Rhiannon said, “Why not? At least then she wouldst know how we live. She never acknowledged me, perhaps, but she knew you well enough. It would seem to me that if she cared at all, she would wish to see how you fared.”
Elspeth sighed, wearied by that particular discussion. It wasn’t always so easy to defend Matilda, because it was true: Matilda had only once ever bothered to come to Llanthony, and even then, she’d never bothered to see her sisters. She’d come to remind Ersinius of his oath to support her. But, of course, that was fruitless. As had so many who’d knelt before Matilda whilst Henry still lived, Llanthony’s illustrious chaplain, like most of Stephen’s barons, would never abide a woman on England’s throne.
“Elspeth? Please... you must trust me. I have a plan.”
“What plan?”
“Trust me,” Rhiannon said, her eyes revealing her desperation as the first rays of twilight crept in through their window.
The Golden Hour was swiftly approaching—that hour between times, when the veil between worlds was at its thinnest and the hud was at its strongest.
Elspeth said, her eyes glinting with unshed tears, “I do trust you, Rhiannon, but what you propose may have consequences beyond our imagining. Remember the White Ship?”
“Precisely,” Rhiannon argued. “And for that meddling, what price has Morwen paid? If you ask me, she has profited greatly, and to this day, I have never once seen any evidence that our mother suffered a single day.”
Elspeth held her composure. “We know not what price she’ll pay, but I cannot be made responsible for the burden this could heap upon your shoulders. You are my sisters,” she said. “I love you dearly. Can you not understand? I would never forgive myself if aught should happen to any of you because of me. Let us say no more. I’ll wed that man, come what may.”
Silence met her declaration, and no one spoke another word. The weight of her decision sat like an anvil on each of their breasts, pressing the life and breath from their lungs. And nevertheless, to wed this man seemed Elspeth’s only legitimate choice.
Fat tears shone in Rhiannon’s eyes. “I cannot bear it,” she said. “Come tomorrow evening, you would trade yourself like an old goat and a sack of meal.”
“Nor I, in truth,” admitted Elspeth, and she rolled up the parchment and rose from her chair, leaving her sisters to stare helplessly at one another, while she tried to salvage her composure. She made her way to the window, tears spilling into her lashes. For these past thirteen years they’d been trapped in this godforsaken priory, waiting and waiting… but for what?
For this?
Sweet Goddess, nay…
She peered out the window, searching for the guards, some little part of her perhaps still considering Rhiannon’s plan, reckless as it might be.
Despite the tumult in her heart, the evening seemed perfectly tranquil, with a blushing sky that brushed the rooftops with warm vestal light. Their crude little cottage lay at the back of the priory on the highest point of the hill, like a tower prison without a tower. And nevertheless, from this vantage, Elspeth could spy the entire vale of Ewyas.
At this hour, the west-facing windows on the chapel glinted unevenly against a well-spent sun. The rare and expensive forest glass was smashed three sennights past—a keen reminder that so long as the Welsh had breath to resist, so they would.
Mayhap her sisters could not remember, but Elspeth could never forget: This land was once hallowed land—not blessed by the dictums of the Holy Church or the men who sought to profit through her favor, but by the spirit of the Welsh, and the divinity of the land itself.
It was changing now… more every day, but it still bore a trace of that wild, untamed country, where faeries whispered through swaying branches, and the wind blew sweet over mortal’s brows. The chapel of their hearts had been constructed of arches, but unlike those forged by men and scarred by chisels, these were built by the Goddess herself, whose loving hands had bowed the ancient heads of trees to create a magical place beneath.
Now, like a cancer, the priory had grown and grown, stretching like a greedy lover in the middle of a verdant bed, unfurling farther and farther into Welsh territory. What had begun as little more than a prison to hold the king’s “witchy daughters,” had become a strategic center of power for the Usurper. Llanthony was now the richest, most well-endowed priory in all of Britain, completely self-sufficient, despite its remoteness. There was even a new hatchery and once a week, wrapped in damp rushes, fresh fish were brought all the way from Llangorse. Likewise, from the newly consecrated Abbey Dore, came huge casks of ale. Ten years ago, at her mother’s direction, they’d built an aviary unlike any that graced the king’s land, filled with pigeons and white-necked ravens that could speak the king’s tongue. Both birds were bred for correspondence. But, unlike the messenger pigeons, which naturally returned to where they were born, the ravens were drawn to only one place—wherever Morwen should be, making her indispensable to her king.
Alas, for all that these monks were “servants of God,” they were naught but conspirators with her mother and so long as Elspeth lived, she would never, never abet them… and yet, here she was… about to wed a man her mother ordained.
The light in the cottage grew fragile now, as dust motes danced in the sun’s fading rays. The golden hour was here. If, in truth, Elspeth meant to change her mind, she must do so now. Once the sun had set, it would be too late…
Rhiannon must have sensed her wavering. “Elspeth, please… you must go.”
“I cannot, Rhiannon. I have sworn to protect you.”
Rhiannon pressed her. “And how will you do such a thing after you have gone? One way or another, you will go. Only think better of it, please! If you do not leave tonight, you will be forced to leave on the morrow. And how will you help us then?”
It was true. One way or another—with or without her sisters—Elspeth would be forced to leave the priory… and still she hesitated. Even white magik could be treacherous, but only their mother had ever dabbled in the hud du—black magic as the English were wont to call it.
Elspeth was seven when Morwen had conjured a mist like the one Rhiannon would have them summon tonight. It lured the White Ship over the rocks, sinking the fated vessel, and carrying their father’s only legitimate male heir to the black depths of the sea. That single conjuring changed the fate of nations and claimed two hundred and fifty innocent lives. So, then, it was not the intent that dictated consequences. Rather, it was the nature of the harm inflicted. And there was no way to foresee such a thing. Black hud or white, there was a price to be paid. Finally, Rhiannon offered the only argument that could possibly sway her. “A man such as d’Lucy might use your skills against Matilda—or worse…”
All five sisters understood instinctively what the worst might be: If he were a godly man, like Ersinius, he could beat Elspeth until she bled. As her lawful husband, no one would have any right to stop him—not even Morwen. He could call her a witch and pythoness and mistreat her for what he did not understand… or… he could put her to the pyre, like they did to their grandmother. But, if she left…
“If I go,” Elspeth said, reasoning, “he will simply wed the next of you. Tis not as though he bears me any love.”
“Aye, but let’s speak true, Elspeth. I am next. He would never have me,” argued Rhiannon, and her sisters’ gazes all turned in her direction, looking abashed. “Well,” she said with perfect conviction, turning up a hand in resignation. “Tis true. He would never wed an afflicted daughter with a disagreeable temper.” She lifted the hand up, silencing them, when they opened their mouths to console her. “Regardless, Morwen is greedy. She would never allow him or anyone else to take Seren—her prized jewel—whilst I remain unwed. Therefore, it buys us time.”
It was true. If Morwen didn’t insist upon Rhiannon being next, all hope of profiting from her second eldest would be lost. And, unless he were forced to, Stephen would never saddle any of his barons with a cross-eyed Welsh witch—mor
e’s the pity, because Rhiannon was as inherently lovely as she was loyal—even if she did tend to make men cross themselves at a glance.
Sounding more hopeful now, Arwyn added, “’Tis true, Elspeth… Morwen will be steadfast… how many times has she said her daughters must each wed according to their turn. I do not believe Stephen will test her. Remember, when his wife insisted Morwen be removed from their apartments? He would not even remove mother to satisfy his lady—and that woman scares me more than mother.”
The sisters all laughed nervously, but it wasn’t precisely true. No one was more frightening than Morwen. And still, the king’s wife was no wilting flower. They’d only chanced to meet her on a single occasion, when Morwen first settled into her quarters in the White Tower, and the girls were summoned to meet Henry’s successor. As petite as the queen might be, she was like a mastiff. She’d marched into Morwen’s quarters and told their vicious mother in no uncertain terms to be discreet, lest she defy her lord king and feed Morwen’s eyeballs to her precious ravens.
Elspeth contemplated out loud. “So, then… if I leave? What then? Eventually, Stephen will tire of waiting and he’ll endeavor to convince Morwen to offer Seren. But regardless of who is next, if I leave tonight, it only buys you time.”
Sensing victory, Rhiannon’s smile unfurled. “Oh, dear sister, you of all must realize there is so much a witch can do given a little time.”
Elspeth blinked, enthralled by the twinkle in her sister’s gold-flecked eyes. And then suddenly, as though everyone were singing the same chorus, Arwyn said, thinking aloud, “Tomorrow is the day they bring ale from Abbey Dore.”
“There will be comings and goings,” agreed Seren. “We could say Elspeth remained abed with some malaise. Nobody would be any wiser until the envoy arrives.”
“She’ll need a disguise,” said Rose. “I have one.”
The sisters all turned toward their youngest sibling in surprise.
“If, indeed, I cannot dissuade you, I would give you the tunic and breeches I use on occasion to steal into the woods and look for herbs—and before you lecture me,” she added defiantly, “remember that had I not done so, we’d not have the mugwort we need for tonight.”
Rhiannon’s smile widened. She swept a hand before them. “You see,” she said. “The Goddess has preordained this.” She turned again to Elspeth. “I do have a plan, Elspeth. And if you leave tonight,” she promised, “we’ll soon follow.”
Elspeth bit at her lip, pressing the tender skin between her teeth with a trembling finger. “Art certain?”
Rhiannon nodded enthusiastically, and Elspeth considered the logistics a bit more soberly. If she left tonight, she would have naught but the clothes on her back—or rather, whatever clothes Rose had stolen from the guards. They had no money, and unless she pilfered something from the chapel, she would have naught to trade, not even for food or a horse for travel.
And yet, she did not have the blood of cowards in her veins, nor was she without her wiles. She knew well enough how to forage for food, and she knew how to make her way using the talents her grandmamau taught her. “Very well, then,” Elspeth relented. “I’ll go.”
Rhiannon clapped.
“’Tis settled,” Seren said, suddenly excited, bouncing up from her chair to meet Elspeth halfway across the room. She took Elspeth by the shoulders, and said gently, “If Rhiannon says there’s a will and way, there’s a will and way.” And then, smiling, she hugged Elspeth and moved past her toward the bed, digging beneath the mattress for the herb pouch she’d hidden there.
Knowing their time was short, the rest of her sisters all rose from their chairs to gather around the hearth. Elspeth moved to bar the door, swallowing the lump of fear that rose to choke her. And once the door was barred and the shutters closed against prying eyes, she joined her sisters by the cauldron, knowing intuitively what they were about to do.
The cauldron in their hearth was not unlike the ancestral cauldron in the quadrangle at Blackwood, only that one was large and black, licked by a hundred thousand smoky tongues. This one was small and squat and smelled like cabbage stew.
Unlacing the small pouch that contained the necessary herbs, Seren placed two fingers inside to remove a pinch, then tossed the mixture into the cauldron. Her words were breathy and low, as she sang, “Our song arises from the cauldron, unrestrained be our tongues.”
Rhiannon stepped forward to pass a hand over the bubbling water, and then plucked a strand of her own dark hair, tossing it into the pot. Then, one by one, each sister offered a benign sacrifice of her person—a strand of hair, a bitten fingernail, an eyelash, plucked.
Beneath the cauldron’s black belly, the fire quivered, then leapt, reborn. Flames in the shapes of fiery hands moved to cradle the pot in much the same way a woman might stroke a pregnant belly. And then, after each of the sisters had given of her essence, they joined hands, and Elspeth said with a lump in her throat, “Mother Goddess hear us calling…”
“We are your daughters,” continued Rhiannon.
And Seren added, “Wherever we may roam.”
“Sister Moon hear us calling,” said Arwyn.
And the youngest rejoined, if only reluctantly, with tears brimming in her wide blue eyes. “In your light we are never alone…”
Outside, the last ray of sunlight stretched thin, quivering as though the incantation had forced it to linger against its will.
Altogether the sisters whispered low, “Breath of life, powers lend. We hail the sky your mist to send. By all on high and law of three, it is my will, so may it be.”
In answer, a thin, cold mist crept out from the cauldron, sliding down the dull black belly and spilling onto the dirt floor. Slowly, it coalesced about the sisters’ feet, and then after swallowing the dirt floor of the hovel, it crept out beneath the door…
Chapter 2
The Black Mountains, Wales
Neither king nor church held sway in such a time-forgotten place. It was a country unfurling with mists, overgrown with brambles and painted in copious shades of green.
Malcom Scott, first of his name, Earl of Aldergh, vassal to Stephen of Blois, made his way past wizened old yews with twisted, broken backs and white-skinned aspens that shivered as he passed—and perhaps it was the sight of him that made them tremble, for at thirty, Malcom bore the scars of too many battles. His hair, like his sire’s, was heavily brushed with silver, and his shoulders, once lean with youth, were wide enough to bear the weight of worlds.
By now, he had managed to betray both kith and kin—and for what? An ill-begotten piece of land in the hinterlands of England? Thirteen years ago, he slew his own kinsman, and what he’d won for this effort was a castle in the border lands and a rising silence from the north that left him cold by night and longing for simpler days. Scowling over a memory of that day so long past—in woodlands distinctly different from these—he peered down at the sigil on his finger, given to him by his mother, the daughter of Aldergh’s first lord.
Altium, citius, fortius.
It was Malcom’s maxim now.
Swifter, higher, stronger.
And this he was: swifter than his sire, taller and stronger. But as for the noble dictum his maxim proclaimed, Malcom feared he was more the spirit of his grandsire, for in the name of avarice—what else could it be?—he’d committed grievous sins.
Alas, though, if his mother regretted the bestowal, Malcom couldn’t say. He’d not spoken to either of his parents in more than ten years and he had a ten-year-old brother that, to this day, he’d never laid eyes upon. But at least his father had an heir. However, having received word of the MacKinnon’s failing health, neither king, nor duty could prevent him from traveling north.
Cursing softly beneath his breath, he made his way through brambles, wincing as thorns pricked at his back. At one point, the mist grew so thick he was forced to dismount, and taking the lead rope, he guided Merry Bells, testing every step before the horse. Even then, like bent auld hags wit
h claws for fists, the brambles tore at his sherte and picked at his coif. He’d left the headgear on, as much to protect him from the thorns as he had from Welshmen’s arrows.
Behind him, the horse snorted in protest as a branch snapped backward after catching his sherte, and he frowned. By damn, once they were done here, they would be a sore sight for his armorer, who scarce had time to mend his accouterments before Stephen called him back to war. This time the man had his work cut out for him because Malcom took an arrow to the shoulder and there was a gaping hole in his armor where the arrowhead had pierced him. The damage to his flesh was minimal, and fortunately, he’d managed not to succumb to a fever, but at some point, it would behoove him to stop and tend to the wound. He counted it his good fortune that these Welshmen had but intended to frighten them. Otherwise, his body would be rotting at the bottom of a ravine by now. Certainly Daw would never have made it ten steps in his flight and he cursed yet again over the loss of his squire. That lad took to his heels the instant the Welsh fell from the trees and Malcom was pretty certain he’d seen the last of his squire—a young man he’d trained for nigh on two years. Sure, he’d rather Daw be gone and still breathing than dead, but it troubled him how fickle these soldiers had become over the course of Stephen’s reign. There was hardly any consequence for waffling when Stephen rewarded his own cousins for treason.
He rolled his eyes over that nonsense. Last year, at the tender age of fourteen, whilst his mother was working her own manner of treason, Henry Fitz Empress had launched himself a coup, waging a petty war that, in the end cost Stephen plenty—not the least of which was his credibility. The Empress’s upstart landed at Wiltshire with an expensive army, meant to put Stephen off the throne, and then, once the battle was lost, Stephen paid the lad’s debts and sent him home to his mama, with but a slap on the wrist, little more.
Considering that, why shouldn’t Daw run? And thank God for Malcom that he hadn’t needed the lad. Never in his life had he witnessed men so skilled with bows. These Welsh were masters at melding with their environs, suspending themselves from trees, and leaping down like spiders from webs. As he made his way through the woods in this pea-soup fog, he was painfully aware of the fact that it would be impossible to ascertain whether someone was hovering overhead. Even now, he could have longbows trained at his head…
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