A Winter’s Rose

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  For the longest time, he sat, watching the poor girl sleep, feeling more exhausted and confused than he had in all his years. More than aught, he wanted to go to her, comfort her, make love to her… make her his own.

  But… he’d had plenty of time to reconsider his folly, and simply because he’d dreamt of her face didn’t mean he was meant to have her. The dream could simply have been God’s way of letting him know that her plight was not to be ignored.

  Or, it could be a warning, because in his dream, she had been a water nymph—a beautiful siren from the depths of the sea, who’d lured him into darkness, and perhaps to hell itself.

  In truth, if he forsook his oath to Stephen, he would put in danger all the Church had planned.

  And, more… in his selfishness, he would betray both his brothers, his father, and his sisters, and most of all, England.

  He could not risk it. How then would he face Wilhelm if he returned to Warkworth with Rosalynde Pendragon by his side and it cost them everything?

  Nay. He could not take her. So much as his heart longed to and his body yearned to… he simply could not.

  Chapter 25

  The room was a prison, and yet, it was not.

  The window might have bars, and the door might be locked, but the brazier burned hot and strong, and the woodpile was tall—taller than any they’d ever had at Llanthony.

  What was more, there was no longer any need to hide what she was… She was a dewine, a child of the Earth Mother, a student of the hud. There was freedom to be had in that, even as her body remained imprisoned.

  Outside, the moon rose high, bathing her in its silvery light. It was long, long past the Golden Hour, but she was strong now—strong enough not to need the time between times to fortify her magik.

  Rising from the bed—a finely curtained bed, thick with feathers, not straw to fatten the mattress—Rhiannon walked across the room, lifting up a good-sized log, then carried it back to the brazier, pushing it into the iron belly.

  With a sigh, she reached into her pocket, and took out the herbs she’d separated, tossing them gingerly into the fire, giving them a moment to burn. Finally, once she was ready, she spoke the words.

  Blazing fires as you dance,

  Give me now a fleeting glance.

  A puff of smoke lifted from the brazier, the scent like burnt honey. The wisps and curls took shape, forming, forming… forming…

  She didn’t need the fire, or words anymore, but she reveled in the rites her people had performed for ages.

  Still, her face fell, and her brows slanted at what was revealed to her, and her heart wrenched so painfully that she thought she might howl at the moon.

  Goddess please… it was the most impossible decision for any sister to make—to choose one to lose.

  Encourage one to a given path, and it sent the other to her doom.

  Few things in life were only coincidences. No happenstance occurred without consequence.

  If only people understood that there was a price to be paid for every thought that formed and every decision made, they might tremble in their boots.

  Her lips trembled as she fought her desire to weep… how utterly impossible a decision… help one, lose two. Help two, lose one. And if it could be possible to sacrifice herself, she would do so without hesitation… but this would not change the fates. Even without a scrying stone, even without mindspeaking, she knew where Seren and Arwyn were. She understood the decision Rosalynde must make, and she knew what it would cost.

  And yet… no matter how many times she twisted and turned the aether, there was only one true path that would return their mother to the place whence she’d come.

  Goddess save them, she knew the truth; it was more terrifying than anyone could imagine: Morwen was not her grandmamau’s child—not any longer. In her greed for power and glory, she had brought forth a demon from the Nether Realm—a soul that should not have found its way back to the dominion of men. She was not Morwen, daughter of Morgan Pendragon. She was not a child of Taliesin… she was the witch who’d sought the prophet’s doom. She was Cerridwen, destroyer of realms, called back to this world by a blood magik so hideous that by its very act, the veil between worlds had rent but long enough for Cerridwen to escape, and after thousands and thousands of years trapped in her black prison, she would stop at naught to see vengeance done.

  For a long, long moment, Rhiannon dared to grieve for the little girl who’d once been her mother… the child who’d lamented her faults… the young lady who’d envied her mother’s affection for her elder brother, the last warlock of their age. Emrys Pendragon had been his mother’s pride and joy—even as Cerridwen had loved her own son. Except, Emrys was not cursed as Morfran had been cursed. He was blessed, as the sisters were blessed, by the blood of Taliesin. Emrys Pendragon, not Morwen was the regnant priest of her age, and Rhiannon knew it… because… Emrys was her father. Murdered by her mother… even as Morwen had murdered Rhiannon’s twin in her own womb.

  She’d poisoned him.

  Rage burned hot as the embers in her brazier, and she swore that one day she would avenge them all, even as she must avenge the sister who must now die by her own judgment…

  Grief twisted her heart, curdling in her belly, and she didn’t care who heard her cry. She wanted to curl into a ball, and somehow cease to exist, but that was not the way of a regnant priestess.

  Heartsore, she returned to the bed, and sat upon it another long while, burdened by the weight of her duty. The bed creaked beneath her, and she heard the shuffle of feet outside her prison door.

  He was there… again… but she didn’t care.

  And neither did she care if her mother overheard her. If she hesitated, the moment will have passed.

  It must be tonight, else he would harden his heart, and so, too, would Rosalynde, and if their union was not consummated, the consequences would not be theirs alone.

  Rosalynde, she called through the aether. Sister hear me. And she closed her eyes, easily infiltrating Rosalynde’s thoughts as her sister lay weeping… her eyes red-rimmed and sore. “Stop,” she whispered softly. “Dry your eyes, my dear.” And then she hardened her voice.” We are not born to weep for our sins, we are here to honor the Goddess with our gifts. You have a duty to fulfill.”

  “Rhiannon?”

  “Aye, ’tis me, Rose, but there’s no time to explain. Bind him to you. You know how. The Goddess has ordained it. Seren will understand. Trust your heart to do what is right… as you have always done.”

  Silence.

  One tear slid from her amber eyes, trickling onto the richly adorned bed as she repeated the words of the Goddess.

  Bound by destiny, to destiny bound,

  Another to one, and one to another...

  Outside her door, she heard a man’s rueful laughter. Then she heard a slam of his fist against the stone wall, and his footfalls fell away.

  Let him go… in the end, the Goddess’s will must be done… even in regard to him.

  Rosalynde had been half asleep, dozing fitfully, her eyes swollen with tears, but she awoke with a start.

  Bound by destiny, to destiny bound,

  Another to one, and one to another...

  Those were precisely the words she’d heard the glade, and her sister betimes knew things. As a child Rosalynde had learned to trust Rhiannon, even when Elspeth had constrained them.

  Inhaling a breath for courage, she shoved the blanket off her head to find the night was late and the moon was high, silver light washing into the room.

  For all that he mustn’t be comfortable, Giles was nevertheless sleeping, because she heard his smooth, even breathing. She did not let that dissuade her, rising from the bed, her feet instinctively taking her where she needed to go… without having sensed she’d moved them.

  Bind him to you. You know how.

  Aye, she did know, because she was a woman, and it was a knowledge all women carried in their heart of hearts.

  The goblet lay
empty in his hand. The flagon, she sensed, was empty as well. Perhaps emboldened by the elixir herself, she stared at the man her heart was coming to know and love…

  She wanted more than simply to do her duty to the Goddess. She wanted to give him babes. She wanted to feel them quicken in her womb and know she’d conceived them in love.

  And yet, for the longest time, she could not move, only stare…

  In slumber his swarthy face was no less beautiful. In the shadows, his blond hair was dark about the jaw, but the firelight made it glisten… like stars.

  If he awoke now, would he see her lithe body illumined by the fire, even through her gown? Would he note her nipples straining against the chainse, only longing for lips to suckle? Would he tremble over the desire he would spy in her eyes?

  Before she could stop herself, she lifted the delicate chainse he’d bought, and pulled it gently over her head, tossing it on the floor, next to his sword and scabbard. One by One, she shed her inhibitions even as she shed her garments, allowing herself to be vulnerable and exposed. And, then, when she was ready, she bent with trembling hands to pry the goblet from his fingers. He opened his eyes as she placed it on the table, and the sound it made was like the clink of a coin…

  * * *

  Giles blinked away the sleep from his eyes, afraid he must be dreaming… But, nay… there she was, naked and unashamed, standing before him with nary a stitch of clothes—and God help him, he was only a man, a man with no will left at all.

  “If, in truth, I must lose you to my sister,” she said softly, tears shining in her eyes. “I will have you once, to keep the memory in my heart.” He watched a tear slip from her eye and roll down her cheek, off her chin, onto her hardened nipple, glistening like molten silver. The sight of it nearly unmanned him where he sat, and despite the vin, his cock hardened, aching for the touch of her hand.

  She was a siren, leading him to his doom, and he did not care right now. Every nerve in his body lit, and his gaze fixed on the eight small wounds she’d received in the glade, revealed now by the light of the moon… His heart twisted, and his lips longed to ease them… But, alas, he could not blame it on the vin when he lifted his hands to her waist, holding her fast, pulling himself forward to lay his burning mouth upon her scars, kissing them each in turn, lapping them one by one with his tongue, as though he might somehow erase the burdens from her flesh.

  She shivered, but not with fear, he realized, as he peered up into her beautiful violet eyes. The desire he saw there was his undoing and he shuddered as he felt his own wetness, a small bead of his seed soak into the cloth of his breeches.

  “Rosalynde,” he said thickly. “You cannot know what it is you are asking.”

  She nodded but once, firmly, and said, “I do, my lord.”

  And still, though he ached with desire, he slid a hand to her belly, soft as silk, pushing her back. “You need not thank me for my services, Rosalynde. And yet… if you test me, I am sure to disappoint you.”

  She reached down, putting a trembling hand over his, both their hands now quaking—only hers with trepidation. Only his with desire, and all his body shook with it, even as the blood rushed to his cock, filling it so thickly that it throbbed.

  “Rosalynde,” he said again, one last protest, and she answered by guiding his hand lower, into the velvety mons between her thighs.

  It was all Giles could do not spill his seed where he sat. Swallowing with difficulty, he rose from the chair, undressing, never taking his eyes off Rosalynde, letting her know… if she didn’t want him—want this—she’d best say so now. But she said naught, and off came his sherte, then his breeches. He hurled them both aside with a ferocity that startled even him, and then he stood before her as naked and unashamed as she… fully revealed by the light of a full moon.

  When still she said nothing, only gasped very softly, he smiled darkly and slid an arm about her waist, pulling her close, letting her feel the unyielding hardness of his body, and all his pent-up desire.

  * * *

  Rosalynde’s breath caught at the feel of him—his manhood, thick and insistent against her thighs, teasing her, even of its own accord. And, for the longest moment, he stood, allowing her to feel him, as though willing her to deny him. But, she would not…

  Bound by destiny, to destiny bound,

  Another to one, and one to another...

  And still… she didn’t know what to do. She was a virgin still. Only when she thought her heart would rent in two, he bent to press a kiss upon the bridge her nose… then another on her mouth, opening his mouth as though he meant to devour her, and then sliding out his tongue to brush against her trembling mouth. She opened her lips to him—like a flower opening to the warmth of the sun—and moaned softly as his tongue slipped inside, tasting her so intimately that she thought she might die. She pushed him away, if only to say, “I shall never take another lover.”

  “I cannot ask that of you,” he said, pulling away, but Rose clung to him, not allowing it. She slid her arms about him, holding him close, letting him feel the hardness of her own nipples against his flesh, even as he’d teased her with his own flesh.

  “It does not matter,” she said. “I will love you always. And tonight, at least… I am yours.”

  He growled then, and said naught more, lifting her up, and carrying Rosalynde to the bed…

  Chapter 26

  Aldergh Castle, February 1148

  There were flurries in the air, white, plump, and dancing with all the promise of winter. And nevertheless, peppered in snow though she might be, Rosalynde wasn’t cold, nor had she any need for warming spells or layers of clothes whilst Giles held her so jealously. Even so, she shivered, excited to see her sister, Elspeth.

  Looming before her, like a patchwork dragon on its haunches, Aldergh was a monstrosity. From end to end, it must be at least ten-thousand meters long, and evidently, it was built in stages, judging by the multicolored stone and the varied design. Behind it, she could spy the dusky rose foothills of the Pennines, dusted in a fresh layer of snow.

  “Art cold?” Giles asked, though he didn’t wait for an answer. He shifted his cloak, so it covered more of Rosalynde than it did of him. And she smiled gratefully, her heart thumping madly.

  “I am not cold,” she said. “But I am… excited. And perhaps… relieved.” For weeks now they had been preparing for the worst, fearfully watching over their shoulders. Mercifully, Morwen never arrived, and Giles’s strange serpentine sword remained silent by his side. For three long weeks they’d traveled under cloak, armed with daggers, and now… here they were… at long last.

  By now, Wilhelm, too, must have reached his destination and perhaps he was already preparing defenses, but there was no way to know for sure.

  Rhiannon, too, remained quiet since that night at Neasham, and Rosalynde dared not entreat her. Somehow, her sister’s magik was powerful enough to reach across the aether, but hers was not, and she daren’t tempt Morwen.

  “Soon now,” Giles promised, and it was a promise he could easily keep, because they were here now, and neither snow, hail, nor Morwen Pendragon could stop them.

  Giles halted for a moment, so they could admire the fortress—the soaring corner towers and the thick curtain wall, expansive enough to protect an entire village. And yet, though it was immense and quite impressive, it couldn’t be considered beautiful, with the mishmash of stone and design. But it was a bulwark, to be sure—a deterrence to men who would defy its lord, and, if it could be safe anywhere, the grimoire would be safe here.

  And nevertheless, as big as the castle was, it was impossible to imagine her sister had somehow managed to cast a protection spell around its perimeter to shield her people. Once again Rose wished she had been there to witness it—and moreover, she wished she could have seen her mother’s face as she’d watched from afar. Even now, Morwen was lamenting the loss of her birds, and it would take years, and years and years to replace them.

  “Someday, I shall see
Warkworth inviolable,” Giles told her, squeezing her gently, and Rosalynde smiled, because someday, she, too, hoped to see his beloved home. No matter how small, or how grand, she would love it, because it belonged to Giles de Vere.

  Up on the ramparts, men scurried between machicolations, the silver in their armor winking defiantly against the midday sun. Rosalynde sat in awe whilst snowflakes tickled her nose and settled like cold dust in her hair.

  “Ready?” he asked

  “Aye,” she said, nodding, as she gripped the small pommel with white-knuckled fists and Giles set a heel to the courser’s hind. As they approached, a single horn-blast trumpeted across the field and her heart pummeled against her ribs.

  A warning? A greeting?

  Alas, they had no pennant to show, but Giles neither quickened his pace, nor did he slow. He held the trot, until they sat waiting before the castle gates, and then he called to the gatekeeper.

  “Who goes there?” asked the man.

  “Giles of Warkworth,” he said. “I come bearing the Lady Rosalynde Pendragon to see her sister, the lady of Aldergh.”

  Silence met his declaration, and after a moment of consideration, the gatekeeper asked, “Can you prove it, lord? We have orders to admit no one.”

  “Call your lord,” Giles demand. “I would speak to him.”

  “Nay,” said the man. “I will not.”

  “Will not or cannot?” asked Giles.

  The man remained silent, appraising Giles and Rosalynde with suspicious eyes.

  Without a word, Giles swept the cloak off Rosalynde’s shoulders, impatiently showing the man his sigil—a lion sejant holding in his dexter-paw an axe, and in the sinister, a tilting-spear.