With scarcely any effort, Giles lifted his sword, but this time she heard the clash of steel and felt the impact—no less painful than her crack against the post.
Perhaps sensing her eagerness to advance, Giles swung harder than usual. The impact sent Rosalynde scuttling backward, only to land on her rump.
“That was a good try,” he said. “But you must anticipate my movements as I do yours. If you swing where I was, you will cut thin air, and your opponent will slice you in two.”
Rosalynde’s brows collided. Her tailbone felt as though it could be crushed. Her hands and both wrists felt trembly and numb. Her ears were ringing as well. And nevertheless, with as much dignity as she could muster, she found her feet, rising and thrusting the tip of Caledfwlch into the soil at her feet.
The bloody sword was nearly as tall as she was. “Why must you leave?” she asked petulantly. “I don’t want you to go.”
But even as she said it, she understood why. There was too much at stake for Giles to remain here at Warkworth. The king had yet to learn of their marriage, and the day was coming soon when he was meant to return to London to claim his betrothed—not that he would, mind you. His intent was to repudiate Seren, but there was other business to be dealt with at large. She simply must learn to wield this sword. Her husband didn’t say anything, but his sympathetic look said everything. He held out his arms and she flung herself into his embrace, squeezing hard.
What would Seren do when she learned that Rosalynde had married her betrothed? Surely, her sister would understand—nor could she possibly care, but there was a wee part of Rose that felt guilty, nevertheless.
Very gently, her husband’s fingers caressed her back, even as her own danced about the serpents on the hilt of the blade—a sword once gifted to Uther Pendragon. Not even her husband could see what she saw—and felt—the faint, but endless writhing of the serpents beneath the pads of her fingers. It was this very sword that once felled the Dragon of the Isle, a formidable king of Briton.
As the story went, when Maelgwn ap Cadwallon reigned over Gwynedd, the Church tasked a Roman warrior by the name of Uther to smite the Dragon Lord. To ensure his victory, they enchanted this sword, Caledfwlch, with a powerful magik so that he who wielded it would never bleed, and he who suffered a scratch by it would perish, if not by violence, by disease. Rather than lose good men in battle, Uther devised a plan. He invited himself to Maelgwn’s court under the pretense of friendship, and he gifted Caledfwlch to this king of Gwynedd, placing the enchanted blade into the man’s upturned hands so that Maelgwn could admire the fine steel. While Maelgwn stood inspecting the sword, Uther drew it ever so slightly across the king’s hands so that the metal stung Maelgwn’s flesh. Soon thereafter, Maelgwn ap Cadwallon perished of the plague, and Uther took his castle, retrieving Caledfwlch for himself and designating himself as the new Pendragon. That sword, lost through the ages, was recently found in the unlikeliest of places: in her husband’s armory. He gifted it to her the night they sealed their vows—a sacrifice only Rosalynde understood to its depths.
Unfortunately, only a Regnant priestess could unlock the full scope of the sword’s magik to serve another, and Rosalynde was no Regnant priestess. Yay, the sword still glowed in the presence of evil, but that was the least of its enchantment. Unless imbued, she would bleed like anyone else.
But, for better or worse, it was hers—and so was this beautiful man, who cherished her by day and by night. They were bound to each other, if not by the King’s Law, then by the laws of Holy Church and the laws of man—wed first by a priest, and later, after returning from Aldergh to Warkworth, they’d exchanged holy words ordained by the Goddess:
Adiuro vos per amorem in perpetuum. Numquam Separari. Semper in fide.
Bound in love, separated never. Always in faith.
She only wished all her sisters could share in her joy; Arwyn in particular. As of yet, only Elspeth knew they were wed, and they’d spent so little time at Aldergh after their ceremony, because they’d had such important matters to attend at home—namely the restoration of Warkworth. Months later, the fortress was now walled, with two sturdy towers guarding the gate to their bailey. The keep itself was well underway, and as a testament to the influence her husband wielded, they had more than two-years’ worth of rations stored in case of a siege. But this was where Rosalynde must rise to the occasion, because if Stephen came calling with his armies, and Giles was not in residence, it would be up to Rosalynde to lead the garrison. With only days remaining before Giles was scheduled to depart, she was ill prepared for him to go, and she knew it. Merely because she was possessed of a renowned sword did not mean she was prepared to wield it.
Sensing her mood, Giles cupped her chin in a hand, lifting her face, forcing her to look him in the eyes—warm dark eyes that made Rosalynde’s heart squeeze painfully.
“What troubles you, wife?”
“I miss my sisters,” she said, without hesitation. Because it was true—and particularly today, she missed Arwyn more than words could say.
“I know,” he said with a sigh. “I know. Fear not, my love. My brother will find them, and bring them home. I promise we’ll find a way to recover Rhiannon as well.”
But, nay. Infiltrating Blackwood was a fool’s mission, and she knew it. Giles had never seen their ancestral estate and couldn’t possibly understand how great a feat that must be. She doubted anyone could scale Blackwood’s walls. Cael d’Lucy was bound to have mended any disrepair, and he had the land itself as his ally. If Rhiannon, with all her magik, couldn’t escape the fortress, a thousand men in all their glory couldn’t penetrate the bulwark to rescue her. Even so, she nodded, if only for Giles’s sake. Her husband loved her truly, and his beautiful dark eyes were like a mirror, reflecting her joy and her sorrow as well.
“You’ve won my brother’s affection,” Giles persisted. “I vow he’ll move mountains to keep his promise to you.”
Rosalynde nodded, and this time, she said, with conviction, “I know.” And she smiled, warmed by the truth of her husband’s words and the unswerving loyalty of the gentle giant that was his bastard brother.
At first meeting, Wilhelm had been a curmudgeon. He’d scowled more than the Queen herself, but after their ordeal with that Shadow Beast, he’d come to respect Rosalynde. And then, when she gave all her gold marks for alms for Lady Ayleth’s soul, he’d come to love her as well. She had no doubt that he would bring home her sisters, or he would die trying. But that was the crux of it all: It was entirely possible he would die, and Wilhelm hadn’t any true notion how very dangerous her mother could be, even despite their tangle with that Shadow Beast. Alas, it was only a small taste of what Morwen was capable of.
Allowing her thoughts to wander, she considered the night she and her sisters had spent at Darkwood and shuddered. A full year later, it still gave her night terrors.
“Let us be done” said Giles, turning her about and putting an arm around her waist, gently leading her back to the marquee. “’Tis long past time to celebrate and I have a small gift to give you.”
“Another?” Rosalynde asked glibly, stretching her hand back and plucking her sword from the ground to take it with her.
“Aye,” he said. “Another. But this one will tickle your tongue and then later, I will tickle you with mine.”
Rosalynde giggled. “You are such an unrepentant lecher,” she said, jesting, but she reveled in the promise. For all that her husband was a servant of his Church, he was as lusty a lover as ever was born, and she was discovering day by day how to please him in return. If she kept it up, soon he might give up all resolve to leave her, and she would lock him away in their chamber, to tempt him day and night. The thought lifted her mood, but her joy turned to dust in her mouth. Without warning she felt as though she might swoon. The world wrenched itself from beneath her feet and her stomach heaved violently. It was a feeling unlike any she’d ever experienced before, but she understood what it was, because she’d feared this
moment nearly every second of every minute of her life. And now… she knew… she knew precisely what it felt like to lose one of her sisters, and the feeling was… debilitating.
Clutching her breast, she fell to her knees. The pain was so intense that for an interminable moment she lied to herself, assuring herself it couldn’t be true.
But, yes, it was… she felt the loss acutely, like her very heart was being carved from her breast.
Fire turned to raining ash before her eyes, and just that swiftly Arwyn was… gone.
“Arwyn,” she cried, and she would have spilled into a hapless puddle on the ground, but Giles swept her up into his arms. Her eyes stung as she blinked away tears and peered into her husband’s worried gaze. “Arwyn,” she said softly. “My sister… she is dead.”
4
It was done.
An old crow sat perched in the window, peering within.
Only moments ago, the sun had shone brightly. Now there was a pall cast over the day… a long shadow of gloom. It was impossible to say whether it could be storms… or whether Rhiannon herself summoned the brume.
For the first time since finding herself behind bars, she wept openly, daring her captor to speak a word to her. By the blessed cauldron, if he had come here to gloat or to hound her again, she would not be held responsible for the things she would do.
Hot tears burned her pale cheeks.
To his credit, Cael d’Lucy stood quietly, listening to her sobs from afar. Regardless that her gaol had only one small window, and there were none in the hall, she knew it was him because she recognized his boots, illumined by the golden light spilling out from her cell.
Choking on her grief, she couldn’t speak to demand her tormentor leave, but she needn’t say a thing because, after a moment, Cael d’Lucy turned about and walked away, the sound of his footfalls ebbing as he retreated—clearly more intimidated by her grief than he ever was by her threats. Perhaps he understood her better now: Rhiannon would never act imprudently. No matter what she liked to believe, no matter what her threats might be, she was ultimately responsible for everything she did. Every decision brought consequences, and if she needed more proof that she was naught more than a pawn in life’s cruel game, today she had confirmation.
Arwyn. Sweet Arwyn…
Her sister had never once spoken an unkind word to anyone. Elder born by only minutes, she had lived contentedly in Rosalynde’s shadow, never regretting her lot for a single moment. If it pleased her sisters, Arwyn would be happy, and her sacrifice came as no surprise to Rhiannon.
She was gone… on her birthday, no less.
None of them would ever again have the chance to embrace her or tell her how much they loved her. How mean the fates could be—how cruel.
Anger surged through her veins, bursting forth from her lungs with a terrifying shriek that she hoped would cut fear into the hearts of d’Lucy’s minions.
Just as her own heart was shattering, her sisters’ hearts must be crushed as well. But, unlike Elspeth, Seren and Rosalynde, Rhiannon had always known this would happen, and there was naught she could have done to divert the hand of fate. She had lived every day of this past year knowing what end would come of her decisions, and any other choice made would have led to something worse—and regardless, Rhiannon was only master of her own fate. All she could do was make suggestions, and no one must heed them perforce. Free will was a gift from the gods and she was not her sisters’ keeper. No matter what encouragement she ever gave them, their choices must remain their own.
If Elspeth hadn’t fled Llanthony with Malcom, she would have found herself wed to Cael d’Lucy instead, and worse, Malcom would have betrothed himself to Dominique Beauchamp. More importantly, if Elspeth hadn’t escaped to Aldergh, she would never become an ally for Matilda. Rosalynde herself would never have found sanctuary after leaving with the grimoire, and Rosalynde’s affiliation with Giles now gave her possession of Caledfwlch, the only weapon of consequence that could return Cerridwen to her watery grave. All was as it should be, and no matter that Rhiannon wished she could take her sister’s place; that was simply not an option. To arrive at this place and time there was no other path to be taken, and if dearest Arwyn had not sacrificed her life to destroy Bran… Seren would not live to see another day. Somehow, though she didn’t know why, she sensed Seren’s life was more important than hers, but unfortunately, there was no way to be certain Arwyn had responded quickly enough. She was gone, truly, but there was no way to know for certain if Bran had survived her fiery retribution. Gods only knew, her sister might have died in vain. Glimpsing now at the fire burning in her brazier, tears blurred Rhiannon’s vision, and though she sought confirmation from the Goddess in the dancing flame, nothing was revealed to her.
“Sweet Goddess,” she whispered brokenly, sliding from her bed to her knees, then clasping her fingers in prayer—but not a prayer meant to be heard by the Goddess alone. Rhiannon would appeal to any who would listen.
“Mary, mother of Christ; mother of Light, Oh, Wise One, for whom I am named… intervene if you please… please, please… lend my sisters strength—lend me your strength.”
There was still so much to be done… the way would be long and perilous for Seren, and there were obstacles to overcome…
“Please,” she begged.
I will wed the fool if it be your will.
I will do what must be done.
“Anything,” she swore.
I will do anything.
* * *
“Please. I mean you no harm,” said the stranger. In an impossibly fluid maneuver for a man his size, he slid down from his saddle, swung the horse about, then dragged Seren down onto her own two feet, releasing her at once. “I am Wilhelm Fitz Richard,” he explained.
Heartsore, confused, Seren stumbled backward.
Fire. The Whitshed was on fire!
Even now she could taste the smoke clinging to her lips. She felt a sting in her eyes—though it could be tears. They were safely away from the harbor, perhaps, but grief clogged her throat, stealing her breath as surely as did the viscid, black smoke.
“M’lady,” the man entreated. And then, when she would not respond, he said more softly, “Lady Seren…”
“I must go back,” she said.
He shook his head very sadly. “Your sister is gone,” he said, and in the heat of that moment, Seren’s tears evaporated. Her baby sister, her sweet darling, who’d never once inflicted her will upon others… gone?
Sweet fates! If only she had said yes when Arwyn asked to accompany her to the courier—if only!
If only.
If only.
If only!
But nay. She’d left her alone on that ship, and now she was dead. The realization made her long to empty her belly. Tears scalded the rims of her eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” he said.
“Nay,” she spat, lunging at him and clutching his sherte. “Take me back! You must take me back!”
“She is gone,” he said again, and every time he spoke those grotesque little words so calmly, Seren longed to scratch out his eyes. For every day of her past twenty-one years, she had been the gracious one, always reasonable, always serene, the peacekeeper in all things. At the instant, nothing Seren was feeling was vaguely familiar. She was a glowing ball of rage, burning as hot as the firestorm she’d left in the harbor, growing stronger with every word this man spoke.
He caught her wrists and held them away, as though he meant to cast her away, but he did not. His dark eyes were a mirror to her anguish, and he said very firmly, but calmly. “I cannot allow it.”
“You cannot allow it?” Seren raged. “Who are you to allow aught? I will go back. With, or without you.”
She needed to see that ship again—needed to be sure her sister wasn’t out there, frightened and alone, seeking help. “Arwyn,” she sobbed, because she knew in her heart it wasn’t true. She could sense her sister’s absence down to her marrow. Once more, she probed the
aether, and knew beyond a doubt. Arwyn was gone.
Forevermore, the world would be deprived of her sister’s sweet smile—her quiet wisdom and endless fervor. All these things were turned to ash—and why?
What happened?
What in the name of the Goddess happened?
What could possibly have happened?
She asked herself these questions over and over, but even as she did so, she suspected the answer… Morwen.
Somehow, inexplicably, her mother must’ve discovered their plans—but, nay… wouldn’t she simply take Arwyn away? Why would she kill Arwyn? Would she truly have been so heartless to have murdered her own flesh and blood?
Seren’s eyes burned with unshed tears; rage frizzled them away—rage against her mother, rage against herself, rage against this rude beast who’d wrenched her away from the harbor. Without a by your leave, he’d seized her away from the docks, flinging her over his saddle, and for all she knew, he could have been the one to set that fire.
“I will not go with you,” she said. “You cannot make me.”
“I can, and will.”
“Nay! You’ll not,” Seren said, flying at him again.
He caught her and held her firm, and if she glared at him with ill-repressed fury, Wilhelm more than anyone understood how she felt.
He knew because he’d stood in her shoes… except for the fact that he hadn’t had the luxury to stand there, raging against fates. Perforce, he had been the one to march into those ruins in search of their dead. And yet, more than he could bear, Seren’s sorrow and pain was his sorrow and pain, and even now, all these months later, he hadn’t properly mourned. The unrepressed grief and anger so apparent on her face was a mirror to his own.
Like a torrent, the sound of rushing blood deafened his ears. His heart pounded against the cage of his ribs, and he wanted desperately to shout back at her that she must listen. But he swallowed his words, constraining himself, holding her steady when he felt her knees might buckle.
Fire Song Page 4