“Nay,” Elspeth begged. “Please!”
Unmoved, Morwen laughed, and Rosalynde put a hand to her sister’s arm. “Stay strong, Elspeth. We will get him back.”
“Alas,” Morwen continued. “So much as I enjoy our reunions, I must fly away, and since I do not trust a single one of you deceiving bitches, if I must choose one to bring me that book, I choose Seren.” Her black eyes glittered like tourmalines as she hoisted up the wailing child and returned him to the cradle of her arms. “Only one may pass with my Book. The book is your passage. But for one,” she repeated. “If two dare attempt the crossing, the second will burn.”
Wide-eyed, Seren peered again at her sisters.
Rosalynde said, “She believes you to be most malleable, Seren.”
Of course. Whatever her mother demanded, Seren always did, if only to keep the peace. She was, indeed, the most biddable of her sisters. Only Morwen hadn’t any clue what she had endured since Dover, nor what she’d learned since Arwyn’s passing—nor could Rosalynde or Elspeth possibly understand. Only there wasn’t time to explain. “I will go,” she said, holding a trembling hand out for the book.
Neither of her sisters dared argue. Tears slid down Elspeth’s cheeks as she nodded, offering Seren the Book, her eyes glinting with gratitude.
“Nay!” said Wilhelm, with a voice like thunder. “I’ll not allow this!”
Prepared to argue, Seren turned to face him, but he surprised her by seizing the grimoire from her hand, then bolting toward the circlet.
“Nay, Wilhelm,” she screamed. “Nay, stop!”
Still as stones, Morwen’s soldiers did not prevent him from passing and Seren held her breath as he slipped through the circlet, unharmed. She watched with bated breath as he marched toward the tower’s entrance, and nearly fell to her knees in despair.
Sweet fates!
She would have gone after him, but Rosalynde and Elspeth held her back. “Let him go,” Rose demanded. “Let him go!”
“Nay,” cried Seren. “Nay… she’ll kill him!”
“’Tis too late,” said Elspeth.
Indeed, it was.
Too late.
With the book in his hand, and without a backward glance, Wilhelm vanished into the tower… and just at that instant an arrow flew from the tree-line, passing through the circlet, embedding itself into the arch above the door.
Gasping in horror, Seren turned to find Morwen’s ravens shrieking, taking flight from the boughs of nearby trees.
Thinking it was her men, Rosalynde commanded them. “Stand down, stand down!” she said. “Stand down!”
But the arrows kept coming—one whizzed past Seren’s temple. She avoided it only because she turned to look at the tower entrance.
Too late.
Morwen’s army sprang to life, drawing weapons. Only it was not Warkworth’s men loosing arrows. An army of mail-clad soldiers poured into the clearing from the woods. They came mounted, bearing David’s golden lion standard. It was David of Scotia, and realizing they had reinforcements, Rosalynde shouted, “To me! To me!”
Warkworth’s soldiers gave a united war cry and rushed into the fray.
Her heart beating with fear, Seren was left with no weapon at all, confused, surrounded by tramping hooves, flying missiles, and swords.
33
It was all Wilhelm could do not to piss himself as he sprinted through the roaring wall of blue flames. He didn’t give himself time to think about the consequences—nor his fear.
Not Warkworth the morning after the burning, nor Ayleth, with her twisted burnt body. Not the reek of smoke, nor the stench of scorched flesh.
In his wake, he left the sounds of battle—the clash of metal and shouts of “To me! To me!”
God save them, he thought. God save them all.
If not for the child, he didn’t care what happened to him, but there was no way in bloody hell he would let Seren face her mother. Clutching the book in his hand, he bolted up the stairs, losing his footing twice before realizing he must ascend as close to the wall as possible.
Even then, the stones could scarcely bear his weight.
The tower was ancient, fallen to decay, the stone stairs crumbled beneath the heel of his boots.
Sunlight sluiced through the roof, pouring into the interior, highlighting the dust motes he stirred; the more he disturbed, the more it billowed like smoke—and that was nearly his undoing. His heart pounded painfully as images of Warkworth once again accosted him—Lady Ayleth, with her skin charred and peeling away, her limbs twisted from the fall into the mottte; his father, his brother and sister, burnt skin sliding off bones. The reek of death stank the air, caked into the hairs of his nostrils… even now, the remembered stench made his stomach roil.
Keep going, he commanded himself. Keep going.
For Seren, and her sisters.
Keep going, he commanded himself. Keep going.
For his father and his brother and sisters.
Keep going, he commanded himself. Keep going.
God help him; if he’d taken another instant to consider his actions, he might never have crossed that circlet of fire.
Even now, he imagined the stench of his own burning flesh, felt the heat of it eating through muscle and bone, and the smell revolted him.
Keep going, he commanded himself. Keep going.
It was all his imagination. His skin wasn’t afire. Nothing was burning—nothing but that circlet. Somehow, the book itself was like an amulet. His clothes were untouched. He was whole. His clothes were untouched. You are whole. Keep going, he commanded himself. Keep going.
It was true; little in life frightened Wilhelm so much as fire, but more than fire, the thought of Seren meeting the same fate as Lady Ayleth.
His nape prickled with fear, but he had no regrets—not even now as his legs faltered over the strain of the climb.
Mindful of the book in his hand, he lost his footing again. He stumbled and fell near the top of the tower, nearly dropping the book. Hanging by one hand, he grunted in pain. A lesser man would have fallen, but he had more weight on his body than most, and the strain was unbearable. Keep going, he commanded himself. Keep going.
Somehow, he managed, with blood-stained nails, to claw his way back up and continue up the stairs. Keep going, he commanded himself. Keep going.
Sweating and exhausted, he felt Morwen’s presence before her saw her—that same feeling he’d had on the day after the burning—a darkness that unsettled him to his marrow.
Keep going, he commanded himself. Keep going.
His boots found purchase where they could, and with his free hand, he groped at the stone, pulling himself up the last few feet, wondering how in creation she’d mounted this stairwell with a babe in her arms.
Keep going, he commanded himself. Keep going.
Laughter resounded from the rooftop—hideous peals of raucous laughter, and suddenly she began to sing, her voice, sweet as a siren, bouncing off stone—bouncing and bouncing, so it felt as though she sang to him. Keep going, he commanded himself. Keep going.
Her voice came from his right, from his left…
When thy father went a-hunting,
A spear on his shoulder, a club in his hand,
He called the hounds,
‘Giff, Gaff; catch, catch, fetch, fetch!’
She was evil incarnate, he thought. How could she croon to that child whilst the world burned around her? Keep going, he commanded himself. Keep going.
At long last, he scaled the final steps and faced her, and it was impossible not to stand in her presence and not feel terror. She loomed larger than life, somehow peering down at him, though he stood taller than most men. The look on her face was both gleeful and disdainful at once, and when she spoke, he could feel the rumble of stone.
“The arrogance of men,” she said in greeting. “Wilhelm, Oh, dearest Wilhelm. Did you truly believe you would defeat me when my daughters cannot? You are no more than a toad!”
&nb
sp; Wilhelm’s brain focused on the cacophony surrounding them—the ceaseless shrieks of birds, the battle cries ringing in the distance, the clang of steel against steel. Morwen must have guessed at this thoughts, for she smiled. “Alas, you may have suffered your worst fears for naught.” She bounced the babe in her arms, greedily eyeing the tome in his hand. It grew heavy as solid steel in his hand.
“Intemperance will be the undoing of men—you are rash and thoughtless,” she declared. “But I shall, indeed, give you the child, and you may descend to find yourself surrounded by carnage—not unlike the day you returned to find Warkworth in ash.” She smiled thinly. “Of course, you know, I did linger that day,” she confessed. “As you must have sensed. I felt you,” she admitted. “I spoke to you—and, oh, how I reveled in your pain. I had a bird’s view, if you please.” And she laughed again, still bouncing the babe.
It was all Wilhelm could do not to rush at her and pummel her face as he would a man’s. Fury mounted inside him, overtaking his fear. “Take the book!” he demanded, thrusting it out to her, refusing to give her the satisfaction of reliving his worst nightmare. “Give me the child,” he said. “Or, by God, I will strangle you with my own hands.”
He might try it anyway, he thought, though he knew beyond a shadow of doubt this woman was not of this world. If he opted for vengeance, he and the child would both die.
She laughed in response to his threat, and then, it happened like a dream… She leaned forward, her body fluid, spilling the child into his arms, somehow seizing the book at the same time. It was an impossible feat that left him blinking in confusion. “Fool,” she whispered in his ear, and the single word was filled with glee.
She drew the book to her breast and closed her eyes victoriously as he heard a sudden explosion below, the roar climbing higher and higher. One glance down revealed more of that bright blue flame wending its way upward, burning the tower from below.
Wilhelm stood, frozen. God help him, there was nowhere to go. Without the child in his arms he might have taken a chance, diving into the flames, but he would never risk the babe… and yet, if he stood here doing nothing, they would both perish. “We had a bargain,” he screamed.
The witch answered with a slow, conniving grin. “So we did,” she said, and without another word, she transformed herself before his eyes into a creature not unlike the one he’d spied in the woodlot south of Whittlewood and Salcey. Leaving only plumes of smoke, she burst from the tower with a peal of laughter, taking the book with her and leaving Wilhelm alone with the child.
34
To Seren’s dismay, the circlet began to spread inward, as though the tower itself had inhaled the flames. It burned so brightly the entire glade lit with that strange blue light. “Nay,” she screamed. “Nay, oh nay!”
With the battle raging all about her, she rushed toward the circlet. “Rhiannon,” she screamed. “Goddess, please! Help me! Somebody, help, please!”
No one came. No one answered.
Her sisters, astride their steeds, wielded their weapons against Morwen’s army. Rosalynde moved through the melee with her glowing sword drawn, striking down everyone in her path. Her steward remained at her back, dispatching all she missed. Elspeth too had been swept into the fray, fighting for her life, swinging her blade and shouting words that came to naught.
By the power of earth, fire, air and water, my Goddess, I beg protection.
By the power of earth, fire, air and water, my Goddess, I beg protection.
Seren whirled again to face the tower. She had no weapon in her possession—nothing—but her fury raised a storm that shook her mother’s birds from nearby trees. With cries of protest, the birds launched into the swirling wind, into the fray, pecking furiously at the heads of allied soldiers.
Crying out in fear as they came for her, with their beady eyes and bloodied beaks, Seren peered at the tower through blood-stained hands, praying to anyone who would listen.
Bring him back.
Goddess, please, keep the child safe.
Even as she watched, something black erupted from the tower, roiling like smoke, unfurling wings as it soared skyward.
As suddenly as the battle was engaged, it stopped.
Morwen’s soldiers vanished.
It happened so swiftly no one could be sure what transpired. Like their master, her soldiers shapeshifted, then took wing, pursuing their dark angel. But the tower itself was still aflame, burning so brightly that the stone glowed like the metal of Rosalynde’s sword. Second by second, the flames licked higher, higher, tendrils reaching out through each window it passed, spreading so swiftly Seren hadn’t time to think, only feel…
“Nay,” she screamed. “Nay!”
Morwen had betrayed them. She had fled with the Book, leaving the love of her heart to be consumed by witchfire.
Wilhelm would not survive it.
The babe would not survive it.
Her throat thickened with emotion. The first tear came unbidden, and with it, came a single drop of rain. Another tear, and another drop, and within an instant, came the deluge. Only Seren understood what it was… and she knew because it was not the first time.
Witchwater—witchwater, pure and true. Witchwater to put out the witchfire.
“Wilhelm,” she sobbed, and in speaking his name, she only wept harder. The wind rose, gripping trees, as dark clouds swept over the clearing, converging over the tower—black as night, only with a silver lining that shone as bright as the sun. Every soldier… every man bearing witness… re-sheathed his weapon. Bloodied, and battle weary, they stared with mouths agape as little by little the glittering rain began to extinguish the fire, putting it out, lick by lick by lick.
Seren fell to her knees, her fingers grasping at sodden ash. She was only vaguely aware that Rosalynde and Elspeth had come rushing to her side—Elspeth only waiting for the circlet to vanish, so she could rush into the tower to find her child.
Rosalynde whispered with a note of awe, “Witchwater.”
Indeed, it was.
Indeed, it was.
Indeed, it was.
Turning up her palm to catch the glittering droplets, Seren wept and the storm raged harder, washing away the coat of ash from her palm.
“True love’s tears will save the newborn prophet,” Rose whispered softly, but Seren hadn’t any clue what her sister was talking about. She didn’t care about prophets or prophecies. At the instant, she didn’t care about anything at all except Wilhelm and the babe. He came marching out of the tower and Seren’s grief turned at once to joy.
Elspeth’s babe was cradled in his arms. The child wailed as Seren wailed, flailing his arms about.
Elspeth rushed to greet them, her arms reaching desperately for her child.
Swallowing her relief, Seren’s heart hammered like thunder. Her eyes inspected Wilhelm greedily—his dirty, sooty, red-flushed face, his arms and legs in one piece. His beautiful dark eyes met hers and clung to her, even as Elspeth embraced her baby, stealing him away.
He was alive.
His eyes only for her, Wilhelm strode to Seren, arms open wide. He caught her in an embrace, kissing her soundly. She clung to him, tasting the salt of her own tears. “I love you,” he said, tearing his mouth away, and she wept. “I love you more than life, Seren. Be my wife!”
Without question, Wilhelm Fitz Richard, bastard son of Richard de Vere had risked his life for her. He’d faced her mother so she wouldn’t have to. His love burned brighter than any witchfire. The truth was plain for everyone to see. In that instant, as he waited for Seren to speak, it seemed that the very breath of the world waited as well.
The babe was alive.
Wilhelm was alive.
Morwen and her soldiers were gone.
The fire was doused.
“Yay,” she whispered. “I will marry you.” And she kissed him again, as every man and woman in the glade erupted with huzzahs. Even surrounded by the carnage of battle, the sight of two lovers kissing lit th
e glade with another fire entirely… the light and flame of hope and love.
Epilogue
Warkworth Castle, July 13, 1153
Seren and Wilhelm were wed at Warkworth on a summer morn, with Rosalynde and Elspeth and their entire families in attendance. The ceremony was modest, presided over by a Church priest, with vows spoken again in private to honor the Mother Goddess.
Jack was delivered to Warkworth and spent a month with Seren and Wilhelm before boarding a ship to Normandy. Escorted by an emissary of the Church, he returned to his mother in Calais, vowing to return to England when he was old enough to avenge his father.
No word ever arrived about Rhiannon. No matter how oft they entreated the king for news, Stephen refused to answer their pleas. They only knew she was still alive because Giles had a spy in Stephen’s court. But nobody anywhere knew where Morwen had gone, and the longer her absence, the more Seren feared she was out there… scheming.
Four years had gone by since the Battle at the Widow’s Tower, four years to the date. Having split his army to ride to Elspeth’s defense, David mac Maíl Choluim forfeited York, and during the Battle at the Tower, King Stephen slipped into the city of York to fortify its garrison, forcing David to withdraw his remaining troops. His debt to Elspeth was paid in full.
As for Stephen, his Queen Consort was dead—perished of a fever at Hedingham last year. Now, he sat alone upon his stolen throne, and despite having saved York, the bishopric did not go to Stephen’s choice. However, there was a new Pope now, and Stephen would see his nephew reappointed. While it was possible he would succeed in that endeavor, the new Pope still refused to consecrate Eustace. But the Empress Matilda was no longer the favored candidate for succession. As the true and rightful heir to England’s throne, by virtue of his father and his grandfather, the Vatican would see twenty-year-old Duke Henry crowned instead, and they would employ any means to see it done, including engage the Papal Guard. Once again, tensions were escalating.
Fire Song (Daughters of Avalon Book 4) Page 27