Lord of Shadows (Daughters of Avalon Book 5)

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Brave words, said with less conviction than he’d spoken only moments before, but his warning effectively cut their greetings short. Whatever more need be said must wait until they dealt with the rogue prince and the adulterine castle he’d squatted upon.

  Giles offered them a quick detail: They’d tracked Eustace to Amdel, after chasing him from Bury St. Edmunds. According to his men—those on the parapet—he was inside now, though he’d yet to show his face.

  “How many are there?”

  “No more than four on the parapet,” said Giles. “No telling how many more within, but evidently they aren’t concerned enough by our presence to provide a show of force.”

  “’Tis been these same four men on that wall,” explained Wilhelm. “Only one of them speaking for the rest.”

  “There’s only one inside,” said Rhiannon.

  Every pair of eyes slid to her, where she sat before Cael in the saddle.

  “How can you know?” asked Wilhelm.

  Rhiannon’s eyes met Wilhelm’s and she held his gaze. “Because… I feel his heart flame.”

  The behemoth narrowed his eyes.

  Undaunted, she continued. “There are four on the ramparts, one elsewhere on the premises, and I presume he must be hiding inside the keep.”

  “Like as not drunk and lamenting his fate,” agreed Giles.

  “Quite likely,” agreed Marcella. “We heard the cur was dispossessed and that Stephen intends to cede his throne to Duke Henry.”

  Giles nodded affirmation. “Indeed, that’s the plan,” he said. “However, after I left, Eustace accused his father of ruining his life. He took a contingent of his own men—more than he has here, I presume, but I believe he lost them all after looting Bury St. Edmunds.”

  “Idiots,” said Cael.

  “Anyone of note on the ramparts?” asked Marcella.

  Giles shook his head. “I don’t believe so.” He shook his head again. “Only a handful of dafties who believe the King’s son has some chance with Morwen’s intervention.”

  A prickle of fear raced down Rhiannon’s spine at the mention of her mother. Instinctively, she peered up at the skies, searching for ravens. None were yet to be found.

  And yet, even so, she understood with conviction that there were no coincidences. The Mother Goddess provided, if only one listened, and there must be some reason Wilhelm and Giles were already here.

  There was a good reason they’d happened upon the King’s son as well.

  Whether or not they were aligned, their fates certainly were.

  “We’re pleased to see you,” said Giles. “Now mayhap, we’ll root out the bastard and set off to Warkworth together.”

  “We won’t be traveling on to Warkworth,” said Rhiannon. “I’m afraid this is where we must make our stand.”

  “Impossible!” declared Marcella.

  “We haven’t the men or resources,” said Giles. “Warkworth is where they will send reinforcements.”

  “What goes here?” asked Wilhelm, frowning, perhaps slow to realize who Rhiannon was, since they had never laid eyes upon each other before now.

  Rhiannon closed her eyes, inhaling a breath, communing with the aether, if only to be certain. When she opened her eyes again, she was sure and she met Marcella’s gaze, pleading with the paladin to keep faith. Out of everyone standing here, Marcella was the one person who might fully understand. “And nevertheless, this is where we must remain,” she said.

  “God’s bones!” erupted Wilhelm. “Who the hell is this woman to tell us what to do?”

  Very somberly, Giles clapped a hand to his brother’s shoulder, and said, “You of all people… can’t you see the familial resemblance? She’s Rhiannon Pendragon.”

  28

  Like Warkworth, so many new castles were being designed with an eye toward safeguarding against fire. The brothers had learned the hard way how devastating such a happenstance could be. Five years ago, at Morwen’s behest, Warkworth was put to the torch, on the command of the man who now lay hidden within this very fortress.

  It was Wilhelm Fitz Richard who proposed sending a few, well-placed missiles onto the ramparts—“An eye for an eye,” he said. Positioned right, those arrows could very well ignite the entire edifice, especially if those dull wits atop the barbican were keeping barrels of pitch over the gates, ready to boil and turn. If those should happen to catch fire, the parapet would ignite and burn swiftly.

  As with Warkworth, there were two curtain walls, one defending an already compromised outer bailey and a smaller, stone wall surrounding the keep.

  However, only part of the outer wall was made of stone, and the wood they’d used to bolster it was dry and ready to burn, even despite the deluge they’d received last night.

  Additionally, the ground, though puddled, was baked, signifying an overall lack of rain.

  All things considered, they decided it would be simple enough to take out the outer wall without compromising the inner wall. Worst case, if the arrows didn’t catch, they would create a suitable distraction, and Giles and Wilhelm could approach the gates to set fire to the doors.

  Rhiannon thought it was a terrible plan, even if it was the only one they had. There was simply no way to know if there were barrels of pitch stored up on the ramparts, much less be sure where to find them. Simply because they employed such tactics at Warkworth did not mean the lord of this demesne would know to do the same. Clearly, though Beauchamp had had plans for his castle, he hadn’t found the funds to complete it, much less defend it.

  There were but four men, though unless they caught a pitch barrel, the flames could be easily extinguished, and quickly.

  Moreover, they could run a torch to the gate and set it to burn, but only if they could get close enough for long enough to nurture a blaze, without acquiring an arrow through the skull. In the end, there was naught to ensure those flames would catch in time.

  Frowning as the men prepared arrows, Rhiannon stared at the castle, a feeling of intense unease growing inside her.

  Time was of the essence…

  They must breach these walls and get within to fortify the castle’s defenses, but not at the expense of anyone’s lives—at least none of their side.

  They had only six altogether, and on the other hand, Morwen had an entire army ready and willing to die for her cause.

  Peering up, she spied a lone bird circling overhead—a reminder of how little time was left to be wasted.

  Panic welled within her as everyone prepared to engage.

  “Is there any reason you might wish to recruit any of those bowmen?” she asked, referring to the men inside.

  Marcella shook her head adamantly. “Nay,” she said. “Those idiots would betray us.”

  Giles added, “I agree; if anything, they’ll be emboldened by the witch’s presence.”

  “Let’s burn them all,” declared Wilhelm.

  Rhiannon swallowed her fear, knowing intuitively that the moment they’d all dreaded had arrived.

  So, it seemed, they would face her mother, with very few supplies, no soldiers to speak of. Their chances seemed grim, and it was imperative they enter the fortification as quickly as possible to begin warding the premises and to search for more supplies.

  Unfortunately, without the grimoire, her efforts would be entirely instinctual, and there was no surety any of it would work. No matter that she liked to imagine herself a powerful dewine, she was as much a novice as her sisters.

  And nevertheless, this much gave her hope: Now was the moment she had prepared for her entire life.

  Now was the time she would be tested.

  This, indeed, was the reason she had defied Elspeth at every turn, because Rhiannon had always known this moment was fated. She might not be Regnant, in truth, but she could not allow her grandmother’s gifts to lie fallow.

  At any rate, Seren was not here, neither was Ellie, nor Rose. As she had always feared it would be, Rhiannon was the one who must rise to the occasion.

>   “So be it,” she said, and without further ado, before anyone could make her reconsider, she cast her thoughts in the direction of the ramparts and summoned a flame—not the same sort of flame as witchfire, but the conflagration was nevertheless sudden and fierce. The gate erupted first, sending its torrent along the outer wall—the pier and beam floors, all the wooden accoutrements, as well as the gate itself. The edifice lit like a peat-covered torch.

  Shouts resounded within. Men screamed as they burned, two cast themselves over the parapet, into an empty motte. The others shouted like banshees until they were consumed.

  “Goddess alive!” exclaimed Marcella, with the firelight reflected in the pupils of her eyes. “Like mother, like daughter,” she said, although there wasn’t any indication of condemnation in her tone; rather, there was admiration.

  “Bloody hell,” said Giles.

  Her husband said nothing, though his gaze traveled slowly from Rhiannon to the castle and then back.

  Rhiannon averted her gaze, unwilling to look into his eyes, lest she spy contempt or revulsion for the sin she’d just committed against life. No doubt the Goddess would require she atone for those lives. Threefold their deaths would return to haunt her. And Cael… he might, indeed, say he understood, and he might have once aligned himself with her mother, but she had lived too many years spying revulsion and fear in the eyes of others. It was one thing to know what she was, and another to witness it.

  Simply because she must, she hardened her heart.

  This was war, she told herself, and those men on the parapet had cast in their lot with Morwen.

  It was only Jack she was concerned about at the moment, remembering only belatedly that he had been a witness to his father’s demise. The young man stood, staring into the raging flames, his face pallid and his blue eyes wide as saucers. He grimaced as the last of the bowmen cast himself over the wall.

  “Blast and damn,” said Wilhelm, with a note of exultation.

  Alas, Rhiannon daren’t look directly into anyone’s eyes. She watched the ramparts burn until every inch of wood was consumed and then finally extinguished. It happened swiftly, like a pile of old dry leaves put to a flame.

  “Remind me to never anger you,” jested Cael, and Rhiannon felt the heat of his gaze. Even so, she daren’t face him—not yet… because… she didn’t want anyone to see the uncertainty that must be emblazoned upon her face.

  Uncertainty was weakness.

  This was no time to be weak.

  And worse—she must confess—there was a hint of rapture in her heart. She might not be too proud to have ended those lives, and yet… and yet… she had, indeed, thrilled over the return of her magik—the song in her veins longing to be sung. Even now, her body thrummed with energy and the hair on her head stood on end as she thought about her mother. I will end you, she thought silently.

  I promised retribution, and I will give it.

  Finally, at last, she would put an end to the woman who gave her life. Her mind whirring with thoughts of vengeance, she stood back and watched as the gate was completely consumed, leaving only a dark smoldering crater in a blackened wall.

  When the smoke cleared, altogether they mounted their horses, and one after the other, marched into the castle, as that same white-necked raven soared overhead.

  29

  Fierce and beautiful.

  His wife reminded him of the warrior queen Boudicca. Although she was long gone before his time, his father used to recount her tale to him as a boy: A noblewoman by birth, her lands were seized by the Romans. She and her daughters were flogged and defiled. In retribution, Boudicca raised an army and crossed the nation to challenge the governor in Anglesey, putting to shame the hearts of men who’d so willingly prostrated themselves for greed. Hers was the voice in his ear that had given him so much ambivalence throughout his life—on the one hand enjoying the fruits of his associations with Rome. On the other, shamed by the demise of the Old Ways.

  Seduced by power and gold, he was as responsible as any, and for so long, he’d been a man confused; today he was not.

  He was fiercely proud of his Welsh bride.

  She was wise beyond her years and ruthless as she must be in order to deal with the Witch Queen.

  Standing there, with her deep, copper hair and her bright blue eyes, she’d cast a judgment upon the Prince and his men, ending all discourse over their fates as swiftly and easily as one doused a candle’s flame.

  God only knew, he pitied those men their final moments, even as he understood it was the right thing to do.

  Wilhelm Fitz Richard was right. Given the opportunity, they would have aided and abetted Morwen in the coming battle; this was no time for mercy.

  Familial pride lifted his shoulders as he cantered up alongside Rhiannon, waiting patiently as she refused to meet his gaze. Finally, when she dared to look at him, her eyes were bright with unshed tears.

  Clearly, she wasn’t so hard-hearted as she wanted people to believe—fortunately for him, else she would never have come to love him. Only now he knew she did, despite that she’d yet to say those three precious little words.

  “You did what you had to do,” he told her gently. “They would have proven to be disadvantages. I know how difficult it is to resist your mother’s call.”

  “And yet… you did?” She furrowed her brows. “Did you not?”

  The breath caught in his lungs. How to properly address this—and should he do it right now?

  “Alas, I must confess, even now ’tis not so easily done.”

  “I see,” she said, with a note of discord, her voice turning icy. “So, then, what keeps you by my side, Lord Blackwood?”

  Love, he thought.

  Pure and simple.

  Love so impassioned, he longed to fall to his knees and kiss her feet. “I spoke true. I’m here for you.”

  He recognized the storm brewing in her eyes.

  It raged within him as well.

  “What now if she tests you? Who wins?”

  Even through her sarcasm, he heard uncertainty in her voice and it was nearly his undoing.

  What, indeed, would he do?

  It was an honest question and deserving of an honest answer, but Cael frowned, averting his gaze, because he didn’t know how to reply.

  In the end, defying Morwen could cost him his life—or, at the very least, his soul.

  And yet, did he still have a soul in his body?

  How did one extricate the essence of one’s being and wholly unite it again? After all, one did not simply dismantle a dog as one did a plough.

  Admittedly, he oft felt cold inside—ravaged, wasted, little remaining but an empty carcass.

  Were it not for one thing… this small thing… he might think himself already spent. That one small thing was the spark of his heart flame reignited by Rhiannon—and nevertheless, would that be enough when faced with the end, as it naturally must come?

  Would he truly be strong enough to die for what he loved… this time?

  Alas, though he had the reliquaries in his possession, he was still ignorant of their power, and if Morwen should wield them against him, would his resolve crumple like a decrepit auld cairn?

  When it mattered most, would he choose love over life?

  Or life over love?

  Cael liked to believe he had a definitive answer…

  But did he?

  Truly?

  It was easy enough to speak what he knew in his heart to be the right and honorable thing to do under these circumstances, but would he act upon his words?

  And this was the thing that haunted him most… all those many moons ago, when Nesta begged him to allow her to sacrifice herself in order to save his life… he’d let her.

  Instead, he should have denied her and allowed her to live out her life in peace… without him. He should have closed his eyes evermore, and let it be so.

  But nay, he had not. He’d given her assent.

  Delirious or nay, he’d nevert
heless made a choice. And perhaps he’d hoped it wouldn’t cost her life, but she did say it would, had she not?

  Only speak the word, and I shall gift you my life!

  Aye, he had said, and so she had… and here he was.

  And then, when he’d sworn to honor her memory forever, what had he gone and done? He promptly forgot her and gave his heart to another.

  He’d given it to Rhiannon.

  But… was he truly capable of the selfless love Nesta had displayed? Or, when push came to shove, would he betray his own heart? And this time, if he failed, he’d never find comfort in vengeance…

  This time if he failed, he would long for death.

  They breached the gate without contest and Rhiannon averted her gaze.

  “Forgive me,” he begged.

  “For what?”

  “For everything I have done,” he said, and once again, his wife dared to look at him, her demeanor hardened again.

  “What about for the things you did not do?” she asked, and gone was the soft, sweet young woman who’d slept so peacefully in his arms.

  Cael swallowed, tormented.

  Why, indeed, had he not set her free?

  Because he was afraid she would leave.

  Because he was afraid to die.

  Because he was a greedy bastard intent on revenge.

  More than anything, he longed to pull her into his arms, and kiss her desperately, tell her again and again that he loved her—as he knew, he should have long ago.

  She was, he feared, much like a cat, nearly gone feral—one instant curious and longing, the next ferocious and distant. “Ask me no promises, I’ll give you no lies,” she said, tossing his own words back at him. God’s truth, it was nothing less than he should expect from the defiant woman he’d come to know and adore. And nevertheless, it struck him a doubly painful blow, because, in truth, he didn’t deserve anyone’s forgiveness, much less hers.

  Nor was he entirely certain he would ever earn it.

  In the end, he decided, this was not the time for a heartfelt discussion, not with so many curious ears. So, he let it go, leaving her question to linger between them.