“In truth, I have never seen one,” Marcella confessed, with a rueful smile. “But it can’t hurt, can it?”
Rhiannon returned the smile. “We can use all the help we can get against my demon mother.”
“Ah, but she’s not a demon,” said Marcella pointedly, and something about her tone prompted Rhiannon to stop everything she was doing and tilt the paladin a curious look.
“What is she then?”
Marcella inhaled deeply and shook her head. There was a sadness in her expression that Rhiannon didn’t comprehend. “Not yet,” she said, only this time there was no enmity in her tone. “When Jaques returns, I’ll explain everything.”
“So tell me… if you did not agree with Jack… what changed your mind?”
“About you?”
Rhiannon nodded, and Marcella lifted a hand. “Not now,” she said again, meeting Rhiannon’s gaze with a wearied look. “I promise to explain all when Jaques returns.”
“As you wish,” Rhiannon said, trying not to be vexed.
She finished dispersing her vial, then wiped her fingers on her tunic. The gesture wasn’t very couth, but considering her garments in broad daylight, she doubted one more stain could hurt them. Her own cloak was made of the crudest of undyed wools—not nearly the quality of her wedding gown. Her tunic wasn’t much better. Moreover, the breeches were too snug in the most disturbing of places. Goddess only knew how Marcella managed to move about so gracefully in such unconventional attire, because Rhiannon felt… constrained.
She was only grateful that Marcella hadn’t removed her cloak, because she’d already surmised by the fit of her gambeson that there would be little left to the imagination. It was no wonder Jack was so enamored.
What would Cael think of her now?
Reeking of horseflesh and sweat, dressed like a man. She remembered the way he’d gazed at her when she’d appeared in the hall wearing her wedding dress… the way he’d risen so purposely and then came marching toward her, drawing her into his arms and kissing her so hungrily…
Don’t think about him, she scolded herself.
Look ahead, not behind.
18
When Jack did not return by sundown, Rhiannon began to worry. “Should he be out there, alone?”
“He knows what he’s doing,” said the paladin, in a complete reversal of attitude, as she led her horse back from the brook and tethered the mare to a nearby tree. “He’s spent the past four years training precisely for this. As young as he is, he’s even more adept than his teachers.”
“At what? Arguing,” Rhiannon said, with a lifted brow, although it wasn’t meant to disparage the young man.
Marcella laughed, as she began to undo the straps that kept her blanket secured to the back of her saddle. “Hunting,” she said carefully.
Dewines was the first thought that accosted Rhiannon, though she didn’t speak it aloud, careful to maintain their fragile new peace. “Who were his teachers?”
“To begin with… Giles.”
“Now you?”
Marcella’s smile lit her green eyes. “Yes, of course,” she said.
And with that single revelation, so much made sense.
That council where Jack had testified in Rhiannon’s behalf was a council of the Papal Guard. Therefore, if Giles was a paladin, and Marcella was a paladin, Jack must be a paladin, too. Did that mean Cael was a paladin, as well?
Surely not.
A spy perhaps, though Cael didn’t strike her as a man who played both sides, and regardless… the possibility left her feeling utterly bemused.
On the one hand, if it was true that he was working surreptitiously to defeat her mother, it might actually serve to wash the stain of guilt from his honor.
On the other hand, if he, too, was a paladin, then he was a slayer of dewinekind—a huntsman, according to her people. Never in her life had she ever thought to associate with one, much less two—and now, perhaps she was married to a huntsman as well?
So it seemed… the more she discovered about Cael… the less she knew.
In fact, the more she discovered about life itself, the less she realized she knew.
How in the name of the Mother were they ever going to defeat Morwen when there were so many questions left unanswered?
As it was, Rhiannon felt unprepared for this task, particularly so when she’d once believed herself to be the Regnant, destined for this fate. But Marcella was right. She had, indeed, presumed too much, and everything she thought she knew was wrong.
Oh, she realized she had a part to play—felt it deep in her bones—but what that part was had greatly diminished just since discovering her sister was to be Regnant.
It was all very humbling.
Mulling over all that she’d learned—quite a lot during the span of these past few days—she claimed a spot for her pallet, then kindled a fire, anticipating something more to put in her belly besides nuts and smoked beef. Her sisters had always contented themselves with vegetables from their garden, but Rhiannon’s appetite had more raptorial tendencies. She would be pleased enough with whatever could be foraged, but she certainly wouldn’t turn down a bit of cony. Thankfully, Jack arrived with a nice, fat one, and later, over supper, whilst he roasted it “the way Wilhelm taught me,” they settled back to devour the fruits of his labor, and that was when Marcella shared the remainder of her tale.
According to her, shortly after the battle at the Widow’s Tower, Jack returned to Warkworth. There, he learned a bit of swordplay from Giles, after which, Giles handed him over to a Papal emissary, who then introduced him to Marcella.
Evidently, Marcella, too, had once apprenticed with Giles—and this made sense. It explained very well why Giles had embraced Rosalynde so easily. Through his own apprentice, he’d already been exposed to the Craft. But clearly, it was easier for the Church to accept Marcella’s brand of dewinity than it was for any of them to embrace dewines likes the Pendragons. However, she supposed it didn’t help matters much that they were kin to Morwen.
By the by, Marcella interjected—in case Rhiannon might be wondering: She’d had nothing to do with the death of Rhiannon’s grandmother. That particular business, she explained, was a bit of misfortune that originated with the Empress herself, perhaps spurred by her hatred for Morwen—a visceral and passionate thing Matilda carried with her to this very day.
Apparently, the Would-be Queen held Morwen entirely responsible for the death of her mother, although Rhiannon had never heard a word of that tale before now—not that she doubted her mother was capable of it. Morwen was many, many things, but according to everything Rhiannon knew, Matilda was already sixteen and wed by the time Henry’s first wife died. It wasn’t until six years after the Old Queen’s death before Morwen ever came to Henry with a belly full of child, and at least a good three years after that that he’d taken himself a new wife—Adeliza of Louvain. A sweet, but timid creature, who’d never born him any children, though she sure did whelp a few for William d’Aubigney. Still, perhaps it didn’t set well with Matilda to return to England to discover a Welsh witch warming her father’s bed, and a young, but barren Adeliza, scarcely older than she was, seated on her mother’s throne.
Truth be told, King though he might be, Henry was a bit of a roué. He’d fathered more bastards during his sixty-seven years than most men knew how to count. That he wasn’t Rhiannon’s sire was no reason to weep. And yet… at least he took care of his bastards, and he’d counted Rhiannon as one, awarding her a dowry no less than her sisters.
Fortunately, no one but Rhiannon and her mother knew for certain who her true father was—not even her sisters knew—and Rhiannon had good cause to keep it a secret.
All this time, Marcella had been watching her, perhaps waiting for Rhiannon to put all her stories together. And then Marcella said, at last, “You know… she… was… my friend.”
“Who?”
“Morwen.”
Marcella tore another bite from her cony and chew
ed, while Rhiannon pondered the inflection of Marcella’s words. A flicker of emotion—sadness?—crossed Marcella’s lovely features, and then it vanished, replaced with a brand of steely temperance that was entirely her own.
“We grew up together,” she said, and Rhiannon blinked back her momentary shock, because it couldn’t be possible. Marcella was too young. Even on closer inspection, it would seem the paladin was no older than Rhiannon…
With furrowed brow, she examined the woman’s soft, smooth face—lacking even a hint of crow’s feet at the corner of her eyes.
Startling her even more, Marcella claimed to be seventy-three, attributing her “youthful appearance” to a bit of alchemy, and good dewine blood.
Listening intently, Jack held his tongue, his gaze alternating between Rhiannon and Marcella, though if any of this was a surprise to him, he gave little indication of it. Looking bored, he tossed a mauled bone into the flames, and watched the fire flare over the grease.
“Alas, I must confess… we were close—very, very close.”
Rhiannon stopped chewing only to stare open-mouthed at the paladin, wondering what it was she was trying to convey. Something about the way she said the word… close… gave Rhiannon pause.
“She wasn’t always the way she is now. As a girl, she was… well…” She shrugged. “She was Morwen.”
She said it with such tenderness that Rhiannon had to work hard to swallow the bite of food she had in her mouth.
“What… happened?”
Rhiannon had meant the question drolly, but Marcella responded very soberly. “One evening… whilst I was out with your grandmother, foraging for herbs for my potions, your mother and Emrys borrowed her grimoire…” She averted her gaze now, tears brimming in her eyes. “She was never the same after… and well, Emrys… neither was he.” She hushed then, swiping a tear from her cheek. “We were fifteen.”
“So, then, you knew her… before?”
Before the change that made her a Witch Goddess.
“Aye,” said Marcella, with a nod. “Quite well.” And then she said again, with meaning, “Quite.”
Rhiannon blinked over the revelation, realizing how little she knew of her own mother. Clearly, this woman had loved Morwen—truly loved her. The very notion was… unthinkable. Not only because—well, she was a woman, and so was Morwen, but… because it was impossible to imagine Morwen as a maiden in love.
Really, their kind were not pietists. She’d heard many such Beltane stories about free love under the stars—maidens and stags, stags and stags, maidens and maidens… it was simply that… well… she was talking about Morwen.
Rhiannon blushed hotly, and Marcella offered a hint of a smile. “We were young,” she explained. “Both of us filled with so much wonder and love for our Craft. Alas, I was never very skilled… So much as I adored the Craft, it never came so easily to me as it did to Morwen.”
She broke off then, looking angry, ripping another bite from her cony, before casting the bones into the weeds. Afterwards, she sat chewing, the tension in her body unmistakable, clenching and unclenching one fist, until at last, she pierced Rhiannon with a pointed glance. “As you already realize… she is no longer who she was. But what you cannot know… is… her true form… she’s Sylph.”
“Morwen?”
“Cerridwen.”
Swallowing with some difficulty, Rhiannon’s lips parted, then closed again, realizing intuitively what it was that Marcella was telling her: Her mother wasn’t a witch aligned to aether… she was of the aether.
“So… you see… this is why there are two Pendragon sisters aligned to aether.”
Rhiannon considered that another moment, before Marcella added, “’Tis also why it was possible to bind Seren and to deceive your mother. Even considering what she was, Morwen never suspected there could be two.”
Blinking again in shock, Rhiannon felt as though she might purge the contents of her belly.
“This is also why I agreed to remove you from Blackwood… to keep you safe—not merely for Cael. But rather… because… well, in truth, neither you nor your sisters have any notion what you are capable of… and neither do we.”
“We?”
“The Guard, of course.”
Rhiannon’s gaze shifted to Jack. His brow was furrowed as though this did surprise him. He stopped chewing and sat ruminating.
“Alas, you above all are an anomaly, Rhiannon. Born of two true-blood dewines, and bearing the hud of three…”
Rhiannon recognized truth in her words…
She and her sisters were each born with dewine blood, but her mother was in fact the essence from which they drew. They were demigods, like the cauldron-born fae… but Morwen… she was a Goddess, in truth.
“You share her blood,” Marcella reasoned. “And yet, despite that your sister is to be Regnant, you are, indeed, an aberration. It could well be that, after five years, those manacles have weakened your affinities, but I cannot rest easy until I know your heart. As Jack here has said… you might, indeed, be England’s salvation… but it could be that you will be its doom.”
The look she gave Rhiannon was unmistakable, and the knife hilt at her boot glinted ominously against the firelight. “You, Lady Blackwood, are the reason I hunt my own kind.”
Silence permeated the forest about them—a silence so complete that the flame in the pit sounded like a roar.
“And, by the by, before you think to judge me,” Marcella added, “consider that before we are done, one of you—either you or your sisters—will put a blade through your mother’s heart. Therefore, you are no better than a huntsman. Either you will spill Morwen’s blood, else she’ll spill yours, and for the good of the realm… I am prepared to slay you all.”
19
Warkworth Castle
Exhausted from having awakened this morn to the ear-splitting sound of a babe’s wails, Seren retired early, leaving her sisters to compare notes about their insatiable newborns—Elspeth’s scarcely older than Rosalynde’s.
Troubled by Isolde’s words, she retrieved the sword from their workshop and took it into her chamber, laying it down gingerly upon the bed she normally shared with her husband. No doubt, the sword was a poor substitute for Wilhelm, though she needed its presence tonight in order to work through the growing turmoil in her heart.
Unlike Rhiannon, she had not spent her entire life preparing for the life of a priestess. She did not know what that should entail, nor did she comprehend what should be done to entreat the Goddess for her prophesied gifts.
She, more than any of her sisters, had been dutiful to Elspeth’s mandates to refrain from practicing the Craft. Although Rhiannon had seemed to enjoy defying Elspeth at every turn—Rosalynde, as well—she and Arwyn had been less inclined to put their eldest sister into a fit of apoplexy. For Seren, it had never been worth the argument or distress, particularly when she’d thought her affinities so weak.
Only now that she understood why that was the case, she wished she had practiced more oft, although despite that she could do so freely now, she still didn’t experience the joy Rhiannon did when she manipulated the aether.
Perhaps because of the binding spell, magik simply didn’t come naturally to Seren, unless her emotions were heightened, and then, she couldn’t control it. It rushed over her like a torrent and dissipated like the wind.
Practice, practice, practice, Elspeth now demanded—quite the change from the old days when she’d wagged a finger at them any time the Craft was employed.
So here she was.
Again.
But at least she didn’t have to feel guilty over slipping away. Even her duties had been appropriated. So much as she had enjoyed helping Rosalynde with her chatelaine’s duties, her sister’s newborn babe was well cared for by a wet-nurse, and Rosalynde had insisted upon returning to her household duties so that Seren might “find herself in prayer.”
But that was yet another thing Seren didn’t particularly enjoy—prayer—perha
ps, because, while at Llanthony, the priests had used it as a form of punishment, and never once guided them to do it properly.
Generally, once those monks were finished in the chapel, she and her sisters were ushered inside, and the doors were locked from Sext to None, while the monks were busy filling their bellies and sampling their ale. If she and her sisters couldn’t manage to find peace through prayer during this time, they were encouraged to clean for three hours straight, whilst their bellies grumbled in complaint. The entire experience left a sour taste in Seren’s mouth, and she had never truly allowed herself to learn to meditate thereafter.
Unfortunately, now it was imperative she learn.
Although she would like to say she wasn’t frightened, she really was. She didn’t have the same understanding about the Craft that Rhiannon had, nor was she born with her grandmother’s gift of knowing. Rhiannon was the one who had, day after day, moment by moment, strengthened her prowess. She was the one who’d defied Elspeth to practice, and she was the one whose gifts now excelled. It didn’t make sense that Seren should be Regnant, though she knew in her heart it was true. Once the truth was revealed, it was no longer so easily denied. So, then, one way or the other, she must find a way to fulfill the prophecy.
It was sheer desperation that led her to lie with a blade—cold steel against her warm flesh. She rested with one hand on the hilt, and hours later, eyes closed, she still lay next to the sword, as she deliberated the cryptic inscription…
There must be something in those words… something…
She could glean little from its story, no matter how many times she pored over the tales Isolde had told her. Aye, she knew the blade was enchanted. She also knew it glowed in the presence of evil. She knew it once belonged to Uther, and that it was forged by the Fair Men of Glastonbury, whose dewinity was bestowed, not by the Goddess, but by the Horned God of Donn, the Dark One from the House of the Dead. Whereas some people believed the Mother Goddess represented life, the Dark One represented death, and according to Isolde, his home, Cnoc Fírinne was where all souls gathered in death… beneath the Hill of Truth…
Lord of Shadows (Daughters of Avalon Book 5) Page 15