“We have a long way to go,” he said. “Please do me the inestimable favor of at least appreciating that I, too, have gone the whole night without resting, as I have done so for you.”
It was true, Seren acknowledged, and not for the first time. He’d arrived like a delivering angel, plucking her up, willy-nilly, from the harbor. Against her will though it might have been, he’d nevertheless sheltered her from harm. More than she had, he’d had his wits about him enough to know that the king’s men would be arriving soon. Were it not for him, she would be on her way to gaol, or worse.
If she were less of an ingrate, she might thank him…
“I am not your gaoler,” he said, “I swore to keep you safe, and to do so, I must get you and that boy as far away from London as possible, so bear with me, if you please.”
At his chiding tone, Seren felt chagrined, though anger pricked at her heart. She felt like an ungrateful wretch, and still, she couldn’t bring herself to apologize. Her pride simply wouldn’t allow it, so she fell back again to ride with Jack. She and the boy shared a glance, but she daren’t hold Jack’s gaze—or anyone else’s for that matter. Fat tears welled in her eyes. Don’t cry, she demanded of herself. Don’t cry.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
A light drizzle accompanied them… until finally she dried her tears.
12
It was impossible for Elspeth to concentrate.
No matter what Rosalynde claimed, it was disheartening to see how little protection her sister had here at Warkworth, with only a handful of tents for housing, and her donjon still in the midst of being constructed. Oh, how her sister expounded over the design and details, but all Elspeth saw was a pile of rocks, and this was not meant to be disparaging. Rather, it filled her heart with dread.
A quick breeze ruffled the heavy canvas, causing the marquee’s faded blue walls to billow like waves. Inside, all the tapers trembled, their flames dancing along unseen currents. Certainly, as tents went, the marquee was quite sumptuous, boasting a lovely curtained-bed heavily veiled in the prettiest shades of blues, from the palest hue that brought to mind Seren’s wintry eyes, to the richest cerulean blue Elspeth had ever spied. A sturdy, ornately carved table sat to one side of the marquee, bare as a bone, as though all schemes and blueprints had been hidden away before the lord’s departure. Elspeth could easily imagine this would be the lord’s table, where Giles de Vere made all his cloak and dagger plans. As for the remainder of the space, it was far plusher than any room Elspeth had at Aldergh, with many brightly colored embroidered cushions, all bearing exotic designs that put Elspeth in mind to the Saracens. But, despite all this luxury, it was only a tent, vulnerable to the elements—and worse, vulnerable to the likes of Morwen. All it would take for the entire edifice to erupt in flames was for someone to topple a candle.
Frowning, she said, “I must say you would be safer at Aldergh, Rose. Please, come home with me; we can send word to Giles in London. I know he will understand. He loves you.”
Rosalynde glanced up from the grimoire, regarding Elspeth with heavy lidded eyes. Elspeth knew Rose wanted her to stop bedeviling her, but she couldn’t. She was a mother now; it only served to bring out her maternal instincts all the more. Under the guidance of a constant stream of nursemaids, she’d raised all four of her sisters— including Rhiannon, no matter what Rhiannon would like to claim. Rhi had been such a willful child. From the time she could walk and talk—earlier than all the rest—it took all her efforts to keep her sister out of harm’s way.
Morwen herself was never a proper mother. For love of the Goddess, she was hardly a proper human being. But for all Elspeth’s cautions, betimes, her sisters were impetuous and reckless, and so far as Elspeth was concerned, this was one of those times.
“Nay,” Rosalynde said willfully. “I cannot.”
“Cannot or will not?”
Her young sister sighed, her attention returning stubbornly to the grimoire, one finger traveling the ancient page as she perused the text. “Both,” she said quietly, but Elspeth heard the iron-will in her voice.
She cast a hand up in frustration. “For the life of me, Rose, I cannot comprehend why your husband would allow you to remain here with so little protection.”
“To the contrary, Elspeth, I am well defended. Giles took every precaution before he left, and our gate is nearly impenetrable.”
“Nearly?”
“Completely,” Rosalynde demurred. “I warrant, ’tis as much so as yours. We took the design from Aldergh, after all.”
Elspeth tilted her youngest sister a dubious look. She waved a hand in a gesture to indicate the entirety of their surroundings. “What about this? Do you think this will stop her if she manages to find a way through your impenetrable gate? Your entire garrison, armed to the teeth, will be hard-pressed to protect you—and by the way, those leathers of yours, they are laughable in defense against our mother.”
“I have a very good suit of armor, fashioned to precise dimensions.”
“But, of course,” said Elspeth, hating her chafing tone, but unable to stop herself.
“Please, Elspeth. Stop worrying. Now that you’ve brought the Book, we’ll find a proper warding spell. Please, stop. I’ll not go,” Rosalynde said, more firmly. “I am needed here, and you, above all should understand why.”
Elspeth frowned. “Why?”
Rosalynde gave her an exasperated glance. “Because, as I have said. This is where Matilda plans to mount her campaign into England.” When Elspeth said naught, she lifted her brows. “You remember Matilda, do you not? You championed her all those years, and now wouldst you have me turn my back on our sister when she needs us most?”
“Half-sister,” Elspeth corrected. “And since when do you concern yourself with Matilda?”
“Since now.” Rosalynde said, her gaze flicking up to meet Elspeth’s, incensed. “Truly, Elspeth?”
“Do not mistake me, Rose. I realize how critical it is for Matilda to take her rightful place on England’s throne, but you are my true-blood sister, and I’ll not risk you, not even for such a noble cause.”
“I will not fail my lord husband. Nor will I betray our cause,” she said, dismissing Elspeth’s complaints.
Mother’s mercy! Everything for the cause.
Elspeth more than anyone understood the importance of deposing the Usurper, but to leave another of her sisters vulnerable was unthinkable—not even to support Matilda.
Already, they’d lost Arwyn. Elspeth could not bear to lose Rosalynde as well, not even for the sake of the realm. Their sister Matilda had more than enough men to defend her, and proof of that was plain to see… if not, Morwen would have already found a way to kill her long ago—which was, in itself, heartening, because if Morwen could not destroy the one person she most loathed in this realm, there must, indeed, be some way to stop her—some way that did not involve losing yet another sister.
Months ago she’d taken to picking at her thumbnail. Now it was raw. Really, so much as it pleased her to see Rosalynde rallying behind Matilda, and so much as it relieved her to see that something was being done about the current politikal clime, she absolutely loathed the thought of putting any of her sisters in danger. At one point, she herself had been prepared to lay down her life for the cause, but now that she had two sweet babes, she must reconsider. If she died, what then would happen to Lachlan and Broc?
Nay, there was only one reason in the entire world she would ever leave them… and that was to aid her sisters. But considering Giles de Vere’s occupation, she had come here thinking Rosalynde would be very well defended. That did not appear to be the case, and they would be better off scheming at Aldergh, with three times the number of men, and a well-fortified castle and donjon filled with loyal stewards who would all die to defend them.
But here they were…
With a vengeance, Elspeth flicked her thumbnail, aggravating the flesh beneath.
What about Seren—where was she?
What about Rhiannon?
In the direst of moments, both she and Rosalynde always managed to hear from Rhi. For Elspeth, through mindspeaking. For Rosalynde, mindspeaking and dream visitation. But no matter how many times they engaged her now, Rhiannon remained eternally silent. The aether was as devoid of her presence as it was of Arwyn’s… except that Rhiannon’s absence was more like a closed door. Arwyn’s was a terrible, empty void.
With a weary sigh, she gave up the fight for the moment, thinking that so long as Rosalynde’s sword was not glowing, she must take comfort in that. And yet, no matter that it lay so quietly beside them, she couldn’t keep her eyes off the shining metal blade, with its intricately crafted serpents. She couldn’t believe all the things Rosalynde told her…
A gift from her husband, the sword was crafted by one forebear to give to another; it was the same weapon that once belonged to a son of Uther, by all accounts, as fine a warrior as ever did live. When the time came to choose his allegiance, he chose, not his mother’s kinsmen, but the people of Wales. And yet, the troubadours had this story wrong: Avalon was gone before Arthur ever took his first breath. He was only blessed by Avalon by virtue of his association with Taliesin, and though he was half-brother to the first Morgan Pendragon, those two siblings never produced a son. Moreover, Arthur’s sister was not responsible for his death. What the troubadours did have correct was this: With that sword Rosalynde now possessed, Arthur slew hordes of Saxons, and eventually, he and his armies caused the Romans to flee Wales. But how ironic it was that the very men he vanquished were the very men who’d, somehow, not only come to possess his sword, but were also the ones Matilda now called in defense of the realm—the Romans with their Paladins. Even now, Elspeth could hardly believe Giles was a member of the Papal Guard—defenders of the realm, so ’twas said, but huntsmen nevertheless. They were the ones who’d carried out her grandmamau’s sentencing—a fact Elspeth was still coming to grips over.
Sighing ruefully, she watched her sister pore over the ancient tome. The Book of Secrets was ancient and irreplaceable. There was no other of its kind. Within its hallowed pages were hundreds of untold mysteries, alchemic prescriptions and long-forgotten spells. To the wrong eyes, it could be infinitely dangerous, and therefore, the Book was bound by blood magik; only a dewine’s blood could reveal its true nature. To keep it safe, Rosalynde had risked her life to steal it north, and if Morwen ever retrieved it… well, then, the realms of men should hide beneath their beds.
Embossed upon the aged volume were endless, ever-changing symbols emerging and receding into the leather surface—a wonder to be sure, and she marveled that not so long ago she would have considered this utterly impossible. And yet, here they were, and there was Rosalynde—wife to a huntsman—reading the Book of Secrets in plain sight.
Truly, it was a marvel, and Elspeth was glad to be a witness to it, even if she missed her babes so much it hurt. Even now, her nipples were sore from having suckled them so long after the wet-nurse advised her to wean them. Her body remembered their weight at her bosom, and her nipples throbbed with the desperation to feed them. But, alas, dwelling on that served no one right now, and if she kept it up, she would ruin yet another gown.
Pushing her sweet boys out of her head, she peered down at the grimoire. For hours now they’d been searching for a good protection spell, and there were many, but none powerful enough to wield the way Elspeth had wielded that spell on the battlements the eve of their mother’s attack. That spell was not in this book, for it had come directly from the Mother Goddess, fully formed as it sprang to her lips.
And yet, so much as she appreciated the divine intervention, that night was a blight on her memory.
That night, whilst their mother had waited in a tent—not unlike this very tent—outside proximity of Aldergh’s missiles, she’d sent an angry swarm of ravens. Thousands upon thousands of black birds descended upon her home, and Elspeth had not known what to do.
On the one hand, she hadn’t believed she could do anything at all. On the other hand, she was mortified to reveal herself as a witch—no less before the very souls she’d hoped to impress. But in that instant, spurred by the memory of something Rhiannon had said to Malcom, she’d lifted her hand and cast a warding spell unlike any she’d ever heard.
But that was the thing about grimoires; not everything was perfectly recorded; some spells were Goddess sent. And still, it was easier to imagine what could be done if only one knew what had been done—and this, no doubt, was the reason their mother would not allow them to open the book.
That, and Elspeth had a burning suspicion there was something else hidden amidst these pages… something Morwen didn’t want anyone to see… something Elspeth had yet to discover…
“What about the warding spell you said you cast at Aldergh?”
“The one before I left… or the other?”
“The one you cast before you left.”
“Nay,” said Elspeth. “That was not precisely a protection spell. Rather, it only fortifies the spell I cast on the battlements. It would not serve you here.”
“What about this one?” Rosalynde asked, tapping a finger on the page.
Elspeth leaned closer, reading the words below her sister’s fingertip.
“Sacred Water?”
“Aye,” Rosalynde said . “It might not protect us from the firmament, but it could keep Morwen and her minions from crossing the motte. We could divert the river, fill the ditch, then bless the motte with this spell.” She tapped the book again.
Elspeth lifted a brow. “What motte?”
Rosalynde sighed. “We do have a motte,” she persisted. “You must know, it takes time to rebuild, and truth be told, this is why I cannot leave. There is too much to be done, and I will not abandon Warkworth.”
“What about Edmond? Is he not your steward?”
“Newly appointed,” Rosalynde said. “He knows little.”
“Little as you?”
Arching her brow again, in much the same way Elspeth was wont to do, Rosalynde countered, in a high-handed voice. “As little as you when you came to be lady of Aldergh?”
“Point well made,” Elspeth relented, because that was true. Until she’d applied herself to the task, she hadn’t had the first clue how to run a castle. She still wouldn’t know how to lead a garrison, nor command a workforce. But these were tasks better left to her lord husband, and nevertheless Rosalynde was here prancing about in men’s leathers, trying to wield a hefty sword that was more than twice her size. It befuddled Elspeth, and she didn’t see a woman grown when she looked at her baby sister.
“And yet you flourished.” Rosalynde persisted.
When Elspeth pursed her lips in answer, Rosalynde continued, “Do not gainsay me, Elspeth. I have been to your home. You are an excellent chatelaine, sister mine, and so, too, will I be with time.”
Elspeth pouted, because that was, precisely, what she was afraid of; she didn’t know how much time they had. Any given moment their mother could arrive with the king’s army, and Eustace had already demolished Warkworth once, burning the entire castle, with its lord and lady asleep in their beds. By the cauldron. She had never heard a more horrific tale. Any man who could rise above this, to help Morwen’s daughter, was a saint.
And truly, if, indeed, he so wished to exact revenge, agreeing to help Seren would be the perfect way to do it. He could strangle her in her sleep, and no one would be there to stop him. And why wouldn’t he?
Wilhelm and Giles—half-brothers by blood—were the only survivors of a once noble family, but only because neither was present at the time of the burning. Wilhelm, so she’d been told, arrived in the wee hours, with the castle and fields still smoking and the stench of death wafting in the air, only to discover that his entire family—father, brother, sisters, and sister by law, the latter pregnant with her firstborn child—burnt in their beds. If that could be the fate of a donjon built of wood, a marquee was entirely too vulnerable.
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“I have a well-equipped garrison at my command,” Rosalynde said, laying a hand atop Elspeth’s arm to assuage her. “Moreover, my husband left his best warriors at my command.”
“His best?”
Rosalynde sighed. “Stop arguing, Elspeth. I grow weary. It helps not at all.”
Elspeth sighed as well, blinking back tears as she glanced down at the page… at the warding spell her sister had proposed—and then suddenly recalling a trick her grandmamau taught her. She bent close, blowing softly over the vellum, searching for hidden script.
She frowned when she noted the shimmering symbol that materialized—a downturned triangular mark.
This was the arcane symbol for water, but it lay encircled, which was the mark of the divine. “Rosalynde… to cast this spell you need witchwater,” she explained. “That is not a thing you can make, nor summon if you’ve not the power to do so. ’Tis not the same as water you bless.” She met her sister’s shimmering blue eyes—eyes that were so like her own. “To my knowledge none of us have ever summoned elements in this fashion—not witchwater, witchwind nor witchfire. Not even Rhiannon.”
“Aye, well… perhaps that is not entirely true,” said Rosalynde. Elspeth blinked and Rosalynde shrugged. “I believe Arwyn could summon witchfire,” she said.
Elspeth screwed her face.
“’Tis true. I saw her do it once, perhaps twice, though she did not understand what it was, nor did I at the time. ’Tis only now that I’ve had the opportunity to read through the grimoire that I understand what I saw. It was witchfire, no doubt. I know it by its color—that odd, blue flame.”
“Hmm,” said Elspeth, remembering a time at Llanthony when Arwyn scorched Father Ersinius’ opulent robe that lay drying in the yard. She’d been washing the garment when that cantankerous old fool approached her to scold her, bidding Arwyn to watch what she was doing, lest she ruin the material. Later, when no one was looking, while that gown lay drying in the sun with its gold threads shimmering, Arwyn consumed the cloth with a strange blue flame that burned so swiftly and intensely the robe was reduced to ash in the blink of an eye. “I do remember,” she said. “But keep in mind that you cannot fill a motte with witchwater, if you do not have a motte or if you cannot summon witchwater. Neither you, nor I, can summon witchwater.” She swallowed, heard. “Arwyn is dead.”
Fire Song (Daughters of Avalon Book 4) Page 10