Fire Song

by Crosby, Tanya Anne

  He bloody well hoped Giles hadn’t followed his hot-headed advice. It would serve no one at all for him to speak his true heart. But if he did, he hoped to God that Rosalynde would be prepared for the consequences. As it was, Wilhelm half anticipated returning to discover the castle under siege. It was the order of the day, so it seemed. Stephen was ever besieging one castle or another in pursuit of Matilda.

  At the moment it was sunny, but while Seren’s mood had vastly improved, Wilhelm’s had taken a turn for the worst—mostly, because he realized that the very instant she was reunited with Rose, he was bound to be forgotten. For that alone he was glad to be traveling slower.

  Taking a moment to calculate the distance, he reckoned that from Dover to Neasham it was a good ninety leagues, or more. From London to Neasham about seventy. From Neasham to Warkworth perhaps no more than twenty—a good two days’ journey, little more, even with the overgrown brush. However, reluctance wasn’t the only reason for his decision to avoid the North Road. While it might have been easier traveling on the old Roman road, it was also well-traveled. To make matters worse—at least for their purposes—the entire thoroughfare, from London to Edinburgh, was cleared of trees for a good ten to twenty meters on either side of the road—a measure instituted by King Henry as a defense against brigands. It only made sense for the shires to keep it, though, at the instant, it would be safer for Seren if they remained hidden.

  Hacking at another thick vine, he cast her a glance, wondering how she felt about Rosalynde and Giles. Clearly, she’d been furious with him for keeping the truth from her, but despite having said she would repudiate Giles, was she perhaps disappointed not to be wedding an Earl? What woman wouldn’t like to be mistress of a great house?

  Seren herself deserved to be lavished with riches—riches Wilhelm could never afford.

  Alas, that hadn’t mattered when he’d passed that dressmaker’s booth in the market in Dover. He took primal joy in the way she looked right now, in part because he had bought her that dress—blue camlet with a matching ribbon. The soft material had caught his eye, because it was only slightly bluer than the pale color of her eyes. Unadorned though it might be, the cloth, made from fine camel’s wool, was imported from the East. Soft as silk, the nap was tightly shorn to give it a soft feel. Time and again, he sidled up beside her, longing to reach out and snatch a feel of her sleeve. Like her beautiful, radiant skin, he imagined it to be soft to the touch… but if he breached that barrier between them, he might regret it, and regret, alas, was the concern of the day. But at least he needn’t worry whether Giles would regret repudiating Seren, not when he loved her sister so deeply. The man was besotted—as besotted as Wilhelm must be, although, once again, without reciprocation.

  How could Seren possibly want him? He could offer the lady nothing. He was a soldier indebted to his brother, and he didn’t even have a proper bower. He slept with the men-at-arms. So, then, what should he do? Bring her into his barracks and make love to her on a pallet in the company of an army of drooling eegits?

  Nay.

  But if only he had some future to share… something.

  Wilhelm wasn’t learned like Giles, but neither was he stupid. He sensed Seren held some affection for him, and he might better know what to do with that intuition if she were not so far removed from his station.

  He sighed despondently, for no matter that he had a close relationship with his lord brother, he’d never dare ask for more than his father had been willing to give. The castle was as yet incomplete, but it didn’t matter how grand it was supposed to be; there had never been a place for Wilhelm under its roof. In good time, he’d hoped to build himself a cottage, and mayhap keep a wife there, but even that was less than appealing. What was he going to do? Sleep apart from his bride in order to lead his brother’s garrison? Slumber with his family and come running at the call of a horn? Watch his home burn from the ramparts if Eustace should happen to return?

  Nay.

  The thought alone was enough to put a viper’s nest in his gut. Swinging his sword with a vengeance, he severed a thick, gnarly bramble, wondering if they should return to the road.

  The deeper they traversed into the woods, the thicker the vines grew. And anyway, he did hope to encounter Giles traveling north. His brother was expected in London on the fifth of June. He and Seren departed Neasham around the eleventh. His brother’s horse was a strong courser. He’d witnessed firsthand how the animal could tear up a road. On their journey south only a few months ago, they’d covered sixty miles in little more than a day. Ergo, even if he lingered in London another day or two after his audience with Stephen, it was still entirely possible that Giles could make the journey north in time to meet them en route to Warkworth. Moreover, even though Seren wouldn’t complain, he could see the strain showing on her face. So, about midday, he led her back to the road.

  Well-traveled as it might be, he fully anticipated encountering a pilgrim or two. What he didn’t anticipate was the constant stream of traffic moving south. Weary and bedraggled, the men appeared as though they hadn’t supped well in weeks. If there weren’t so bloody many, he would have offered victuals from his satchel.

  He gave Seren a meaningful glance, warning her without words to remain silent as he reached about and stole the reins from her hands, pulling her and her mare to the right side of his mount to better shield her. If there was a boon to be had for his size it was this: Most men dared not cross him.

  And nevertheless, while these men might sooner pluck out their own eyes than tangle with the Hammer of Warkworth, none appeared to have much fear of him. They wore a look of desperation in their eyes that made him think they had naught to lose. But he wasn’t worried for himself; dressed as he was in boiled leathers, he was far more prepared for a battle than they were, sad as it may be to say. These ragtag soldiers wore piecemeal armor: One wore a helmet, another chausses, no mail sherte or coif. They were equipped with weapons, to be sure, but none so much that would mete out any true damage, and even as he watched, one man took a gander at his blade—a fine, double-edged sword with a two-handed cruciform and pommel that once belonged to his father. Perhaps it should have gone to Giles, but Giles had returned from his travels with a weapon that far surpassed any that might be fashioned by their bladesmiths at Warkworth.

  Raising a hand to his forehead in greeting, he said, “Well met.”

  “Hail sir,” said a thin man, giving him a nod, assessing Wilhelm as he approached.

  Compelled despite himself, Wilhelm reached back with his free hand to lift up the flap on his saddlebag, reaching in to see what he could find—a small round of cheese met his fingertips and he lifted it up, tossing it to the man. “God save ye,” the traveler said, inclining his head.

  “Well met,” said another as they crossed paths, and Wilhelm dared to inquire. “Where to good man?”

  “York, m’lord.”

  Wilhelm’s brows lifted, and he let go of Seren’s reins to turn his horse. “York?”

  Turning in his saddle, the man’s eyes lit with a fever of excitement. “Aye, m’lord. To join a siege with Duke Henry.”

  Wilhelm’s brows collided. “Fitz Empress, at York?”

  Eyeing the sigil on his breast, the man openly confessed, “David knighted him. They’re taking York with the Earl of Chester.”

  Duke Henry was old enough to have been knighted by his own sire before his death, but Wilhelm was far more intrigued over the details of how the lad re-entered the realm so quietly. In due time, they were supposed to have used the port at Warkworth, but their arrival was still being discussed. In the eventuality it was approved, Duke Henry wasn’t supposed to arrive until after the new proposal for ascension was discussed and accepted by the king. To Wilhelm’s knowledge, that proposal—an agreement that Stephen could rule until his death, but cede the throne to Matilda’s boy instead of his own son—hadn’t met with resounding approval from the Vatican. A few of the Empress’s “friends” believed she should be the
one to wear her father’s crown. To their way of thought, Duke Henry was scarcely a child, and he had too many years remaining before he would be ready to rule. “Under whose banner do you ride?” Wilhelm asked another man, as he trotted toward them.

  “Rainald FitzRoy,” said the soldier. “We’ve fresh come from council. More than half the northern barons will support David. I’m guessing you should be pleased enough to hear that news?” He tilted Wilhelm a meaningful nod, then put a hand to his forehead in salute. “Safe travels, m’lord. And if you should find yourself without the lady in tow, Duke Henry will welcome Warkworth’s support.”

  Wilhelm nodded. “God be wi’ ye, lad,” he said, and gave Seren another meaningful glance. She arched one perfect brow, perhaps because he’d given her so much grief over assuming his title, and he’d let it slide for these men, but it served him well enough for these men to mistake him for Warkworth’s lord. It was also quite telling these soldiers would speak so freely about rebellion. It was a testament to the growing unrest in England. People might not relish having a haughty woman on the throne, nor a beardless youth, but, it seemed they would prefer the boy to a hard-hearted despot—particularly one aligned to Morwen Pendragon. Stephen may not be guilty of tyranny, per se, but the man had one ass cheek off his throne, and he was already advocating for his son—but, God’s teeth, York?

  Clearly, to no avail, his brother had warned David not to take the diocese perforce. There was no way in hell Stephen would ever allow York to fall. If what these men claimed was true, it was a matter of time before Stephen drove his army north. If they came so far as York, Warkworth was no more than another thirty leagues north.

  Grateful now that he’d avoided York en route to Neasham, he waited until the last of the cavalcade was out of sight before abandoning the road yet again, praying to God his brother was not embroiled at York. Their troubles would mount exponentially and God’s bloody bones, he was growing weary of trouble.

  Seren didn’t question his decision.

  Though she might still be vexed with him, she trusted Wilhelm without fail. It was clear to her that he was concerned for their wellbeing. Despite that Jack was no longer traveling with them and there were no signs of her mother’s ravens, his mood had grown darker and darker by the mile. “Those were the Earl of Cornwall’s men?” she ventured.

  “Aye.”

  “So, it seems, Duke Henry aligns himself with David?

  “So it seems.”

  “The Earl of Chester and the Earl of Cornwall are planning to take York?”

  It was a bold move, Seren realized.

  “Your guess is good as mine,” Wilhelm said. “But I am not surprised. De Gernon has long been discontented, and Rainald is Matilda’s half-brother.”

  “Yay, I know,” said Seren, with a faint smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “Rainald is my brother as well.”

  Wilhelm’s brows collided, as though only now perceiving this fact. But it was true; the Earl of Cornwall was as much Seren’s kindred as he was Matilda’s—obviously, so was Duke Henry. Perhaps it hadn’t occurred to Wilhelm how many bastards her father had sired, or perhaps more significantly, how well he appointed them. But though her father had given little enough of his time, he had given all his children generous endowments, including Seren and her sisters. The simple fact that she couldn’t claim her money was all due to her mother. And they were not alone in their complaint; even Matilda had been deprived of her due.

  Ye gods! Duke Henry was at York. The significance of that was not lost to Seren. Tensions were escalating so quickly. And now, the simple fact that Duke Henry had joined this fight was momentous, because, in essence, it meant he, as the rightful king of England, would agree to cede York’s archdiocese to Scotland, awarding the entire northern ecclesiastical power to David.

  “How far from Warkworth lies York?”

  “Thirty leagues, perhaps.”

  “Aldergh to York?”

  “A little bit further. Closer to the border.” He gave Seren a meaningful glance, correctly assuming her thoughts, because he said, “Your sister is safe there, and, in truth, I would venture to say that if tensions continue to escalate, Giles will send you both north to join Elspeth at Aldergh. I have never seen that fortress, but by all accounts ’tis inviolable.”

  Seren nodded, and for an instant—only the briefest instant—she suffered a pang of longing to return to York to meet her nephew. Whereas only a few months ago she mightn’t have cared much about either Henry or Matilda, she longed now for some connection to her family. Or, perhaps it was something more like hope… something she now had a glimpse of thanks to Wilhelm. But, truly, with her sisters all scattered to the winds, and Arwyn… gone—she still could not conceive it—Seren had never felt more alone… except for Wilhelm. She glanced at him now, wishing she could smooth the worry lines from the corners of his mouth. It wasn’t so much that she was no longer affronted by his lie of omission, but the darker his mood, the more inclined she was to try to lift it. “I must believe my father would support this,” she said.

  “Did you know him well?”

  She peered up at a passing bluebird, watching it alight upon a low-lying bough. “Nay. I was only seven when he died.”

  “Still old enough to hold him in your thoughts,” Wilhelm suggested.

  “Oh, I do. But, as my mother was of the mind her brats should never be seen or heard, only Elspeth ever escaped this edict. My father came to know her better, perhaps because he and Morwen were… shall we say… newly entangled.” Her cheeks burned with chagrin. “Elspeth was the first child Morwen bore him.”

  Wilhelm’s dark eyes were warm, inviting her to tell him all her secrets. “So you were born in London?”

  “I was. My sister was born at Blackwood. The rest of us in London.” She sighed wistfully. “By the time I came along my father had very likely grown weary of so many…”

  He lifted both brows. “Bastards?”

  Seren laughed softly. “Aye, so see, we are not so different, you and me.”

  “I beg to differ,” he said, and quieted as though to contemplate all that she’d told him.

  For some reason it pleased her immensely to know he cared enough to know her history—as she longed to know his. “I don’t know why, but I thought you were born in Wales,” he said.

  “Not I, though I was raised there. After my father died, I was sent to live with my sisters in the Vale of Ewyas—not very far from Blackwood.”

  “Why did you not return to Blackwood?”

  Seren rolled her eyes. “Ah, well, that is a looong story. The short of it is that women cannot inherit lands in Wales. When my uncle died, Blackwood was forfeit to Gruffydd ap Rhys, the king of Dyfed. And, in order to keep the estate, my mother would have had to marry one of his sons. By then, Morwen and Henry were already…”

  “Entangled?”

  Seren nodded, her cheeks burning. “Elspeth was two, I suppose, and my mother was already in confinement with Rhiannon. At the time, Henry had a bit less tenuous influence over the Marcher lords.”

  He lifted his brows again. “Less than Stephen?”

  Seren laughed softly. It was true. King Stephen had none at all. For the entire first year of his reign, he’d made some sore attempt to annex those lands, but it soon became quite apparent that the Welsh lords would never cede their lands or their kingships without a fight—one Stephen could ill afford, particularly when David was already seizing lands to the north, and Matilda was trying to rouse barons against him. But such was the power of destiny and the ysbryd y byd –the spirit of the age.

  “At my mother’s behest, my grandmamau appealed to Henry, so Henry agreed to allow her to keep Blackwood for her heirs, if only if she swore allegiance to him, not to Gruffydd ap Rhys, and only if my mother agreed to become a ward of his court. Later, when my grandmamau died, our lands were again forfeit, only this time to Henry.”

  “So, in reality, you came into this world as Henry’s prisoner?”


  Seren frowned over that plainspoken truth. “I suppose ’tis one way to look at it.” Along with her mother, and her sisters, they were, indeed, all wards of her father’s court. Still, Elspeth was indisputably Henry’s favorite, even above his heirs—though not William, of course. William was always Henry’s hope of hopes, and when he died, a part of her father died as well. He never quite took to Matilda. “I should say, we were far freer wandering my father’s halls than we ever were at the priory.”

  “I see,” he said.

  And yet he couldn’t see—not everything.

  What would he think if he knew her mother had sent that mist to cripple the White Ship? Aye, it was true. It happened many, many moons before Seren was born, but Morwen oft bragged of the deed. In the blink of an eye, an entire generation was lost, and there were many who claimed it was the sinking of that vessel that doomed England to this anarchy. But Seren knew better. Rather, the cause of their woes was a greedy witch.

  What more proof did they need?

  With malice and forethought, her mother had sunk the White Ship, consigning their father’s heir to the cold, black depths of the sea. Seren and her sisters also suspected that Stephen was privy to this treachery, and that, moreover, Morwen advised him to disembark the White Ship—which he did, of course, feigning some bellyache. He took another ship, sailing safely to England whilst so many of his cousins perished. And, if that were not tragedy enough, Morwen had murdered the man she’d claimed to love—the father of her daughters. And all the while she’d been poisoning Henry with potions, she’d been whispering venomous words into his nephew’s ear, until Stephen of Blois was well-primed to steal his uncle’s throne. Now she was poised to drive another king mad and replace him with a true despot, someone who took glee in the burning of castles and shedding of blood. Eustace, Count of Mortain, now Blois, was the worst thing that could happen to England, aside from her mother. Put the two of them together, and this would be England’s doom.