Nude from the waist down, he was still clad in his sherte, but his leather gambeson had found its way into a bush, along with his trews and his boots.
She herself, remained fully dressed, but his hand was cupping her left breast, and her hair, disheveled from the night’s pursuits, lay draped over her face, sticking to her lips.
Stirring lazily, she watched as a bee alit upon a nearby blossom, then changed its mind, buzzing away, only to settle on another.
Wilhelm stirred, every so oft, pecking lazily at her nape, nuzzling his whiskered chin against her tender skin, tickling the flesh of her neck. For the very first time in so bloody long, everything was right with the world, and Seren couldn’t wait to share her joy with Rosalynde. She was no longer a maiden, but what did that matter? Should she have kept her virginity so her mother could sell it to the highest bidder? Or so Stephen could trade her for allegiances?
Nay. She was her own woman, no less so today than she was yesterday.
Freely choose, or choose to be free, the Goddess had ordained.
Well, she could choose both if she so wished, and yet… deep, deep down, she knew she didn’t want to be without Wilhelm. If only he would allow her to try, she would make him a good wife. How could such tragedy lead to such overwhelming joy?
Fate was, indeed, a fickle thing. How was it possible she could lose her heart to the very brother of her own betrothed?
It didn’t matter.
Blinking back happy tears, she watched the fat bee flit from blossom to blossom, suddenly joined by another. The two bees took turns with the stamens, and she smiled contentedly, certain that even bees longed for mates. It was a yearning that called from the depths of one’s soul.
In fact, she was so happy this morning that she daren’t acknowledge the whisper of a warning that threatened to darken her mood. Nothing could spoil this for her—nothing. If pain and suffering must exact tolls, so must joy.
At long last, she felt Wilhelm’s lashes flutter open. “Art awake?” he asked gruffly, his voice hoarse with sleep.
It was the most amazing sound Seren had ever heard—more musical than lyres or harps, far more delicious than tarts or cryspes, more pleasing than a swim in the brook on a bright summer day. “I am,” she said, burrowing her bottom deeper into the roost of his body, lest he so much as consider rising.
In answer, his hand slid across her belly, hooking her between the legs, and pulling her firmly against his naked form. “Mmmh,” he said. “I could wake this way for the rest of my days.”
Seren blushed, her body responding to his touch just so easily. Even as he fondled her intimately, she felt the heat of her desire begin anew, and, for the first time since her sister’s death—and so long before that—she felt a seed of true joy sprouting in her soul.
The truth was irrefutable: Wilhelm Fitz Richard was the love of her heart. She never, ever wished to abandon this glade. Even the bees and damselflies conspired to keep her, whizzing and buzzing a summer song to bewitch her.
“We cannot undo what we have done,” he said, his breath hot against her lobe, giving her a shiver, and when she opened her mouth to agree—and to reassure him—he squeezed her gently, and said, “Shhh... I’ve more to say.”
Seren nodded, very eager to hear it.
“I… I should have liked to have been a better man—”
She opened her mouth once more to speak and he squeezed her to silence her, and said, “I am not done.”
But then, he fell silent a long, long moment and Seren could feel his lashes fluttering closed as he contemplated how best to continue—and yet, if only he would allow her to speak, she was so sure she could set him at ease.
He should not feel guilty for what she so willingly pursued. She had known very well what would transpire the instant she lay down next to him.
She didn’t regret it for an instant.
Wilhelm sighed, hugging the woman whom destiny had placed into his arms—a woman of exquisite beauty, both inside and out. How, by the glory of God, he’d been so well favored, particularly at this trying time, he didn’t know. But, here she was, and if she would allow it, he would attempt to provide for her in the way a good husband should provide for his wife. Alas, he didn’t quite know how to put that into words, and he was heartily afraid she might deny him. After all, he had naught to offer, not even a proper bed.
They had been traveling together so long, it was perhaps to be expected they would cleave to one another, but in truth, he should have known better than to pursue anything at a time when she was bound to be so vulnerable.
Later, when they arrived at Warkworth, it was entirely possible she would regret everything… and if she did, Wilhelm would not stand in her way. He could never dare constrain her to a promise he’d exacted in a moment of passion. She was worthy of someone better than him, and… Christ almighty… the more he considered it, the more he knew he was speaking out of turn.
Something like regret soured his gut, diminishing his ardor and softening his cock against her bottom.
What the bloody hell was he thinking?
Disgusted with himself, he huffed a sigh, and said nothing of the sort he’d intended to say. “I am not worthy of you,” he said, yanking the blanket up and over his lap, embarrassed now by his nudity, even despite that he’d never once suffered such an affliction in all his days.
Guilt colored his cheeks, and bloomed hotter when she spun to look at him with those haunting silver eyes—eyes that were somehow both happy and sad… and far too innocent.
He was older, besides—not that it mattered overmuch betwixt lords and their ladies, but one day, when his beard was gray and eyes were cloudy with age, and she was busy sweeping their crude, little hovel… she would look at him then, and truly, she could rue this day.
“God’s teeth,” he exclaimed. She was mourning her sister besides! What in God’s name made him think this beauteous flower could ever be his to pluck and keep? “We should go,” he said, and rising taking the blanket with him.
Seren’s brows collided, and she hurried to fix her dress, her cheeks blooming as pink as a rose.
29
Appoint as a penalty life for life…
burn for burn, wound for wound, bruise for bruise.
—Exodus 21:23-25
* * *
Life endures even in stone. Crystals bloom over time. Souls are not affixed only to dying flesh, and there are places, like people, whose allure is as seductive as the glittering silk of a dew-dropped spider’s web.
Strangled with brambles, a tower looms before me, sorrow clinging to the edifice like an acrid perfume.
“Come,” it whispers. Wrap yourself in a cocoon of my darkness.
Like a stain of purpled blood oozing from a festering wound, a mantle of bellflowers lies untrampled before it. But these bright, lavender blooms barely conceal the stench of decay that clings to this bog-ridden land.
Cradled within my arms, the child wails pitifully—famished, I must suppose. But I am unmoved. He is but a means to an end—mine or theirs. The simple fact that he bears such a striking resemblance to my brother and my once-born child is without merit, save that I know I cannot kill him with my own bare hands. His smile would stay my hand and his coos would twist my heart…
And yet, remembering another child I spared—a traitor born of my blood—anger spurs me forward. Continuing toward the waiting tower, bellflowers are crushed beneath my horse’s hooves. But that is not enough: Before dismounting, I shrivel the blossoms with a turn of my hand, and in the blink of an eye, that which was alive, is now dead—a carpet of ash florets with smoking heads. Far more beauteous to me. Destruction. Blight. Desolation. Give me these, because they speak truth—not like the lies that pour from a lover’s lips.
Answering my call, a congress of ravens alights atop the tower, familiar voices squawking in greeting. My children, my loves, my ebony-winged champions. Chortling in welcome, I make way to the tower to join them, staining the hem of my go
wn with ash as I walk.
Someday, I will rebuild my palace so men will be blinded by all that glitters. The land itself will be deluged in a darkness so deep that only my courtyard will brighten the endless night. In a flight of fancy, I envision plucking the sun from the sky, and the moon and the stars as well, swallowing them whole. Oh, yay, vengeance is mine… I shall repay.
When I am through, the realms of men will be inhabited by winged creatures, even as Avalon harbors lost souls. The fae will be no longer. Men will be no longer.
More birds arrive, until every branch of every tree hangs low with the weight of my black-eyed, black-winged children.
Only pausing before I enter, I pluck a pin from my coif, transforming the bejeweled pin into a staff, with golden-eyed serpents. A simple feat. Not all spells require incantations, nor potions, nor brews. Some spells are performed by the will of the mind, no more, no less. To this end, I tap my sacred staff upon the ground, stirring ash into whispery plumes, then circle the tower, speaking familiar words:
Ye who would harm, ye who would maim,
Proceed and face the same.
By all on high and law of three,
This is my will, so mote it be.
Ye who would harm, ye who would maim,
Proceed and face the same.
By all on high and law of three,
This is my will, so mote it be…
Once the circle is complete, I transmute the staff once more into a coif pin and then return the adornment to my hair, before entering the ruins.
Like the exterior, the interior is decrepit, half walls with partial floors, a crumbling stone stairwell. I can see it was meant to be grand once upon a time—a belfry for a church, perhaps? The design is Roman, with rough and rubble walls and putlog holes to provide for wooden platform floors. There are remnants of the old wood, more than enough to burn. Clearly, someone has attempted to restore this place to no avail, erecting scaffolds to restore the floors.
I climb slowly, passing foyers and empty rooms, determining how best to use the edifice to my greatest advantage.
Old wood burns the same as new. I should rouse a fire they’ll spy so far as York. Wouldn’t that be delightful? I shall have an audience of thousands!
After all this time, the belfry is gone, but the roof is sturdy. Once I arrive, I lay down the child atop a small platform, weary of my burden, then wave a hand to bind him.
“Sweet boy,” I purr. “It simply won’t do if you fall.” Removing a small pouch from my cloak, I set it, too, upon the platform beside the child, before unveiling the reliquary. I grin with pleasure at the sight of it—an intricately carved piece of metalwork, made from an alloy not presently known to mortal men.
“Oh, Mordecai,” I say. “Sweet Mordecai.” And I set the reliquary down on the platform as I remove the necklace bearing my athame. With its beautiful obsidian handle, it is an ancient blade, fashioned long, long before I laid eyes upon Avalon. The earth itself gave birth to this gem, and it was cut from the same alloy used in the creation of Caledfwlch. It glows in my presence, absorbing my soul’s energy and reflecting it back. The Church has it all wrong. Caledfwlch does not glow in the presence of evil, nor does it do so in the presence of a dewine. This alloy only burns in the presence of a God.
Caw. Caw.
More ravens settle upon the crenels.
Caw. Caw.
Clearly, my daughters haven’t had the wits to open the reliquary. It remains sealed.
Stupid, stupid girls.
It but needs the same care that must be taken with the Book of Secrets—a drop of dewine blood and pretty words.
With a disdainful curl of my lip, I slash the blade across my palm, taking pleasure in the pain. And then, again, smiling, I turn my hand over the reliquary and speak sacred words.
A drop of my blood to open or close,
Speak now the song of ancient prose.
Shackles be gone, Goddess reveal,
The bonded soul my reliquary conceals.
An explosion of smoke bursts from the artifact—so much smoke that it seems the vial should not have been able to contain it all. And once the smoke clears, I am faced with a man. “Hello, Mordecai,” I say, greeting my old friend.
Mordecai inhales a life-affirming breath, and even as I admire the power of my shadow magik, his body reforms into solid flesh.
“Mistress,” he says, finding his voice.
He gives a glance at the child, and I say, “There is work to be done, my friend. You will find a horse in the glade. Take it. Deliver a message to Warkworth for me.” I hand him a slip of parchment. “Tell my daughters to bring my Book, and if they do, I will return the babe. If they refuse, I will kill him, and then return to destroy his brother.”
“Aye, mistress, I’ll fail you not,” he says.
“See you do not. Next time… I will scatter your essence to the winds so you will never return.”
“Aye, mistress,” he says dutifully, without a trace of fear, and I know he will succeed. With a black-eyed glance toward the babe, he bounds for the stairs.
By now, more of my sweet children have arrived—my beautiful, dutiful children of darkness.
“Dreiglo,” I say, and all about me, my ravens become soldiers, all clad in fine, black leather and bearing the sigil of my house—not Blackwood, Avalon—the twin golden serpents entwined about the stem of a winged chalice, my grail, my cauldron of cauldrons.
The babe is momentarily startled by the booted soldiers as they go, spilling down the stairs, like cockroaches.
Ignoring the child’s wails, I peer over the crenels… at the circle I drew below, waiting for Mordecai to pass with all my soldiers. The instant they are clear of the circle, I whisper, “Llosgi.” The circlet ignites.
No one may trespass now, lest they cross with my book. The Book of Secrets is the only passage they will have. If anyone steps through that fire, even so much as a toe, they will be consumed. I watch with glee as Mordecai finds my horse, mounting the beast. He puts a heel to the animal’s flank, and I note he still bears a telltale tail, black as the darkest night. Pointed and pliant, like a serpent, it twines about the horse’s tail as I settle to wait… after all, long after mortal flesh has withered to dust… here I will remain.
30
Worrying her hands, weeping at intervals, Elspeth paced the marquee all the while Rosalynde stood by, feeling helpless.
There were plans to be made; however, without knowing precisely what Morwen intended, it was impossible to respond accordingly. Already, they’d dispatched riders to find Malcom—wherever he could be—to inform him of his son’s abduction. More messengers to Aldergh, only to be certain Elspeth’s Lachlan is safe, as Alwin claims. As for the steward, the poor man, he is disconsolate. He has returned to Aldergh with an escort to ensure he arrives safely.
If, indeed, Morwen had Elspeth’s babe, she must be somewhere nearby, but where?
Why would she take one child, not the other?
Did she plan to keep Brock?
But nay… this was not their mother’s way. Morwen loathed children. Her own daughters were a testament to this fact. Even before Llanthony, she’d employed an army of maids to care for her children, and even whilst in the same room with them, she’d barely ever spared them a glance or a word. She was not a woman inclined to nurture, and she would never be a doting grandmother.
What did she want with that child?
“I should not have left,” Elspeth sobbed. “I’m a dreadful mother. Malcom will never forgive me—gods forbid, I’ll never forgive myself!”
Rosalynde hadn’t the first inkling what to say under such dreadful circumstances, but it tormented her to hear her sister blaming herself.
“You did all you could, Elspeth. You warded that castle. You left the children in capable hands. You had no cause to believe our mother might infiltrate Aldergh.”
Elspeth cast Rosalynde a dark look, her face twisting with anger. “I told you she is wily! I told you that
nothing was safe from her—now, my sweet babe is gone!”
There was naught Rosalynde could say.
She knew her sister was beside herself with worry, and she wasn’t herself. Much as Rose longed to calm her, she began to pace as well, worried beyond measure.
They sent another rider south to locate Giles. And yet another to King David, in hopes of enlisting the Scot’s king’s aid—one last time though it was doubtful David would ride to their rescue, when he had no hope of turning Warkworth’s allegiance. And nevertheless, it was worth a try. Rosalynde was ill-prepared for war. Even after all these months, Warkworth was not ready. She was not a commander-in-chief, and what was more, she had no inkling of her mother’s true powers or what her role should be in defeating her—but if only Rhiannon were present.
Rhiannon would know what to do.
Elspeth continued to pace disconsolately.
“If you wear yourself out, you will be of no use to your son.”
“Quiet!” her sister snapped. “I cannot think for all your prattling.”
Rosalynde frowned. She had said so little until now. Even so, she refrained from pointing that out, giving her sister leave to say or do as she would. It was not every day one lost a child. Morwen was not kind. Nor was she merciful.
Alas, hope was a luxury they did not have, and even so, hope was all they had. Foremost in Rosalynde’s mind was the day they’d watched their mother strangle a poor maid who sat begging for her life.
“Lady Rosalynde,” inquired Edmund, her steward, eyeing Elspeth sympathetically as he parted the tent to enter.
“What is it?”
His gaze was dark, sidling first to Elspeth, who barely acknowledged him, and then to Rosalynde. He gave her a come-hither nod, and she rose from her seat to follow him out the door. Poor Elspeth barely noticed.
Fire Song Page 24