Fire Song

by Crosby, Tanya Anne

  It wasn’t enough he was said to abuse his own wife, an esteemed princess of the House of Capet; he was a brutal liegeman as well. If Giles were the lady’s sire, he would gut the muckspout from belly to throat, and it was all he could do to look at him now.

  The very fact that they could put Giles in a room with Eustace was dangerous—but nay, the simple fact that he could sit here at arm’s length, across a table, without shoving his blade down the boy’s throat was a testament to his years of careful training. But here and now, he sensed a test…

  “Nay,” said the king, with a glance toward Giles. “You’ve cost me too much already. You will remain here, learn the true value of patience.”

  “What, then, would you have us do?” ventured D’Lucy.

  Once again, the king slid a glance toward Giles, and when he spoke, he spoke not to the high commander of his Rex Militum, but to Giles himself. “Indeed, I will send an army north, but I leave you and the Earl of Warkworth—” A pointed reminder of the title Giles had been awarded. “—in command. I shall have you ride north with one thousand men, and if you need more, send word via raven.”

  So, then, the witch was still alive.

  The king’s gaze was direct, his eyes changeable, betimes blue, betimes grey, depending on the light in the room. Right now, they were steely and dark, but with a flicker of gold from the candle turning before him.

  Indeed, it was a test.

  Giles tensed. If there was one thing he could not do it was intervene at York. He’d given his solemn oath to David of Scotland—and more, he’d promised his brother by law that he would abstain from the battles to come. For this promise, he was awarded yards and yards of stone—stone he was now using to fortify the fortress Eustace had burned.

  By the bloody cross, even if he did not, in fact, loathe Eustace—which he did—he was a man of his word. Clearly, the king already knew what David was planning, but still Giles would not betray his confidences by revealing his own intelligence. Whatever his response, he must remain circumspect, because, while he no longer intended to take a bride of Stephen’s choosing, he could not presently repudiate the man or his throne—not without consequence.

  He said nothing for a long moment, merely regarded D’Lucy. The two men shared another meaningful glance.

  D’Lucy said, “It would be my honor, Your Grace. I am quite certain the Earl of Warkworth understands the privilege you bestow upon him.”

  From the back of the room came another voice, that of Maude’s. “As you must know, my lords, we have suffered a loss in his majesty’s Guard.”

  Her quick-blue eyes flirted with Giles, though it was a dark flirtation, not one that could be remotely confused with matters of the flesh. She gave him a thin smile, and Giles was quick to catch her intimation.

  “So, then… with Malcom Scott gone… are you saying you would like me to join your… Guard?”

  “Aye,” said Maude. “How astute, my lord.”

  Giles de Vere’s dark eyes glinted, though he’d slid a veil over them the instant he’d walked into the room. Only now and again, something like a glimmer of loathing slipped past, like a glimpse of morning light through heavy drapery, and she wondered if there could be truth to the rumors she’d heard about this man—that he was a member of the Papal Guard, a Paladin for God. Named for the twelve knights of Charlemagne's court, over whom Count Palatine had first been in command, the Guard had been recommissioned to the Vatican, in exchange for indulgences. But, if this were, in fact, true, why in God’s name would Giles de Vere leave an ambitious position to return to a northern province with so little promise? Moreover, why would the Church allow him to go? She wanted to know how far they could trust him, and his response would speak volumes.

  “Alas,” he said. “I cannot.”

  “Cannot? Or will not?” asked the king, and Maude frowned, annoyed, because Stephen’s ego was such that he could not fathom she had the guile to outwit a man—else he was far too stupid to realize what she was trying to do.

  “I cannot,” answered Giles, and, then, dismissing Maude, he turned to address the king directly, and said, “Would you have me break an oath to God?”

  Stephen frowned.

  “In essence that is what you would be asking of me,” Giles said, and Stephen shoved his candlestick aside, his steely eyes darker now, unyielding. “And yet you have sworn to kneel. Are you telling me now that you will not do so?”

  A muscle ticked at de Vere’s jawline, and Maude watched it, fascinated. “I considered you a man of your word,” raged Stephen. “As am I. But mark me, de Vere, if you have lied to me, I’ll not only return my men to Warkworth, as I have promised to do, but you will not live to see it burn a second time. If I do not take your head, I will lock you in the tower, and your Papal Guard be damned. By God, I have been called many, many things, but never once have I been called a liar, and I’ll not tolerate a liar in my company.”

  Maude tried not to roll her eyes. But, of course, that wasn’t true. After all, her husband told the grandest lie of all. He’d knelt before his uncle with such a radiant smile, and he’d sworn his allegiance to their cousin, only to rescind his vow the instant Henry gave up his ghost. Usurper they called him now—some to his back, some to his face.

  Feeble. Ineffectual. Weak.

  These were more of the things her husband was reputed to be, and most of these things were true.

  Stephen of Blois had no spine at all when it came to disciplining those who deserved it. It was likely that, in the very near future, Eustace would need pay another visit to Warkworth because his father didn’t have the constitution to do what was necessary to ensure their son’s ascent to the throne. This was the one true cause she and Morwen Pendragon shared in common, and for all her annoyances, the Welsh witch was a necessary evil. If Maude ever hoped to see her son crowned in place of Duke Henry, she must endure. Alas, Morwen was not in residence today; Maude was, and if she had her druthers, she would see to it David of Scotland never succeeded in taking York. It pained her immensely that her mother’s brother would cast her away in favor of his other niece—the one with whom Maude shared a name and to whom her uncle would so readily bow.

  Saints abide! All her life she’d been forced to share what she held dear—her name with a cousin she despised and her husband with his mistresses. But it wasn’t King Henry’s daughter whose arse was planted on the throne; it was hers. And it was not Duke Henry who would triumph in the end, it was Eustace, even despite that the stupid fool seemed so ill-prepared to receive it.

  Affecting an air of serenity and grace, as befitted her station, Maude sat patiently, studying the exchange between the king and subjects, considering the man who’d supposedly come to bend his knee… Giles de Vere was seething, like a teapot over a low flame. And yet, the look in his black eyes was never so canny and he chose his words carefully.

  “I, too, am a man of my word, Your Grace. I will, indeed, kneel for my lands and I will fight for my country, but I cannot join your Guard.”

  She did not miss the look he cast Cael d’Lucy.

  Curious that…

  “In fact,” he continued. “It is your right to send an army north to secure York, and, of course, you must do so. You may rest assured the Vatican has no more desire for David mac Maíl Choluim to take this bishopric than you do.”

  “And you know this, how?”

  Here it was, at last; Maude scooted to the edge of her seat, anticipating Giles’s response. No man had ever revealed an association with the legendary Papal Guard, for which her husband had modeled his own cloak and dagger company.

  Giles smiled, though barely. “Alas, Your Grace, this you must know I cannot reveal. But I can tell you this: In the matter of York, my sword and my fealty are not in disagreement.”

  Stephen narrowed his gaze. “So, then, you will kneel for me today?”

  The lord of Warkworth’s dark eyes glinted with cunning. He paused overlong, Maude believed, but there was little she could say
over the matter when he nodded assent, and said, “I will, Your Grace.”

  Upon his agreement, the gloom of the room immediately lifted. Thirteen sighs blew and the candles on the tables shivered in relief. Still, she not did not join them in their solace, because she couldn’t help but feel there was something she was missing… something that called to her woman’s intuition. She simply could not fathom how any man could see his house burn to the bedrock, knowing full well her son was responsible, and not still entertain some manner of vengeance. Morwen, when she returned, must get to the bottom of it.

  20

  Wilhelm searched, but found no sign of those birds. If, in truth, Jack saw one, it had fled, and good riddance.

  Cunning little creatures. Once, as a child, he’d watched a raven solve what was essentially a cunning puzzle, learning to pick a warehouse lock by trial and error only to get at the grain within. And this, after mimicking the sound of a woman’s shriek in order to rid itself of the guard.

  Fascinated by its machinations, he’d watched from his perch in a nearby tree, leaving the raven to its machinations all the while he’d trimmed cock feathers for fletching.

  But these ravens were not those ravens.

  These ravens were Morwen’s ravens—uncanny was more the like. Immediately discernible by the patch of white on their napes, these birds had thickset bills, short tails, and ebony feathers that bore a deep purple sheen. More the size of a goshawk, they were rather enormous birds, with four-foot wingspans. He could scarcely imagine what a sight they’d presented with thousands of them bearing down on Aldergh. The image alone gave him a shudder. Insofar as he knew these particular ravens were not native to Briton. Where they came from was anyone’s guess. Perhaps Morwen had summoned them from her cauldron. But this much he knew: By that witch’s design they’d gifted one of those infernal birds to nearly every household throughout the realm. The simple fact that Warkworth escaped having one was only due to the fact that the king’s son had burned down their demesne.

  Bloody bastard.

  One day, he would see justice done for his kinsmen—his father, brother, sisters, and aye, Lady Ayleth, as well, even despite that he could no longer recall the lady’s face. It had been replaced now by the bewitching countenance of a sorceress whose beauty was the least of her magik.

  Aye, he must confess it; Seren Pendragon occupied his every waking thought. He didn’t care who her mother was. Like Rosalynde, she was innocent of Morwen’s sins. He was wrong about her, and, somehow, despite the grim occasion, in her presence he was like a seed, unfurling and reaching for the brilliance of the sun. Her smile, little occasion as they’d had for it to appear, was fleeting, but exquisite, nonetheless.

  So, it seemed, he was guilty of everything he’d accused his brother of—being swayed by a lovely face, so much so that he was willing to risk everything for her cause.

  It left him with a strange ambivalence, but none at all when it came to keeping the lady safe. If he’d encountered one of those birds he would have twisted its neck till it was dead and left it to be devoured by dung beetles.

  Simply to be sure, he searched for hours. By the time he returned to camp, he had a grumble in his belly that threatened to wake the dead. Fortunately, Seren and the boy were already asleep. He took every care to step over her pentagram, stooping first by the boy’s side to tug the blanket up, over his chin. Tired as he must have been, he never once stirred. And neither did Seren when he moved to her side, falling to one knee to gaze into her face.

  So beautiful.

  So still.

  A sudden thought occurred to him and his heart thumped—what if Morwen’s minions found them whilst he was out searching? God help him if he’d failed her—as he’d failed her sister.

  His breath caught in his throat as Seren’s bosom lifted, straining against the bodice of her gown, and he swallowed with relief, cursing himself silently for the stirring in his loins. Without a moment’s hesitation, he reached down, resettling her blanket so it covered her entirely, sheltering her from his greedy eyes.

  God’s truth, never in his life had he felt so protective over any living soul—not even Lady Ayleth, truth be known.

  Seren had watched as Wilhelm tended Jack and the sweetness of his gesture stole the breath from her lungs.

  He lifted the boy’s blanket, tucking him in, and by the firelight she could see the look of compassion on his face. It tugged at the iron laces of her heart, dismantling her shield.

  By firelight, his face was swarthy, the gold on his dark hair giving the long ends a burnished shade that complemented the hue of his skin. Long, and disheveled though it might be, his hair was a glorious mane, cast behind his shoulder like a shining velvet cloak. The slant of his brows gave the appearance that he was deep in thought. And his lips, generous and full, were no longer so full of disdain, but half turned with a tender smile.

  Sweet fates, he might not have relished the thought of taking charge of Jack, but he’d done so nonetheless, and not for an instant had he taken those duties lightly.

  How in the name of the Goddess he had managed to remain so vigilant all day long, and scarcely sleep by night, Seren couldn’t fathom, but the strain was beginning to show. There were bruises forming beneath his eyes.

  Unheeded, she allowed her gaze to travel his wide shoulders… long, muscled arms… his thighs as he sat on his haunches… Aye, he was a beautiful specimen of a man… more than she’d realized when she’d first set eyes upon him… more than his brother. This man—well, he was a man, well-built and gentle despite his brawn.

  Not for the first time she felt a terrible twinge of regret that she hadn’t met Wilhelm before Rosalynde did, and her envy was her undoing, because if there was one person who should never begrudge her sisters aught, it was Seren.

  Throughout her life, she had been overly blessed—or cursed—with more than her share of attention. And yet, not only did she envy Rose, she despised the thought of her own betrothal to Giles. Giles was not the man in her dreams.

  Giles was not the man she longed to kiss.

  And more and more… it seemed to her that Wilhelm shared her inclination—she could spy desire in his eyes… and in his aura—that, too, was beginning to weigh heavily upon her. It was not enough that she must lose one sister to the Great Beyond. Now, must she yearn to betray another and lose Rosalynde as well? It was unthinkable, and yet… and yet… she couldn’t tear her gaze away from Wilhelm. Was it merely because she couldn’t have him? Was she so vain?

  But nay, it was not that… during these past weeks Wilhelm had been her rock, her strength. He’d made her feel for the first time in all her life as though she were… normal.

  He did not revile her for her witchery, even if he did not agree with it. He was a man who did not shy away from his duty, nor did he long to be something he was not.

  He lifted his gaze, staring into the darkened woods, and in profile his face was achingly beautiful… his nose wide, but suited to his face… his brow imperfect, with that terrible scar, but arched so that his narrowed eyes gave her gooseflesh, despite that it was trained elsewhere.

  His jaw, thick and masculine, was shaded by a fortnight’s whiskers, and she wondered what it might feel like to press her lips so gently against the nubs of his beard.

  He rose suddenly from his haunches, and Seren closed her eyes. She held her breath as he moved toward her, unable to bear the mortification of being caught spying. But then she sensed him, gazing down at her, his regard as tangible as the soft warm stream of his breath… and her heart thumped mercilessly at the cage of her ribs.

  Mother Goddess… something inexplicable stirred inside her… something warm and titillating. It filled her with a longing so deep that it gave her a pang in her womb. The very sense of him made her yearn to lift her nose and follow his distinct male scent… sweat, sunshine… and something else…

  Don’t notice I am awake, she thought. Don’t see me.

  She longed to whisper words of c
oncealment, but she had a true sense that they would never work against Wilhelm Fitz Richard. She had a strong sense he saw her more clearly than she saw herself. But how could that be?

  For a long, long moment Seren held her breath… praying that he would go away… but then she heard his sharp intake of breath, felt a tug on her blanket and opened her eyes to meet his dark, brooding gaze.

  Black pupils glinted against the firelight and her lips parted to speak, but her voice faltered. His whisper somehow managed to be silky, yet deep as the night. “Did I wake you?”

  Seren shook her head.

  He huffed a sigh. “I found no sign of that raven,” he said, lifting a hand to his chin to scruff it with his fingers. “Tis possible it was there and fled.”

  Seren should have felt only relief to know her mother’s birds were not spying on them, but she could scarcely think with Wilhelm hovering so near. “It seems to me they’ve a good sense for peril,” she whispered.

  He nodded, as though he understood, and agreed. “How is Jack?” Something about the concern etched upon his face should have triggered a question, but Seren couldn’t remember what that question should be.

  “None the wiser, I think. If he puzzled over why you were gone so long, he never said. He ate his supper, then went to bed. He and I tended the spit as you taught us, removing the cony when it was done.”

  “Did you eat as well?”

  “A little, but we left the majority for you.” She smiled, admiring the hard lines of his jaw… he had a small cleft in his chin, very, very tiny, but there, nonetheless. “A growing man must have his sustenance, after all.”

  He chuckled softly. “More’s the pity; I need do no more growing, Lady Seren, but alas, I thank you regardless.”

  He made to rise then, and Seren reached out impulsively to stop him. “Wilhelm?” Her hand fell upon his forearm, hardly so noticeable as a butterfly’s touch, yet it held him firm.