Fire Song

by Crosby, Tanya Anne

  Wilhelm moved ahead, whacking at another tangle of vines, and Seren fell silent, contemplating the day’s news.

  What did this mean for Elspeth? What could it mean for Warkworth? How did a siege at York fare for those remaining in the borderlands?

  Gods forbid, what if David did, indeed, manage to take York? Warkworth would be left well north of David’s southernmost lands. Would Giles be compelled to bend the knee to David? Would the Church intervene? And, if, in truth, it came to all-out war, would Matilda join her son at York?

  She swallowed hard, thinking about Wilhelm.

  He was made for war, and something about his demeanor gave her every impression he would be good at his job. His wide shoulders gave testament to a lifetime of training. But that scar on his face… it bespoke his vulnerability. How could she ever bear it if anything happened to her gentle giant?

  She glanced at the sweet, beautiful man riding beside her, guarding her so jealously. When all was said and done, what would come of their affiliation? Was any sort of alliance between them even remotely possible?

  She’d come to know him so well by now that she didn’t like to think of parting ways. But, alas, Wilhelm Fitz Richard was only a bastard—as was she, though unlike Seren, he did not bear the blood of kings in his veins. Wilhelm probably feared he could not provide for her; little did he realize that she and her sisters had lived most of their lives in abject poverty, working hard for every morsel, and returning by night to a cottage with only a crude dirt floor. They shared a single bed together, and no one complained. If, in truth, he could wish her to be his bride, Seren believed she could be happy as the helpmate of a simple man.

  Her belly fluttered over the shocking turn of her thoughts.

  If Matilda or Henry should recover England, perhaps they would release her dowry? And, if they released her dowry, mayhap she could provide for Wilhelm? It was a fanciful notion, perhaps, but not entirely unreasonable. Amidst the Welsh people, there were many women who married simpler men, particularly in the case of an heiress. Since only men could inherit lands, a wealthy woman could, indeed, marry for love. Nor was every match made for gain.

  Alas… what made her think Wilhelm had any desire for her at all? Even now his aura confused her.

  Get yourself together, Seren. He is not for you, and neither must you win yourself a champion only because Rose and Ellie found one. Not every man desires you.

  You’re a witch, she chided herself. At least so far as most folks were concerned. No sane man would willingly tangle with Morwen Pendragon over any of her daughters, no matter how fair their countenance—and particularly not a man whose welfare depended upon the good will of his lord and brother.

  Turn your heart, Seren.

  Turn your heart from this folly, before ’tis too late.

  And yet, she knew… she would defy reason to follow her heart. Only realizing how much she’d kept locked inside, she vowed to never again betray herself. And even as she thought it, her witchwind stirred yet again…

  A breeze rifled the tree tops, scattering a host of sparrows from their perches. Poplar leaves tinkled in warning.

  * * *

  It wasn’t long after Lady Aldergh departed that Cora ascended the stairwell to check on the babes. She scolded her daughter for not having informed her at once that the mistress was leaving. Ellyn was not herself today. Only yesterday that girl would have wept blood-tears for having distressed her mother. Today… she seemed distracted.

  It must be a boy, Cora reasoned. Ellyn was getting to be that age—sixteen, and more a woman than she would like to believe. With those lovely blue eyes and golden hair, she was naught at all like her father nor her mother. Cora herself was fair of skin, and pretty enough in her youth, but her hair was red, and her eyes, though blue, were never so bright as Ellyn’s. Her daughter would make some good man a fine wife someday, and, she thought perhaps their mistress already had someone in mind—one of Lord Malcom’s men-at-arms.

  Thinking about that—about grandbabes bouncing on her own knee—she entered the nursery, feeling ill at ease. The air in the chamber felt strained. One of the babes lay whimpering, and she felt ashamed for leaving them so long unattended. “Ellyn,” she railed. Her daughter was supposed to have traded her shift with another maid. These children were never to be left unattend—

  Her heart flipped as she peered into the cradle. Swallowing a lump of bile that rose to strangle her, she stared in horror into the cradle. There was only one child here. Only wee Lachlan’s anguished blue eyes peered up at her, his gaze entirely too knowing for a babe so young. But nay! Why would Elspeth take only one child, not the other?

  Her heart pummeling her ribs in fear, she lifted Lachlan, and with the child in her arms, she bolted from the room into the hall. “Ellyn,” she screamed. “Ellyn!” And then, sensing something terrible, she shouted for her steward husband. “Alwin!”

  25

  Wilhelm returned from the bushes to find Seren perched atop her mount, waiting patiently, though with her hands splayed in front of her as though she were examining something resting in her palms. For an instant, he hadn’t any clue what she could be doing, but then, to his amazement, it appeared as though it were raining sideways—but only on her. Every drop of dew from the surrounding trees converged upon her hand, twinkling as they flew, catching sunlight like tiny gems.

  A wondrous smile turned her lips. Clearly, she was pleased with the effort. “Did you see that?” she asked excitedly.

  “I did,” he confessed, adjusting his trews.

  She turned her palm, spilling some of the liquid down the pad of her palm, into the bracken. She grinned. “Art thirsty?”

  “It’s all yours,” Wilhelm said, because—God’s teeth—as much as he would love to lap the salt from her flesh, if he dared any such thing, he might never stop. He would lick every inch of her beautiful body and more… and besides, the flagons were still full.

  “I’ve been practicing,” she said happily. “I can’t wait to show Rosalynde. She can do better, but I have never quite accomplished this task so easily.”

  “I saw her do it once,” Wilhelm confessed, as he hoisted himself into the saddle.

  “Rhiannon taught us when we were young, but I was always too afraid to try.”

  “Of Ersinius?”

  “Aye,” she said. “Though, I don’t know why. That man was more frightened of my mother than we were of him.” She leaned forward to sip the remaining liquid from her palm, then shook her hand free. “I suppose I can thank Elspeth for putting the fear of the Goddess in me.”

  “Art certain you don’t need to?” Wilhelm said, inclining his head toward the thicket from whence he’d come.

  Seren shook her head, blushing. “Nay, I am fine.”

  Wilhelm didn’t press. At any rate, he had no qualms at all over slowing the pace. So far as he was concerned, they could stop a thousand times or linger for days. At this point, every field they crossed, every burn, brought them one marker closer to Warkworth, and while Seren’s mood grew more buoyant still with every mile they traversed, his grew more somber, and he needn’t reflect overlong to know why…

  He had waking dreams of taking Seren into his arms, kissing her soundly, then falling to his knees and professing his love. Regrettably, he was no wealthy lord to take such a beautiful bride. His only recompense would only ever be a pat on the shoulder for a job well done, and perhaps a thank you from Rosalynde and Seren. But his true reward—his only true reward—would be the memories he’d made along the journey north, most of them bittersweet:

  He liked the way she laughed. He loved the way she smiled. He admired the allegiance she gave Jack. He loved how fearless she could be, and the courage she displayed.

  Even now, he couldn’t stop looking into her beautiful silver eyes. Forcing himself to tear his gaze away, he gave his mare a boot, and Seren followed without so much as touching her heel to the animal’s flank, as though she’d compelled the beast, with no physical cues�
��if this be witchery, he supposed everyone should be that fortunate. There was nothing at all wicked about the skills this woman possessed, and, in fact, it seemed as natural as rain.

  All the while they kept pace, she “practiced” again, and again, and Wilhelm fell back to observe. The sight of her was magical, and every time she summoned dew, she was encircled by a halo and rainbow. He didn’t know how she was doing that—attracting water as a lodestone drew metal—but the sight was nevertheless breathtaking—never so much so as the sparkle in her eyes when she turned to find him watching and realized he wasn’t judging.

  Actually, Wilhelm might have liked to know how she was performing that trick; it would come in handy. But, for now, he was content enough to wonder, and he thought perhaps that if he lived to be a thousand, Seren would still be a mystery as well.

  Over these past few days, they’d grown closer and closer, and the more he learned about her, the more questions he had. In truth, this was the first time in all Wilhelm’s life that he’d found himself thinking of a woman as his friend—not merely the object of his desire. He liked conspiring with her, and he liked sharing meals. He loved their late-night discourse, whispering like youths over a flame with her eyes sparkling with gold.

  Bored with the water trick, she turned and awarded Wilhelm with the most enthralling smile, and he moved forward again to ride like a puppy at her side—no doubt gazing at her like a besotted fool, but he didn’t care. He longed for her to know what he felt in his heart, but was terrified to speak the words lest he break this wondrous spell. The very instant he confessed himself, it would become something less than innocent—a thing to be rebuked or accepted, and it was the latter possibility that roiled his gut.

  Feeling like an old man before his time, he cast Seren another glance to find her inspecting the woodlands with all the enthusiasm of a child. He wished to God he could share her joy. Even more than her sister was, she was enchanted by fauna and flora, no matter how unremarkable, and even with all her troubles, she took joy in the smallest of things.

  “Look,” she said, pointing at the rich carpet of blue that grew along the path.

  From April to May, the northern woods were filled with bellflowers, but not so thick as they grew near the Widow’s Tower. “’Tis late in the year for those,” he said, but when she lifted her gaze from the rich, blue mantle, her own silver eyes twinkled, and he found himself wishing those flowers could grace these woods all year long.

  “I could fill my purse with the bounty of these woods,” she exclaimed, pointing again, “There,” she said. “Yarrow!” And again. “Wild carrots—but that is hemlock.” She thrust a finger toward a tall, lacy flower as they trotted by. “You must take care with that one. ’Tis poisonous. It can very easily be mistaken. But,” she expounded, “a proper herbalist may know how to use it, and it can be a very good sedative.”

  He would do anything to keep her talking… even inquire about things he mightn’t normally care about. “I take it you must be a proper herbalist?”

  She blushed again, the deep plum stain on her cheeks complimenting the wintry shade of her eyes. “Not so much as Elspeth, but I try.”

  God’s truth, this woman was not at all what he’d supposed, and, if he could be honest with himself, after coming to know her sister, he’d suffered much trepidation over meeting Seren—why? Because, after meeting Rosalynde, he’d sorely envied Giles, and he’d realized even then that if Seren was half the woman her sister was, he might be lost.

  And she was more.

  And he was lost.

  Seren Pendragon wasn’t merely lovely. She was kind and sweet, and humble besides. Even her sister was far haughtier than she was, and if Seren’s temper was ever riled, it was always over the welfare of others.

  During their time together, Wilhelm had heard infinite praises for her sisters, and if Seren were to be believed, she was never the expert, always the student, learning diligently from her sisters—Elspeth who was eldest, Rhiannon who was wisest, Rosalynde, who was bravest, and Arwyn… well, understandably, she’d yet to speak much of Arwyn. Her eyes filled with tears when her thoughts returned to Dover. But, from all that Wilhelm could see, the woman traveling beside him had a giving heart, and having watched her with Jack—the gentle way she’d treated him, the sweet words she’d spoken to him—he found himself wishing she could be the mother of his babes.

  And that was the entire crux of his mood—not Giles, nor Warkworth, nor even York, or Matilda. It was Seren, and the indisputable way he was beginning to feel about her—phfht, beginning? Truth be told, he had fallen in love with the lady at first sight, and he’d envied his brother desperately. He’d gone into that hall at Westminster fully prepared to despise the woman, and he’d left with a pang in his heart that exacerbated his grief. That night, months ago, he and his brother had gone to some sad little tavern to commiserate over ale, and the entire time he’d sat there listening to Giles carry on about why he must wed Lady Seren—for the good of Warkworth, and no less the good of the realm—all he could think about was punching Giles in the throat.

  It was not a feeling he was proud of, and he couldn’t explain it to Giles. It was no wonder he’d leapt to the task the very instant Rosalynde asked him to find Seren, because, even then—months before he’d encountered her in Dover—he could think of little else. And now that he realized how worthy she was of respect he knew himself to be unworthy.

  When most women of her station would have had naught but complaints over the bed he’d provided her each night—which was to say, none at all—Seren slept where she could and woke with a smile and ‘good morn’ fresh upon her lips, even despite her travails. Like Rosalynde, she was a soldier and he was proud of her for enduring the journey with so little complaint. If she was hungry, she ate what was provided. If she was thirsty, she drank what he drank, be it water from a brook, dew from a leaf, or stale vin. If she was cold, she made do with the blanket she was given. If she was hot, she spoke not a word in complaint.

  As relieved as he was that their journey so far had been uneventful, and that her winsome smile managed to ease any worry over danger, it was still there in the back of his head…

  Morwen was still out there, somewhere; he felt her.

  The air itself held a certain tension, as though every moment and every mile brought them closer to peril.

  Distracting him from his brooding thoughts, Seren giggled. A butterfly had landed on her nose. But, instead of shooing the creature away, she endured it, wiggling her nose to alleviate an itch.

  “How long will you suffer that bug?”

  Seren smiled. “So long as it wishes to stay.”

  Wilhelm smirked, lifting his brow. “You’d better shoo it away. It will lay eggs on your snout, and then what?”

  “Snout?” she asked, incensed by his description of her nose, and her laughter saved her from having to shoo the butterfly. It flew away, into the bellflowers.

  “See what you did?”

  “I do. I saved you from being the mother of pests,” he said, and found himself eager to show her his favorite spot with a view of the sea. If she could smile so brightly over a glade full of bellflowers and a silly little butterfly, what else might she say or do over the sight of a thousand damselflies at dawn.

  At low tide, Warkworth’s beach was long, with sprawling white sand that stretched for miles. “Have you e’er seen the ocean?” he asked, and then suffered himself a fool. Because—God’s teeth—of course she’d seen the ocean. He’d found her hiding aboard a ship en route to Calais. His cheeks burned like hot coals, and Seren must have realized his faux pas, because she giggled, then averted her gaze.

  All told, Wilhelm was ill-equipped to have any form of courtly conversation. It was a struggle, to be sure—and more and more now that he was so painfully aware of himself in the lady’s presence. Quite likely, Seren thought him an imbecile, because he certainly felt like one.

  “But, of course, I knew you had,” he dissembled. “’T
is only that the closer we come to Warkworth, the more eager I am to show you my home.”

  “I am eager as well,” she confessed, and Wilhelm’s heart tripped painfully. He wished to God he were brave enough to tell her how fond he was of her. “How long before we arrive?”

  “Not long,” he said. “If my guess is good, you’ll be seeing your sister afore the sun sets on the morrow.” And rather than twist his lips into a grimace, he forced a smile.

  * * *

  They had a veritable feast that night—blackberries, strawberries, pignuts and wild carrots, along with a good-sized trout Wilhelm caught by hand.

  It was thrilling to watch—the swiftness with which he’d moved, the grace he’d displayed in the hunt.

  And yet, now that the fish was prepared to be cooked, he was equally inept at building his fire, working stubbornly with his fire-steel, as he was inclined to do every time.

  Alas, the flame refused to kindle, and Seren would have laughed if he weren’t so disconcerted.

  For some odd reason, it seemed to her that the ability to start a fire was strongly imbued into the makings of a man. It seemed to be a thing they must master in order to be considered a man, and in truth, she wondered idly if fathers ingrained this fear in their sons. It was something to think about… as she sat munching on a carrot. She wished she could do something to help. And because she wished it so desperately, even knowing her own limitations, she envisioned the tinder igniting, and suddenly, inexplicably, the wood exploded into flames, startling her as much as it did Wilhelm. Blinking, she held the carrot aloft, mouth agape as she stared at the blue flames.

  He laughed. “My brows for a good flame,” he said, and then turned to look at Seren with a question in his eyes. “I thought you couldn’t do that?”

  Seren’s brows lifted in bewilderment, not only because the conflagration surprised her. It was a blue—as blue as the fire that took the Whitshed.