The Daughters of Avalon Collection: Books 1 & 2

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Very somberly, the brothers turned to walk into Westminster Palace, where Giles de Vere was prepared to bend his knee to the Usurper…

  For Warkworth.

  Chapter 2

  Rap. Rap. Rap.

  The knock on the door was tentative, perhaps even diffident, but if there was one thing the Ewyas sisters had learned since arriving at court, it was that the king’s household lived in fear of Morwen Pendragon. Such as it was, there was a note of dread in the voice that called to them from behind the door. “My ladies?”

  Seren, Arwyn and Rosalynde each exchanged nervous glances, for this was the moment they’d been anticipating. Downstairs, Morwen was in attendance with Stephen, interrogating their sister’s intended.

  Would he insist upon taking Seren with him?

  Regardless, it could be the last time the sisters would be all together. Of the five, Rosalynde and Arwyn were the youngest of their brood—twins born minutes apart. Seren was the middle child, and Elspeth and Rhiannon were the elder, with two good years between them. Rhiannon was still in Wales, imprisoned, or dead, so they feared. Elspeth was far, far to the north, wed to an enemy of the crown, and from what little gossip they had gleaned, she was being held against her will, forced to wed the mendacious traitor Malcom Scott. Of course, Rosalynde suspected there was more to the story and she believed Elspeth had embraced her magik in her darkest hour.

  “Lady Seren,” the woman called again. “Please, please hurry…”

  As luck would have it, this would be the first time since arriving in London that Morwen’s manservant had left them unattended. Certain that her daughters knew better than to defy her, Morwen had sent Mordecai out to run some errand—no doubt she had sent him to murder some unsuspecting soul.

  As Seren plucked her cloak from a chair, Arwyn opened the door to reveal a pinched-face matron behind it. The woman peered into the room, searching for Seren, and then seeing her, said with a note of relief in her voice, “The king beckons, Lady Seren. You must hurry.”

  “I am ready,” she told the woman, gesturing for Arwyn to open the door a little wider. Then, whilst the woman waited, she went to each of her sisters, kissing them in turn—Rosalynde first, as she was closest. They put their heads together, and Seren whispered. “I love you, dearest sister. Remember this always.” And then, whispering lower, she said, “Get the Book as far away from here as possible. I shall delay her as long as I can.”

  Rosalynde swallowed the lump that rose in her throat. “Take good care,” she said. “And please, please take heart: Even if he insists you go with him, we are committed to this endeavor—all of us. It must be done. She will be weaker without the grimoire.”

  “My lady,” the woman urged from the hall. “Your betrothed awaits, and… your mother… she’ll be angry.”

  “I am coming,” said Seren patiently, realizing the maidservant was not to be blamed. She was merely doing the king’s bidding, nothing more, nothing less.

  With trembling knees, Rosalynde stood watching as her sister moved to kiss Arwyn next, and as her sisters embraced for the last time, she plucked up the small tallow candle on the dresser, preparing herself for the task to come.

  By the door, Seren affected an excited tone for the sake of the maid. “Worry not, my sweet sisters. I am pleased with my match, and I pray you, too, will soon find your own champions.” She smiled, but her eyes shone with tears as she met Rosalynde’s gaze across the room, and Rosalynde found her own eyes dampening as Seren blew her a kiss good-bye. The sisters shared one last meaningful glance, and then Rose tore her gaze away.

  Arwyn’s voice was tender, but raw with her grief. “Go with our love, Seren. Know that wherever you find yourself, we, too, shall be beneath the same bold stars, loving you from afar.”

  Without another word, Seren hurried away, and once she was gone, Rosalynde wanted naught more than to throw herself on the bed and weep, though considering what little time they had remaining before Morwen returned, there wasn’t time for tears, or doubt.

  Arwyn shut the door and went after their mother’s spell book while Rosalynde went after the nun’s garb she’d stolen two weeks past. In her pocket, there was enough of her mother’s philter to cast one glamour spell, and the rest was hidden in the hem of her gown. Hurrying, she donned the nun’s habit, and Arwyn laid the grimoire down on the bed to help her affix the wimple and veil. When they were done, she left the wimple hanging by a pin, and returned to the grimoire on the bed, withdrawing a small blade from the pocket of her surcoat. “Hurry,” she told Rosalynde, and in the meantime, Rosalynde retrieved her candle, igniting the wick with a fire song and held it over the ancient tome.

  By the light of the candle, the face of the spell book appeared strangely human, with transforming expressions. Embossed upon its surface were endless, ever-changing symbols—naught the human eye could easily perceive, but before a dewine’s eyes, the symbols rippled and reshaped, emerging and receding into the aged black leather, like hills and dales rising and reforming to a journeyman’s gaze. Much as they’d anticipated, the book lay pliantly before them, like a joyous bride awaiting her lover.

  Over the course of these past months, Rosalynde and her sisters had visited every wondrous page and pored over the rites. The recipes were ancient, but knowable only to those who bore dewine blood. Unlike the grimoire they’d begun to make at Llanthony, this one was bound by blood magik, and if anyone were to open the book without right, it would appear to be no more than a ruined book of prayer, faded by age and stained with watermarks. But to a dewine, its pages came alive, speaking to their minds and hearts.

  And now, without hesitation, Arwyn sliced the blade across the tip of a finger, squeezing a few drops of her life’s blood onto the leather-bound volume.

  One. Two. Three.

  One by one, the glistening droplets sank into the dark vellum, as though the book itself lay thirsting for the life-giving elixir. And then, she whispered.

  A drop of my blood to open or close,

  Speak now the song of ancient prose.

  Shadows be gone, words reveal

  The mysteries of life my book conceals.

  Like a woman in the throes of pleasure, the book trembled. But, after a moment, a burst of smoke blew from its pages, as though it were expiring the dust of ages. Then, as soon as it allowed, Arwyn opened the Book of Secrets, turning the pages until she found the proper spell.

  Ready for her part, Rosalynde lifted the candle as Arwyn shoved the grimoire in her direction.

  “Art certain, Rose?’

  “As certain as I shall ever be.”

  Arwyn nodded sadly. “I will miss you.”

  “Not for long,” Rosalynde promised. Because the very instant she could, she would return for her dear, sweet twin. In the meantime, she knew in her heart of hearts that this was the best recourse. “Do everything she says,” Rosalynde directed. “Everything she says! You must reassure her that you tried to prevent me from leaving and that you knew naught of my plans.”

  Arwyn nodded, her violet blue eyes full of fear, because it would seem an impossible task. Of all their siblings, the twins were closest of all. There was hardly a thing that one knew that the other did not… and yet…

  “You must convince Morwen of your fury! Be her one devoted daughter. Curse my name, if you must.”

  “Don’t worry. I will,” Arwyn promised, and knowing that time was growing short, Rosalynde peered down at the sacred words on the vellum—words she had by now memorized— and held the candle aloft, setting one hand atop the spell book as she stared into the flame.

  “Ready?” she asked.

  “Ready,” Arwyn said, and Rosalynde spoke the words.

  Blessed flame, shining bright,

  Aid me well in my flight.

  Unveil to all another self,

  Change the book I touch, itself.

  Power of three, let them see, let them see, let them see.

  Power of three, let them see, let them see, let the
m see.

  Power of three, let them…

  Arwyn gasped. “Oh, my!” she said, and Rosalynde at once plucked the small mirror from the pocket of her gown, gasping as well.

  Her face… it was, indeed changed.

  According to the grimoire, a glamour spell worked best—and for longer—if it didn’t have to work so hard to conceal one’s true nature; therefore, she’d only used a bit of the philter.

  Evidently, it was enough. The smooth skin of her face had given way, not so much to the leathery lines of an old hag’s, but certainly to a woman’s whose features had been subjected to much abuse—a broken nose, too much sun. Instead of golden-red, her hair was dark as sable. Her smattering of freckles gone, and her skin pale as parchment, though splotched, her nose too big for her face, her eyes no longer blue. They were green as a forest glade, but now they resembled her sister Rhiannon’s. Alas, even on her lovely sister, those wandering eyes had the uncanny effect of compelling men to cross themselves at a glance.

  So now it was time to go.

  She was ready.

  Tears pooled in Rosalynde’s eyes, but before she could allow her emotions to run amok and turn her from her task, she laid down the mirror and scooped up the grimoire.

  Resolved, she gave Arwyn a kiss goodbye, and said, “May the Goddess love and keep you.”

  Arwyn’s voice broke. “And you, Rosalynde.” She thrust their mother’s heavy cloak into Rosalynde’s arms, and Rosalynde nearly thrust it back. “Take it. You will need it. Go now, and don’t look back.”

  Already, Seren had been gone from their apartments more than twenty minutes. Fearing for a moment that it might be the last time she ever saw her twin, she lingered, giving Arwyn one last kiss and hug.

  Arwyn shook her gently. “Go!” she demanded, and Rosalynde found her strength, wrenching herself away, tossing her mother’s cloak over her shoulders. With her heart hammering in fear, she opened the door to their chamber, inclining her head to the floor as she slid into the hall, holding the grimoire close to her breast.

  Chapter 3

  Despite the holiday—or perhaps because of the holiday—the halls were a crush of human flesh: people awaiting audiences with the king; merchants hawking wares; clergymen stalking the halls. Even in the midst of winter, the abundant smells were disturbing—particularly for a young woman raised in the Welsh countryside. Richly adorned ladies waltzed by, drenched in Flemish perfumes, followed by men, whose clothes and bodies were perfused with far muskier scents. Though, fortunately, considering the disparity between the king’s subjects, no one paid Rosalynde any mind as she rushed through the halls.

  Praying her mother wouldn’t read Seren’s mind the instant she arrived in the king’s hall, she moved swiftly through the mob, her heart thrumming like priory bells. But, thanks to the glamour she’d cast, her appearance was so altered that, at one point, she passed Seren in the vestibule, and even her sister, for a full instant, did not recognize her.

  In fact, her mother’s glamour spell was so powerful that neither she nor her sisters had ever had the smallest glimpse of her mother’s true persona. For all anyone knew, Morwen Pendragon was as young and lovely as her daughters—a babe herself when she’d born them. Knowing she would outlive Henry by many, many years, she’d lied to him when she’d arrived at court, telling him she was but sixteen.

  Of course, it wasn’t true. So far as Rosalynde knew, Morwen was at least seventy or more.

  She and Seren shared a look, and with a blink of recognition, Seren’s lips turned at one corner, then she lifted her chin and turned away. Thereafter, they veered in opposite directions, Seren toward the king’s hall and Rosalynde toward the palace doors.

  At long last, Rosalynde slipped past the guards, emerging into the yard. Holding her Book possessively, she thrilled over the prospect of seeing Elspeth again, even if it meant leaving pieces of her heart in London. She had no doubt the journey would be long and fraught with perils, but no danger could be greater than her own mother. But Morwen was as canny as she was treacherous. If Rosalynde didn’t find a mount soon and flee before Morwen chanced to discover their plot, everything would be lost.

  Hopefully, Seren would leave today with her betrothed, and Arwyn would endeavor to convince Morwen she’d had no hand in Rosalynde’s schemes. Luckily, her sister had a way of convincing folks everything she said was true; you might call it a glamour of words. No doubt Rosalynde would have preferred leaving all together, but if her sister had come along, it would have been impossible to evade Morwen. As charming as Arwyn could be, she was not very self-sufficient. Rosalynde needed to keep all her wits about her at all times in order to succeed, and Morwen would pluck out their hearts if they were caught.

  Nay, it was better for her mother to believe she still had three daughters to barter away, although it wasn’t likely she would ever forgive Rhiannon for her part in Elspeth’s escape.

  Realizing with a start that she’d forgotten to check the coins in her hem, she reached down to snatch up the heavy wool gown, not caring that she was showing all the world her ankles. She’d sewn in five gold marks, along with the philter, basting them in place with a bit of thread. She shook one coin free, hearing it jangle, but she wouldn’t rest reassured until she touched every one, and then the philter. Without the herbs, she wouldn’t be able to maintain her glamour. Counting coins, and then moving her fingers along the hemline until she felt the soft lump, she exhaled in relief and dropped her skirt. The gold marks settled with another jangle.

  All is well, Rose. Don’t fret.

  She and Arwyn had a deeper connection for having shared so much time in the womb. For them, it was easier to mindspeak, but they shouldn’t be taking chances—and this was precisely the reason Rosalynde couldn’t take her.

  Find a horse. Get out of the city.

  Please, shut your gob!

  It was late afternoon, near about the hour when many of the king’s guests should be departing or seeking beds for the evening. For obvious reasons, Rosalynde would prefer not to have to enter the king’s stables. Getting back out without getting caught might be problematic. Therefore, if possible, she planned to liberate one of the horses whose misfortune it was to be hobbled outside. There were too many visitors to expect that everyone should be able to stable their mounts as they pleased. And besides, the interior stables were expensive, and often, visitors preferred to pay a stablehand to keep an eye on their belongings. Searching for such a horse, whose groomsman was preoccupied, she walked along the stable’s perimeter.

  “Good day, sister.”

  “Good day, my son,” she said, feigning a look of perfect serenity, in hopes that it would bleed through her glamour.

  “Excuse me, sister,” said another man, as he bumped into her.

  Rosalynde tried not to scowl at the man, but it wasn’t easy, considering that she was blessed with more temper than any of her sister’s, save Rhiannon. “Good day to you,” she said, though she longed to smack him with her book for not watching where he was going.

  He apologized, Rose. Don’t engage every battle.

  Alas, Arwyn, you stole my share of good temper in the womb. But, please, do not fret, I know what my task is. I’ll not risk it by engaging in petty squabbles.

  Good, said Arwyn. Good. May the Goddess bless your travels.

  Do not worry. I’ll get the grimoire to Elspeth as quickly as I am able—unless your prattling gets me in trouble with mother.

  And still, her sister persisted. Do you really think she can keep it safe?

  Only pray she can, Rosalynde replied. If not, we are all doomed.

  Their mother must be stopped. If, in fact, she continued with her present scheme, England itself would find itself beneath her thumb, because Eustace was naught but a greedy little boy.

  Be safe, my sister.

  I will! Now, please! Stop talking to me!

  Rosalynde tried to close her mind, but distracted as she was, when another clumsy fool bumped into her—this
one without a word of pardon—the grimoire flew out of her hands, landing in a pile of dung.

  Literally.

  See what you did, Arwyn!

  There was only meager comfort in the fact that Arwyn did not respond. Dismayed, Rosalynde gasped when she saw her dung-covered grimoire.

  “Nay!” she said, kneeling in the dirt to begin wiping it off—praying with all her heart that her mother would not somehow sense her betrayal and fly out of the palace to catch her on her knees—only then, it might be a propitious position from which to beg for her life.

  Goddess please!

  Grimacing with disgust, she attempted to dislodge the horse-dung with a finger, grateful it wasn’t fresh, but it was nevertheless disgusting. With a groan, she slid the book across the dirt… and that’s when she spotted the twin black horses hobbled side by side…

  Like shining gifts from the Goddess, there stood two lovely mares with glistening black coats. She needed only one. And… as luck would have it, there was no one near the horses, and the stableboy was busy arguing with another customer.

  Scooping up the grimoire, Rosalynde bounded to her feet. Not quite daring to place the book against her breast, she nevertheless held it close and made her way toward the horses. Mild mannered, neither protested her approach, and thankfully, both still wore their tack, though it was certain that neither of the saddlebags would contain anything of value. Stifling the urge to peek inside—because that might look suspicious, she pretended as though she knew what she was doing, untethering one of the horses, and apologizing to the other as she did so. Feeling a pang of regret when she led the animal away, she reassured herself that these were the gifts the Goddess had provided, and who was she to look a gift horse in the mouth?

  Quickly, she opened one of the satchels, slid her grimoire inside, patted the mare’s soft, black rump, and hurried away. When she was out of the line of sight of the stable hand, she tried to mount. It wasn’t so easy as she would have supposed…