For her part, she found herself heartily confused by his ministrations—and perhaps her mother was, as well. Morwen’s disgust was writ plainly upon her face. Although, in fact, she coveted this alliance, she clearly didn’t relish the notion of her daughter winning her husband’s heart—little did she realize.
“Is there any man here who opposes the union?” asked the prelate, and for an instant, Rhiannon thought her mother would speak—and so she did, but they were not words anyone anticipated.
“You sack of bones! There are three witnesses in attendance. Do you believe we’re standing in this joyless crypt for our own pleasure? Nay! Get on with it, you lout!”
The expressions that flitted across the prelate’s face were entirely laughable. Anger, followed by fear. Though he daren’t even look at Morwen to chide her, and one of Cael’s guards coughed loudly to cover a choke of laughter.
The prelate cocked his head to plead his case with Cael, but the lord of Blackwood’s expression remained sober. “Go on,” he commanded the man.
They finished in short order—Christian vows only, though Rhiannon was not of that order, and she doubted Cael was either. Certainly, Morwen was as far from being a good Christian as any woman could be. In fact, standing amidst the shifting light inside the chapel, her mother’s starkly beautiful face twisted under the play of light and shadow, making her appear very much like the demon she was.
All the while, as the prelate sniffed with disapproval, her mother’s lips curled on the verge of a snarl. And nevertheless, she remained silent thereafter, looking this way and that, studying the priest, then Cael… then Rhiannon.
Even Cael seemed tense, though he gave her a reassuring squeeze. But the gesture only managed to confuse her all the more. Throughout the entire ceremony, she stood, deaf and dumb, the moment passing like a dream—good or bad remained to be seen. Although if Morwen thought anything of Rhiannon’s uncharacteristically quiet demeanor, she mistook it for nerves, because after the ceremony was done, and their vows were spoken, they quit the chapel forthwith, and made their way back to the hall uneventfully—all but for one instant, when her mother swept to the fore, preceding them into the courtyard. She cast an impatient glance toward her cauldron, then turned away, and Rhiannon thought she heard Cael sigh in relief. And no matter, he oughtn’t rest so easily… not yet. Now was the Golden Hour when her mother’s hud would be at its strongest. Even wearing these shackles, Rhiannon could feel potential rise in the air like tension. That woman was the scourge of Wales, and the bane of men—not to mention a murderer of her own kindred.
Her sisters were dead now because of her, and if Morwen had her way, she would slaughter the remainder of her daughters, beginning with Rhiannon.
Verily, if her mother turned on her now, she wouldn’t be strong enough to defend herself. Even as she acknowledged the truth of that, her shackles weighed heavier. Therefore, she kept her mouth shut, and guarded her thoughts, all the while the silver key stung her flesh where it fell between the curves of her breasts.
Soon.
Soon she would be gone.
Bide your time, as Cael suggested.
Hatred tempted her tongue, but prudence kept her gaze fixed upon her mother’s back. And even so, she could feel the witch’s presence as surely as her lips could feel Cael’s very passionate kiss—sweet fates, every time she thought of that kiss, she felt a strange ache in her bosom that teased her all the way to her womb.
He has branded me, she thought.
In all these years, she’d never once dared to think of him that way—not like that!—and it was as though that damnable kiss somehow shone a light on a dark place in her soul where she’d hidden all her feelings.
Now she could no longer lie to herself and claim she didn’t love him… because… against all odds… she did.
Sweet Goddess, how?
How could any sane woman love a man who’d kept her imprisoned for so many years?
And yet…
Swallowing, Rhiannon dared to cast a glance at the man who was risking so much to free her. His hair, dark as coal, glistened by twilight. His cheeks and nose were chiseled hard in profile, and the color of his skin, unlike her own, was sun-kissed and gold. If he sensed her scrutiny, he didn’t look to meet her gaze…
It didn’t feel like a celebration, more a funeral procession. Side by side they re-entered Blackwood’s vestibule and hall, and once there and reunited with their guests, their solemnity ended forthwith. Cael’s lips broke into a hearty grin. He lifted their joined hands as though to display them for their guests. Rhiannon’s ever-present bracelet glinted inauspiciously against the flickering torchlight. “Behold!” he said. “The new mistress of Blackwood!”
A round of cheers erupted throughout the hall, and the musicians began to play, and then, and only then did Rhiannon dare to assess her mother…
Morwen’s eyes glinted wolfishly…
As though she knew.
In the name of King Stephen, Lord Protector of England, Wilhelm and Giles searched every room at Darkwood, including a dirty kitchen, two storerooms, and a “workshop” containing little more than a stained and foul-smelling cot, a rusty brazier and a soiled chamber pot. That room smelled sourly of sex, but there was no one within, nor was there anyone in any room they encountered, aside from an elderly cook, and an impossibly skinny, pale-faced tavern boy.
Considering the innkeeper’s tensions—as though he feared being discovered—and hoping against hope that he might encounter Morwen herself, Giles pressed on, one hand firmly on the hilt of his sword.
Sour-faced, the innkeeper led them, complaining over the imminent displeasure of his benefactor. “She won’t be taking to it kindly,” he said.
“Morwen?” inquired Giles, as he opened one last door, and peered into another empty room.
It was Eustace he was tasked to retrieve, but he wouldn’t turn away the opportunity to return the Welsh witch to her prison in the White Tower—for what, precisely, he didn’t know as yet, because so far as anyone knew, Morwen had done naught recently save to eschew Stephen’s court. That in itself was no crime, but for the sake of his wife and her sisters, he would endeavor to think of something. And, if he could not, he’d take the bitch’s head, and accept whatever consequence arose. Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately, as the case might be—it was not a decision Giles would be forced to make. In the end, there was no sign of Eustace, nor his guileful benefactress—or at least no indication she’d been there in quite some time, or even that she was meant to return. “I don’t know any Marwen,” said the innkeeper, purposely mispronouncing her name, but there was something in his shifty eyes that called him a liar.
“Who then?” demanded Giles.
“None o’ yourn,” the man retorted.
Removing his hand from the hilt of his sword, Giles narrowed his gaze, considering his options…
Burly as the innkeeper was, he had enough arrogance and mettle to stand up to a lord bearing the King’s seal. Sweaty though he might be, and shifty as he was, there was naught about the look in his eyes that betrayed any fear. So, then, he must feel quite reassured by the influence of his benefactress “Marwen.”
“What of Eustace?” snapped Wilhelm.
The innkeeper snapped back, “I don’t know ‘im!”
“So you’ve never heard of the King’s son?” pressed Wilhelm.
“What makes ye think our good Prince would lower himself to come here?”
“So you admire the man?” asked Giles, turning on the innkeeper at the end of the upstairs hall, giving his brother a quelling glance. As strapping as Wilhelm might be, the innkeeper was bigger yet, with shoulders as wide as a barn door, and legs as thick as tree trunks. “You seem well fed,” remarked Giles. “Your benefactress must be generous?”
“I do well enough,” he said with a mealy-mouthed smirk, and then hitched his chin. “Now that ye’ve turned the place o’er, why don’t you be awa’ now like ye said?”
Weary
as Giles was, and weary as the horses must be, there was nothing about Darkwood that made him feel like testing the night. And yet, he sensed down in his bones that his brother was right: The King’s son might not be here this moment, but it was only a matter of time before he would seek out Morwen. Darkwood was the best chance to catch him before he caused more trouble. But perhaps there was no need to wait. There was a look of impatience in the innkeeper’s gaze that made Giles feel the man was itching to send a message.
He nodded politely. “Apologies, good man,” he said, more respectfully. “We had word that our Prince would be traveling these parts. But I can see they were mistaken.”
The burly man’s arms uncrossed, relaxing.
Giles continued. “In fact, I can see you’re a man of enterprise,” he said. “Perhaps you’d be willing to feed our horses and grant us a bed for the evening?”
Giles could see the man’s thoughts churning behind beady eyes. Thankfully, Wilhelm had by now become accustomed to his sophistry; his brother said naught. Moreover, if the innkeeper was surprised by the change in Giles’s attitude, his body language conveyed only relief.
“We’ve been traveling for weeks, dead on our feet. I’d kill for a cup of soup and a pillow.” He produced a single silver coin, and the man’s eyes glinted greedily. “Grant us a boon, and we’ll be asleep quick as you please, then gone by first light.”
“One mark for each o’ ye?” the man dared.
That was shameless robbery.
“You bloody—”
“Shut up, Wilhelm,” said Giles, producing a second coin. “One now, one when we go?”
The man eyed both silver coins, looking from one brother to the other, and then back to the marks.
“Please, forgive my brother,” said Giles. “He sometimes speaks out of turn. He’s baseborn and lacks the manners God granted better men.”
God’s bones. Later, when they were alone, he would pay for his high-handedness, but Wilhelm must be made to understand. The innkeeper grudgingly reached out to snatch the coin nearest to him. “Aye, then,” he said, glaring at Wilhelm. “Take this room at the back. There’s only one cot between ye but ye’ll have to make do.”
Giles smiled evenly. “You drive a hard bargain,” he said, and Wilhelm snorted his disgust. The innkeeper took the coin with a greasy hand, and Giles had little doubt he would go away now and do whatever it was that he must do to contact his benefactress, reassured that his new patrons would soon be fast asleep in their beds. No doubt, given the chance, the man would slit both their throats without a backward glance.
“Dinner ain’t served at all bells,” the innkeeper groused as he marched away. “Eat when I call ye, and if you ain’t down in the tavern to get vittles, ye won’t eat.”
“Fair enough,” said Giles.
“Bugger ye both!” the innkeeper said, then grumbled beneath his breath. Still clutching his silver mark in his fat fist, he left them without another word—at least none that were immediately discernible.
Wilhelm waited until the innkeeper turned the corner before he exploded. “Are ye daft, brother? What in the name of Christ makes you believe I’ll shut my eyes in this den of wolves?”
Giles lifted a single finger to his lips as the innkeeper paused at the top of the staircase, the boards creaking beneath his feet. “Later,” he mouthed, inclining his head toward the stairwell. Out loud, he said clearly, “Never. Again. Speak so insolently to me in the company of strangers.” He cuffed Wilhelm atop his head, hard enough that he knew the sound carried to the man’s ears.
“Ouch!” said Wilhelm, glaring at him.
“Brother or nay, I’ll horsewhip you myself,” Giles added, as he reached out to grasp his brother’s arm to prevent him from punching him. “Now, go settle our horses, and bring in the packs,” he demanded.
Snorting, clearly amused, the innkeeper hurried down the steps, his footfalls far lighter than they should have been for a man his weight and size.
After he was gone, Giles reassured his brother. “Don’t worry; I don’t intend to sleep in this Godforsaken hellhole,” he said, whispering. “Rather, I mean to see what that drudge does to call for his benefactress.”
“Horsewhipped?” said Wilhelm, shaking his head. And then, he added, “Please, don’t tell me you’re going to pay that idiot another silver mark?”
Giles grinned, then clapped his brother lightly on the shoulder. “Why not? ’Tis a small price to pay when I’ve suddenly found myself with another month’s worth of your wages.”
“Bloody bastard,” said Wilhelm, though without much heat. “I’ll double my wager right now if you’ll let me rack the bugger, and Eustace as well, once we find him. And, by the by, if you do, I’ll ignore the shite you were saying about me. Else I’ll gi’ ye a trouncing when you least expect it.”
Giles shook his head, smiling. “What a vicious mongrel you’ve become.”
“Clearly not vicious enough!” countered his brother. “You’ve bloody sharp knuckles and the next time you do that to me, I don’t care what the cost, I’ll break your fingers one by one.”
Halfheartedly, the brothers elbowed one another, then started down the stairs. Once outside, Giles spied the innkeeper’s brown sherte as he disappeared into a garner.
Halting with a hand to his brother’s chest, he eyed the nondescript, windowless shack, realizing that they’d somehow missed it before, hidden as it was amidst woody shrubs. “What is it, Giles?”
“Go on… do as I said… make ready to ride,” he demanded, hitching his chin in the direction of the garner. “I’ll go give a gander inside.”
But it wasn’t necessary; before Wilhelm could move to comply, the man re-emerged from his storehouse with a large black raven perched upon his arm. Without the least concern for an audience, he removed the bird’s black hood, then unshackled its talon. He spoke to the bird, then dispatched it, and the raven spread its long, blue-black wings and took flight… displaying a patch of white at its neck as it turned to clear the trees.
A chill rushed down Giles’s spine. “Let’s go,” he said.
“What about our pretense?”
“We have what we need. We’ll follow the raven.”
9
A talented trio of musicians performed in the center of the room—one with a lute, one with a harp, one with two reeds betwixt his lips. Rhiannon would dearly love to steal one of those reeds and shove it none-too-gently down her mother’s throat, silencing her once and for all. Her nerves were stretched taut as the strings of the minstrel’s lute, and every word Morwen uttered plucked them raw.
Clearly, her mother’s rudeness was not reserved for the prelate. Rhiannon had no choice but to sit and wait as the Golden Hour came and went. By now, her sense of anticipation had long dimmed, and she was beginning to fear that Cael’s offer of freedom was nothing but a cruel jest—or worse, that he and her mother were secretly amusing themselves at her expense.
Moreover, he was behaving very strangely.
No doubt these two had been planning this wedding for quite some time. That became more than apparent as trays laden with foodstuffs whizzed past from the kitchen and fresh pitchers of ale and mead swept through the hall. There was no way—not even through magik—that they could have baked so many trenchers to serve so many guests, not without time and planning. Doubtless, they had been scheming now for weeks, and nevertheless, Cael never once deigned to warn her.
Had he presumed she would balk and hadn’t wished to invite argument when they both knew very well that she hadn’t any choice?
Or perhaps he’d always known he would offer her this bargain she couldn’t refuse?
If, indeed, it was a bargain at all.
“Somehow you’ve managed to win his trust, even with your foul mouth and temper,” said Morwen, the instant her husband quit the dais to approach a young woman Rhiannon didn’t recognize. Morwen watched them both with an undisguised look of disgust, all the while clicking her nails on the chair.
Whoever it was, her husband was quite pleased to see her, Morwen not so much…
Her manner of dress was not at all that of a servant’s. Fashioned of a beautiful celestine, nearly diaphanous sendal, her gown was trimmed generously with miniver, and despite that it wasn’t so fine as Rhiannon’s purpure, it was, indeed, very, very lovely. So was the woman besides—dark haired, dark eyed, she looked like a Welshwoman, though she certainly didn’t dress like one. She dressed more like a French courtesan.
Jealousy reared unexpectedly, though Rhiannon forced a smile.
“Envy is not your color, my dear.”
Gritting her teeth, Rhiannon ignored her mother’s barb. Her gaze remained fixed on her husband and the strange woman he was speaking with. With one hand behind his back, he bent to lend an ear to some idle chatter, and, in response, the woman laughed—open-mouthed, showing a string of pearly white teeth.
Another stab of envy cut through Rhiannon’s heart.
Sweet fates. In all these years she’d never once entertained the notion of Cael with a paramour. Now, she had to wonder…
But why should she care?
Gods willing, she would be away from this place before sunrise.
Anyway, he’d said so himself: There is only one woman I have ever loved, and she is not you…
Was it her?
Was it that lady?
Distracted, Rhiannon picked at a thumbnail and worried the inside of her lip. Perhaps gleaning more than Rhiannon was comfortable revealing, her mother affected a sympathetic tone. “Poor dear,” she cooed. “You see… this is the problem with men… Once they catch you, they’d sooner let you go.”
Rhiannon stiffened.
Did Morwen know?
Nay, she reassured herself.
Nay. She did not.
She couldn’t possibly, because, in truth, if she did, she would not be taking such unbridled joy in the possibility that Rhiannon might have to share her husband.
Lord of Shadows (Daughters of Avalon Book 5) Page 7