Fire Song

by Crosby, Tanya Anne

  In the meantime, she and Jack rode together in companionable silence, near enough that she could, now and again, reach out and take him by the hand. As much as he could be, he was the opposite of their surly protector—as fair as Wilhelm was dark, sweet as Wilhelm was sour, and truly far more considerate.

  Even so, the youth she’d walked with only this morn was hardly the same boy she rode with now. Like Seren, he was sorrowful to his soul, and who could blame him. During the course of a single day his entire life was changed.

  Late afternoon they slipped into the woods to avoid a small band of bawdy travelers and re-emerged onto the North Road at twilight, when Seren was certain the bells must be ringing for vespers. Presently, they arrived at a rotting signpost, and she stopped to push her hood back and read the plaques—two nailed to the post, one newer, one older, judging by the condition and the paint. The elder sign read Ramsgate, the newest, with letters deeply etched and painted in white, read Canterbury.

  “Canter…bry,” said Jack, struggling with his letters.

  Arwyn would have been proud. As their trade for passage, the boy’s father had enlisted them to instruct Jack so he could learn how to chart and read the captain’s log. But the job was mostly Arwyn’s, to keep her from growing bored. Seren was content enough to sit and listen.

  “Aye,” said Seren, mustering an approving smile.

  Wilhelm didn’t bother to stop. Without a by-your-leave, he trotted past as Jack attempted to read the other sign.

  “Where are you going?” she asked in surprise.

  “Home,” he said irascibly.

  “Nay, my lord—not lest you mean to go by boat, and you’ll not put me on another after what I have witnessed. You would have to bind me, and ’tis not likely I would stand still to allow it.”

  “I am not your lord,” he said again. “I am no man’s lord.” And he kept riding, without bothering to turn back.

  Seren cast Jack a bewildered glance.

  The boy shrugged.

  It was her habit, she supposed, to call every man of consequence lord. Somehow, it seemed better to give deference, but clearly, Wilhelm did not like it, despite that he behaved like a willful lord, doing whatsoever he pleased, keeping whatever pace he saw fit, and never bothering to ask what Seren would like to do.

  Hadn’t he said he was here to help?

  “Wait,” she said to Jack, and spurred her mare to catch up with the sour-faced lout. “I do not mean to disparage you,” she confessed. “’Tis only that you seem more a lord to me than most lords do.”

  He grunted in answer, but kept going, and Seren frowned. How was she supposed to travel with this man, who seemed so intent upon ignoring her? Since retrieving Jack he hadn’t said much of anything.

  “What in the name of St. Afan would you have me call you if not lord?”

  “Wilhelm,” he replied. “And since when do Pendragons swear by the name of saints?”

  Seren lifted her chin. “I lived most of my life in a priory,” she informed him. And then she leaned over to whisper. “I cannot very well swear by the Goddess, can I? Else Jack would wonder.”

  “Well,” he said. “This is your fault. Had you left that boy in Dover you wouldn’t have to pretend you are someone you are not.”

  Seren bristled. “Can you, please, stop! Please?” She reined in her horse, peering back at Jack, who was still waiting where she’d left him, far enough away now that he couldn’t overhear their discourse.

  “Nay,” he replied, without turning.

  Seren sighed, moving forward again, entirely frustrated. Her horse nickered, prancing impatiently, none too pleased with her indecision. “Where in the name of the Goddess are you going?”

  “Home, I said.”

  Seren furrowed her brow. “You are not going home. Did you not read that sign? You are going to Ramsgate, returning to the ocean, and, once again, I remind you that lest you have a ship, or you and your horse would like to have a good swim, the road to Canterbury is the road best traveled.”

  Finally, he stopped, turning back to look at her, and his cheeks appeared to bloom. He scowled then, and without a word, spun his mare about, trotting back toward Jack. He passed the boy by, never sparing Jack or the signpost a glance.

  He couldn’t read, she realized, in a moment of blinding insight.

  She dropped her reins over the revelation.

  He hadn’t read the sign, because he couldn’t read.

  What was more, if he hadn’t come by way of Canterbury en route to Dover, he would be judging his direction by the sun, traveling due north. Unless he’d done as she and Arwyn did, traveling straight from Canterbury to Dover, he would have no inkling that he would run straight into the sea where the ocean flowed into the Thames.

  In fact, they would be hard-pressed to avoid London’s proximity when skirting the city, and she was already fretting about how they would do it. She wouldn’t feel safe until they were well north of the Wash.

  Sadly, these were not areas that supported her sister Matilda. Matilda had fewer allies in the south than she did in the north, and infinitely fewer in the southeast than she did in the west.

  Wilhelm trotted on, leaving the boy to wait for Seren, and if Seren didn’t know better—know he’d come so far only to help her—she might think he didn’t care one whit where she ended. Frowning, she turned to follow, calming the horse with a hand to its withers.

  Wilhelm realized he was sorely lacking in manners.

  He was hardly well versed in social decorum. Certainly, he didn’t know how to read. But he didn’t need some haughty witch reminding him of these truths—nor did he appreciate that Seren kept calling him lord. It was a grating reminder that he was lacking in every possible way.

  To be sure, he was naught more than a servant with a sword, and if his sire had loved him well enough to keep him and train him, he’d never once mistaken him for an heir.

  And neither had Wilhelm ever dared aspire to such heights. For the most part, he’d accepted his lot in life, and there was only one time in all his given days that he’d lamented his station. That was when he’d believed he was ill-equipped to keep his brother and people safe.

  God’s truth, not even his desire for Lady Ayleth ever made him rue his birth. But there again, he found himself wallowing in envy—why?

  For some slip of a girl.

  From the moment they’d met, he’d recognized disdain in Seren’s beautiful blue eyes.

  To make matters worse, that boy—that stupid boy from the harbor—could read better than he could.

  He hadn’t stopped to ask what the sign post said for one reason alone: He lived his life by his wits, and he knew the way home by the turn of the sun. But he did not like himself overmuch for disparaging a grieving child, no matter that he’d not spoken his vitriol aloud.

  Consequently, his mood soured by the minute, and it didn’t help that he’d been on his toes for weeks now, deprived of sustenance and ale, deprived of his bed, deprived of companionship and the people he most cared for.

  Instead, here he was—with her—and she couldn’t care less how much effort he’d already put into helping her.

  Of course, he understood she was grieving, too, but when he’d tried so hard to reassure her that he well understood what she was going through, she hadn’t bothered to ask how he knew.

  What was more, in her presence, he felt for the first time in all his days as though he were being judged.

  No one had ever done this to him—no one among the people he loved. Every day of his life his father had treated him with respect. His elder brother Roger had treated him more like a brother. His sweet sisters had loved him truly. And his mother—God rest her lovely soul—whilst she lived, she’d doted upon him.

  He didn’t like it that Seren Pendragon made him question himself.

  Not even Giles with all his fancy learnings ever made him feel so much a lesser man.

  But none of that was the true reason he was so ill-tempered. This was
it: Even despite Seren’s grief, she had smiles aplenty for that eegit boy, and none at all for him.

  And there it was—the rotten egg in his coop.

  He was envious of a boy, for the love of God!

  He was envious of those gentle smiles she gifted him, and the patience she bestowed, when all she had for him was querulousness.

  Wilhelm only longed for some small acknowledgment for all he’d endured on her behalf—not to mention all the silver he’d spent. He’d fully anticipated having to spend good coin for horses for both Pendragon sisters. He hadn’t felt it appropriate to bring mounts, because they would have slowed him down, but he’d brought along plenty of coin to buy each sister a healthy mount. But the truth of the matter was that he didn’t enjoy putting out so many shillings for a horse only to serve a horny boy who, even in his grief, couldn’t keep his eyes off Lady Seren’s bosom.

  And by the by, Jack hadn’t bothered to thank him either, and some part of him longed to chide them both, but he felt like a sorehead, because their grief was entirely too fresh.

  How else should he expect them to behave?

  How dare he lament feeling unworthy when she had so recently suffered such a devastating loss—so had the boy, for that matter. But for all Wilhelm’s own demons, he was poorly equipped to comfort them, when even now the lingering scent of smoke made him long for a dark corner in which to sob like a wee girl.

  God’s truth, his eyes burned even now, so far from the city, and he could no longer blame it on the reek of smoke. He was a man full grown, bigger than most, and he felt like a child, longing for the solace of his mother’s embrace. Some called him the Hammer of Warkworth, and he had scars aplenty to show for his trials—the most hideous of all delivered by Seren’s own mother.

  Wilhelm was no blubbering boy, but, of late, his emotions had bubbled to the surface, and he loathed the weakness in himself and begrudged Seren her mettle, because it made him feel so much less a man.

  If, only once, she would cast herself at his feet to weep, if only he could lift her up and smooth a hand o’er the silk of her hair and whisper, “There, there,” maybe then he could feel like a man worth his weight.

  But nay, he was left wanting by a pretty little boy—a skinny child who could read, while he could not.

  And, in the end, he had no right to any of these feelings. It was a bitter pill to swallow knowing he could not rise to the occasion and be a better man.

  He wanted to be a better man—she made him long to be a better man—but he simply wasn’t. He was baseborn—a babe born in the rushes to a mother who was never even tended by a midwife. She spat him out and returned to her duties, and as much as she had been enjoyed by his sire, and perhaps even loved by him, she, like Wilhelm, was never worthy enough to carry de Vere’s name. He was Wilhelm Fitz Richard, no more, no less—bastard son of a dead lord.

  And here was the worst of it: Once upon a time, he’d loved a girl who was too highborn to love him in return, and never once did Ayleth of Bamburgh admire him, not even after his brother left for the seminary—not even after Wilhelm gifted her that beautiful cross she’d worn about her neck, a cross that cost Wilhelm five years’ worth of his earnings.

  For years, he’d loved Lady Ayleth from afar, but what scared him now was this: So much as he’d fancied himself in love with that lady, it was naught at all compared to the attraction he felt for Lady Seren.

  Wilhelm didn’t want to want her. He knew in his heart of hearts that it was a sin to consider such a union. He was unworthy of even her lowest glance… and still, despite the grim occasion, he was blue in the balls and hard-pressed to keep his mind on the task he’d been given.

  How in God’s name was he going to help anyone if he couldn’t think beyond the haze of lust she invoked in him… with nothing so much as a glance.

  Wilhelm was furious at himself for his weakness to her. She was a bloody enchantress, and if he didn’t know better, he would think she’d cast a spell on him.

  But nay, because long before Seren Pendragon ever deigned to acknowledge him, he was already bound to do her will. She needn’t try to sway him, and what was more, he had every sense that this woman he was traveling with hadn’t the first inkling of her power over men. How Giles ever walked away from her he didn’t know.

  And, aye, while it was so close to the surface, it was time to confess the bitter truth: From the very day he’d set eyes on her—that day in the King’s Hall—he’d been grateful she was not meant for him, because he, himself, would have forsaken everything he ever held true only to lie with her once.

  So there you have it; that, above all, was the crux of his problem: He didn’t want to want anything so much that he was in danger of betraying his honor or his oaths—including the oath he’d sworn to himself. To see Morwen pay for the death of his kin.

  It didn’t matter much that he knew there was no love lost betwixt that witch and her daughters. Inevitably, they shared the same blood. Seren was a witch, as well, and there, too, he suffered a bucketful of ambivalence, because so was Rosalynde, and a finer lady than Rose Wilhelm had never met.

  Mulling it all over, he rode in silence, wondering how the hell they were going to get around London without being discovered. Seren could cast herself a glamour, but she likely couldn’t mask them all. And, even if she could, how in the hell was she going to do aught with her magik whilst in the company of that annoying boy?

  No, he mustn’t be jealous of a child, he decided. It couldn’t be that. He simply resented being saddled with another mouth to feed, and keeping the two of them safe could prove to be an impossible feat.

  Alas, deep down… he knew… he was jealous, and jealousy did not become him.

  10

  Rhiannon sensed they were coming before they arrived—a crackle of energy in the aether. She awoke, shivering away the stupor of slumber and sat on the bed, throwing her legs over the edge to wait…

  It was still dark out. The fire in her brazier burned low.

  She shivered again, this time not because she was cold. Much as she loathed to confess it, some small part of her thrilled over the fact that Cael d’Lucy was returning so soon, but the new lord of Blackwood was not amidst his guards when they arrived.

  Coward.

  So, then, he meant to avoid her after their latest discourse?

  She frowned, wondering where he could be, wishing so much that she could find a way to convince the fool to ally himself properly. Deep down, she believed Cael had a good heart, even if he wasn’t a good man. It was merely that he was enthralled by a demon, and so it seemed, like the entire realm, he was blind to Morwen’s evil as well. It didn’t help matters any that he was ambitious and bitter—why she’d yet to discover, but she was coming so close to the truth.

  Coward, she thought again.

  Thrusting a palm across her sleepy face, she yawned into her hand and crossed her arms as she waited to see what his lackeys wanted this time.

  Without a word, one of the guards slid a now familiar turnkey into her lock, rotating it with a vicious twist, then pushing the cell door open. The very instant the door came open, in rushed two guards, and before Rhiannon could guess their intent, they’d pounced upon her, grabbing her by the arms. “What in the name of the Mother?”

  “Silence!” screamed a stranger, his tone full of venom, as his men used undue force, despite that she’d never once fought them, not from the instant they’d tossed her in the tumbril.

  The night before leaving Llanthony, she’d had a vision from the Goddess to show her what destiny she must seek, and she’d come to this place willingly.

  Why this? Why now?

  “What does it appear we’re doing?” snarled the man, as he entered, dangling a pair of shackles and Rhiannon laughed ruefully. Little by little, she was learning to master her dewine skills. If she so wished, she could shed those silly manacles; and therefore, she allowed their pageantry, leaving the guards to do what they must, despite the fury welling inside her
. She was ever only kind to these imbeciles, and despite the bitter words they’d shared yesterday evening, she was ever only guileless to their lord.

  Cael d’Lucy was originally intended to wed her sister, but Elspeth was now well and duly wed to the lord of Aldergh—a traitor to the Crown, so Stephen had proclaimed. Now, the king wished for Cael to marry Rhiannon, but despite a fine bunch of carrots dangled by their king, d’Lucy had yet to agree to commit himself to any but Henry’s favored daughter. To a man, the Welsh sorely despised Stephen, more so than they had Henry, but at least Henry had treated the Welsh lords with some measure of accord. The moment Stephen stole his uncle’s throne, the Welsh revolted. Little doubt Elspeth herself was needed to bring peace to these lands, for she was not only elder-born, and blood to a king, she was also the rightful heir to Blackwood, and Cael was wise enough to know that if he was going to keep his entitlement in the face of so much opposition, he would need to wed the heir of Blackwood—something Rhiannon would never be so long as Elspeth lived.

  As for her own druthers, she had none. Cael d’Lucy was like any other man—as unpleasant in demeanor as he was blessed in countenance. One marriage shackle was as loathsome as another. “Where is your lord?” she asked, spitting the question like an oath.

  “Gone,” said the man dangling her new silver bracelets.

  Rhiannon didn’t recognize the odious fool. The other two must have come along with him from whatever infernal hole they’d crawled from, but, alas, they were only doing Cael’s bidding. It was not their fault their lord was a traitor to the realm.

  But never mind, because she was biding her time.

  Day by day her powers were growing stronger, and little by little she was learning what tricks she could wield against her captors. She wanted to crow that their puny bracelet would never bind her, but before she could wonder why they’d approached her in the wee hours of the morn, and with such expediency, when all her senses were dull and drowsy, the shackles were on her wrists and locked. But at least her hands were in her lap, not strapped behind her back.