, and perhaps a bit of ire. Giles clicked the fire-steel a few more times, annoyed that the wood was so green and wet. “Aye,” he said. “I am.” And he cast her a brief glance, fighting anew his desire to stare. That face… every time he looked at her, he felt as though he had tippled too many ales.
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