Fair warning? Elspeth thought. Less than a day. One evening. Come tomorrow she would become chattel to a vile man, traded like an old goat and sack of meal.
“Please, please, Elspeth. Listen to me. We can do it,” argued Rhiannon. “We have the means and we know the words.”
The sisters all exchanged nervous glances, then peered at the door. To their good fortune even guards must tend to their souls and five times every day the sisters were left alone so their gaolers might attend prayers. Tonight, as always, at the lighting of the lamps, the guards were called to vespers, but as soon as the prayers were done, they would return, and in this day and age when so many feared the Old Ways, the Craft must remain a closely guarded secret.
Worrying over the consequences of revealing themselves, Elspeth flicked a thumbnail across the frayed edge of the parchment, considering what to do.
As the eldest, she felt responsible for her sisters, and despite Rhiannon’s confidence, a conjuring was never to be considered lightly. No matter the purpose, there was always a price to pay.
Always.
If only they could settle this more naturally… if Matilda could but win the throne…
But, of course, Rhiannon read her thoughts. “Why should we care who wears father’s crown? It will never be Matilda. You are too beguiled by the blood of our sire.”
Silence met her accusation, and Elspeth overlooked the bitter tone, realizing that Rhiannon had just cause to feel aggrieved by both their mother and their father. And yet, she could not blame Henry for what befell their grandmamau; that was Morwen’s fault.
“Not solely,” Rhiannon argued. “He allowed her be martyred, the same as he would have done to me.”
It was Elspeth who was meant to suffer the consequences of this marriage, but Rhiannon was by far the most riled. Elspeth tried hard to maintain patience. “And yet he did not.”
“Only because he saw another means to profit. All men are greedy when it suits them, Elspeth. Merely consider Ersinius, who loathes the sight of us, and yet, for all the gold Stephen offers, he harbors us still. Say what you will about Morwen. At least she knows who she is.”
“I know who we are,” Elspeth said.
“I know who we are as well,” said Rhiannon, straightening her spine. “We are the Daughters of Avalon, and if we but join hands, we can do what no other woman can do—including Matilda, for all our Empress sister’s bold, brave words.”
Elspeth sat, holding her tongue, wringing the parchment in her hand, but Rhiannon was not yet through. “Matilda has never given us so much as a passing thought—not even you, Elspeth, despite that you seem to enjoy defending her.”
Elspeth lifted her chin. “She has her hands full trying to unseat a usurper,” she reminded. “What wouldst you have the lady do? Come have tea in our dirty little hovel?”
Rhiannon said, “Why not? At least then she wouldst know how we lived—and regardless that she never acknowledged me—the witch-eyed bastard daughter of her father’s—she certainly knew you well enough, and it would seem to me that she would care enough to see how you fared.”
Elspeth sighed, wearied by the discussion. It wasn’t always so easy to defend Matilda, but she did so regardless. “If Matilda does not know you it is through no fault of her own. Tis Morwen’s.”
“And Henry’s.”
“Nay,” Elspeth maintained. “Our father loved all his children, even you, Rhiannon.”
“Oh, please, Elspeth! Henry could scarce have known all his many bastards. And, anyway, if he never showed his affection, how can you know for sure?” Even despite her persistence in condemning their father, there seemed to be a note of hope in her voice. “Did he ever say?”
More and more, it was impossible to hide anything from Rhiannon. Her skills grew stronger by the day. Elspeth peered down at the parchment in her lap, averting her gaze.
In truth, nay.
“I didn't think so,” said Rhiannon, and the pain in her words squeezed at Elspeth’s heart.
“Sisters, please! Let us not fight,” Seren pleaded. “We all knew this time would come, and now we must steel our minds and hearts.”
Rhiannon’s amber eyes glinted by the firelight. “The daughter of a witch is still a witch, even if she has no knowledge of the Craft. Have you forgotten what they do to witches, Seren?”
“But what of Morwen?” Arwyn argued. “She seems to have weathered suspicion well enough.”
Too young to comprehend the ways of men, and tired of the argument, Rose spoke up now. “I agree with Seren. For all we know, d’Lucy could be a gentle man. Elspeth might never know this unless she gave him a chance.” She turned to Elspeth. “Only think of it, Elspeth. You would return to Blackwood! It could be you would enchant this man, and, in the end, you could live a life far better than this.” She waved a hand, wrinkling her nose in disgust over their surroundings.
And, in truth, it was a crude hovel they dwelt in. Unlike the remainder of the priory, the mortar here was hastily applied, leaving whistling cracks in the walls to permit the wind.
And nevertheless… a plusher prison remained a prison. As much as Elspeth relished the notion of returning to the home she’d shared with her grandmamau, she could not bear the thought of sharing it with a vassal of the Usurper.
Alas, neither of her sisters had ever set eyes upon their mountain-top fortress, with its ancient spires rising so high over the tree tops—so high that one could easily spy the endless ocean from its highest point. And now, unless Elspeth wed this man, she would never again walk those halls. Morwen, in her greed, had betrayed her own mother, and in the process had foresworn all her rights to Blackwood. And for his prowess in battle, that legendary fortress now belonged to a man who’d been paid to murder Stephen’s foes—a man who knew naught of Blackwood’s past, or even cared that it was a last bastion of a Priestess of Avalon. How sorely Elspeth missed the ivy-tangled courtyard, but the thought of lying beneath a minion of her mother’s, whilst he grunted and groaned, thrusting his seed into her womb, made her feel like retching.
Of course, she wanted desperately to believe that Rhiannon could be right, that they might speak the words without consequence, but it simply wasn’t true. Here, in the dominion of men, there was no leave to change the will of gods without altering the warp and woof of life. There could be no denying the Law of Three, which was to say that any magik, good or bad, once unleashed into the world would return to them threefold. Of course, if a spell be whispered in malice, malice would be the spirit it returned. Or, if it be spoken in fear, fear was the thread to be sewn through the fabric of their lives. But there were consequences far beyond these simple truths.
“Elspeth,” Rhiannon pleaded.
The first rays of twilight crept in through the window as Elspeth said, “Nay. But let us quarrel no more. I will wed the man.” She turned her gaze upon Rhiannon. “I love you, sister, but what you have proposed could have consequences beyond our imagining. Remember the White Ship?”
“Damned be the White Ship!” snapped Rhiannon, sounding too much like their mother, but for the cause of her anger. “What price has Morwen paid for any of that?”
Elspeth held her composure. “We know not what price Morwen will pay, but I cannot be made responsible for the burden this will heap on your backs. You are my sisters,” she said, “I love you dearly. Can you not see that?”
Tears shone in Rhiannon’s eyes.
No one said another word. But the weight of Elspeth’s decision sat like a stone on each of their breasts, pressing the life and breath from their lungs. And yet, to wed this man seemed Elspeth’s only legitimate choice.
“I cannot bear it,” said Rhiannon.
“Nor I, in truth,” said Elspeth and she rolled up her parchment, and rose from her seat before the hearth, leaving her sisters to stare helplessly at one another.
She drew up her cloak and made her way to the window, tears spilling into her lashes. For these past thirteen years they’d been ensconced in
this priory, waiting and waiting… for what?
For this?
Sweet Goddess, nay…
But despite the hue and cry of the afternoon, and the tumult in her heart, the evening outside 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 see the entire vale of Ewyas, and there, sprawled before her, lay the entire priory, with stone and timber limbs outstretched like a greedy lover in the middle of a verdant bed.
The east-facing windows on the chapel glinted defiantly against a well-spent sun. The rare and expensive forest glass, only recently installed, were broken. Two sennights past, the largest of the new vestibule windows had been smashed by a pebble, hurled by a boy—a keen reminder to the encroaching English that this would never be their land to rule. So long as the Cymry had breath to resist, so they should, even to a child.
Mayhap her sisters could not remember, but Elspeth could never forget: This land was once hallowed land—not blessed by the dictums of Holy Church or the men who sought to profit by her favor, but by the spirit of the Cymry, and the divinity of the land itself.
It was changing… more every day, but when they’d first come here, it still bore a trace of that wild, untamed land, where faeries had whispered through swaying branches, and the wind blew sweet, like a lover’s breath over mortal 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, whose gentle hands had bowed the heads of trees to create a magical place, awash in dappled light.
Now, like a cancer, the priory had grown and grown and grown, spreading further and further across the vale, like a hulking scab.
What had begun as little more than a prison to hold the king’s “witchy daughters,” had become a vanity for the Marcher lords, and a strategic center of power that both Stephen and Matilda vied for. Llanthony was now the richest, most well-endowed priory in all of Britain.
There was even a new hatchery, and once a week, wrapped in damp rushes, fresh fish were brought all the way from Llangorse, along Rhiw Pyscod.
Likewise, from the newly consecrated Abbey Dore, Rhiw Cwrw brought great casks of ale.
Fifteen years ago, at her mother’s suggestion, 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 location—to Morwen; and therefore, she journeyed with the king, making herself indispensable.
And for all that these monks were “servants of God,” they were naught but conspirators—men whose necks were all in yokes, including Ersinius.
As did so many who’d knelt before the Empress whilst her father yet lived, Ersinius, too, had forsaken his vows. Even as the breath left Henry’s body, those who would not follow a woman, had turned their eyes toward Stephen of Blois, and all those men who’d risen beneath The Conqueror, and who’d sworn fealty to her father, now engaged in the bitterest of wars—brother against brother, brother against sister, cousin against cousin. What insufferable irony. Merely because Morwen hid her face behind a man, they followed her blindly. So long as Elspeth lived, she would never abet them.
Arwyn sounded as though she’d been weeping. “You say you would wed d’Lucy, but I see it pains you.”
“Of course, it pains her,” Rhiannon said. “But, I tell you, this is not a fate our sister should embrace.”
“We could leave here… all together,” suggested Arwyn.
“Nay!” said Rose in fear. “You go, I will not. Ersinius would never allow it.” And then she must have turned to speak at Elspeth, for Elspeth heard her more clearly. “If he catches you, Elspeth, there will be none who can prevent him from harming you.”
The light in the cottage grew fragile now, as motes of dust danced in the sun’s fading light.
“Elspeth must go,” insisted Rhiannon.
“I am sworn to protect you.”
“Aye? Well, how will you do such a thing after you have gone?” Rhiannon asked. “Because one way or another, you will go, Elspeth. Only think on it, please! If you do not go tonight, you will be forced to leave on the morrow.”
It was true. One way or another—with or without her sisters—Elspeth would be forced to leave LLanthony… and still she hesitated.
Only their mamau had ever dabbled in the hud du—black magic as the English were wont to call it, but even white magik could be treacherous as evidenced by the White Ship.
Elspeth was only seven years old when Morwen conjured a mist like the one they meant to summon tonight. It lured that White Ship over the rocks, sinking it, with her father’s only legitimate male heir aboard. But, how convenient that Stephen of Blois had found himself feeling ill enough to disembark. Clearly, Morwen had beguiled him to remain ashore. But that one conjuring claimed two-hundred and fifty innocent souls. Therefore, it was never the intent that dictated the consequences. Rather, it was the nature of the harm inflicted. And there was simply no way to foresee such a thing. “I… I don’t know.”
Seren offered the only argument that could possibly have swayed her. “A man such as d’Lucy will use your skills against Matilda—and worse…”
All five sisters understood instinctively what the worst might be…
If he were a Godly man, the likes of Ersinius, he could beat Elspeth until he was sure she was free of the hud. As her lawful husband, no one would have any right to stay his hand—not even Morwen. He could call her a witch and a pythoness and mistreat her for what he did not understand. But, if she left… “If I go,” Elspeth said, reasoning with them, “he will but move to the next.” She shrugged. “Tis not as though he bears me any love.”
“Aye, but let’s speak true. He would not have me,” argued Rhiannon, and her sisters’ gazes all turned in her direction. “Well,” she said with conviction. “He would not. And, regardless, Morwen will never allow him to take Seren whilst I remain unwed.”
This was true, as well, because if she didn’t insist upon it, all hope of profiting from her second eldest would be lost. Unless he were forced to, Stephen would never saddle any of his barons with a cross-eyed Cymry witch—more’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… Morwen would be steadfast… her daughters must each wed according to their turn. Stephen might tarry when it comes to Rhiannon, but I do not believe he will test her. His war would sooner be lost without Morwen.”
Again, all true.
Feeling a twinge of hope for the first time since the arrival of her mother’s letter, Elspeth moved away from the window. “I do recall he would not remove Morwen from his apartments even to satisfy his wife—and that woman scares me more than Morwen.”
The sisters all laughed nervously.
They’d only chanced to meet King Stephen’s portly wife on a single occasion, when Morwen settled into her quarters in the White Tower, and the girls were summoned to meet their father’s successor. As petite as the queen had been, she was like a mastiff—built like one too. She’d marched into Morwen’s quarters, and told her in no uncertain terms, to be discreet, lest she defy her lord and king and set Morwen’s head on a pike to feed her eyeballs to her precious ravens.
Elspeth contemplated out loud. “So, then… if I leave? What then? Eventually, Stephen will tire of waiting and he will endeavor to convince Morwen to offer Seren. And regardless of who is next, if I leave tonight, it only buys you time.”
Sensing victory, Rhiannon’s familiar smile unfurled. “Oh, my dear sister, there is so much a witch can do given a bit of time.”
<
br /> Elspeth blinked, enthralled by the twinkle in her sister’s gold flecked eyes. And suddenly, as though everyone were singing the same chorus, Arwyn said, thinking out loud, “Tomorrow is the day they bring ale from Abbe Dore.”
“There will be comings and goings,” agreed Seren. “We can say Elspeth remained abed with some malaise. Nobody will be any wiser till the envoy arrives. But she will need a disguise…”
Rose said sheepishly, “I have one.”
The sisters all turned toward their youngest sibling in surprise. “What?”
“If, indeed, I will not dissuade you, I will give you the tunic and breeches I use on occasion to steal into the woods to look for herbs—and before you lecture me, do remember that if I had not done so, we’d not have the mugwort we need for tonight.”
Rhiannon’s smile widened. She swept a hand before them “See,” she said. “The Goddess has preordained this.” She turned to Elspeth. “You must trust me, Elspeth. Please,” she begged. “I have a plan. And if you leave tonight,” she said, “we will soon follow behind you.”
Elspeth thought about the logistics. If she left, she would have nothing but the clothes on her back—or rather, the clothes Rose stole. They had no money, and unless she pilfered something from the chapel, she would have nothing to trade, even for food or even a mount for travel—and yet, she did not have the blood of cowards in her veins, nor was she without her wiles. She knew very well how to forage, and she knew how to make her way using the talents her grandmamau taught her. “Art certain?”
“Quite.”
“Very well,” Elspeth relented. “I will go.”
“’Tis settled,” Seren said, excited now, and she bounced up from her chair to meet Elspeth halfway across the room. She took Elspeth by the shoulders, and said, “If Rhiannon says there is a will and a way, there is indeed a will and way.” And then, smiling gently, she hugged Elspeth, and moved past her, toward the bed, digging beneath the mattress to ferret out the herb pouch she had hidden there. The rest of her sisters all rose from their chairs to gather around the hearth and Elspeth moved to bar the door, swallowing a lump of fear that rose to choke her. Once the door was barred and the window shutters were closed, she joined her sisters by the cauldron, understanding intuitively what they were about to do.
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