The Daughters of Avalon Collection: Books 1 & 2

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Cursing beneath her breath—because it wouldn’t serve her disguise to be running about spouting oaths—she tried twice before removing her mother’s cloak. Vexed with the garment simply for existing, she shoved the monstrosity into the saddlebag, not caring if it was ruined. At any rate, it was temperate for winter, and it would be easy enough to cast a warming spell—she knew plenty of those after so many years living in such mean quarters at Llanthony.

  Alas, until now, she had never stolen anything of value, but the Book of Secrets was more precious than any crown jewel, and in the wrong hands, more lethal than Stephen’s Rex Militum. So long as she had the Book in her possession, she must have faith and press on. No matter what… she must do all in her power to defend the Book of Secrets.

  Finally, she placed her foot in the stirrup and without daring to look back to see if anyone noticed, she settled her rump in the saddle, prepared to risk life and limb to keep the Book safe, she snapped the reins and made for the city gates.

  It was a long, long journey north, and there was no time to lose…

  Chapter 4

  Squeezing past the hoard still waiting to air grievances to the king, Giles was more than ready to be shed of the palace.

  Certainly, it was possible that, in his day, Henry Beauclerc had had nearly as many plaintiffs, but Giles couldn’t imagine a single body more constrained by those walls. And to make matters worse, there were so many people in attendance that the air was spicy with scents—not a one of them recalling him to frankincense or myrrh.

  “It smells like a dirty twat in here,” groused Wilhelm, his mood growing surlier by the instant.

  And yet despite his annoyance over his brother’s persistent rancor, Giles’s shoulders shook with mirth. It did, indeed, smell like a dirty twat.

  At last, they emerged into the yard—fresh air, at last. And yet, even then, Wilhelm’s face twisted with disgust and his shoulders remained taut enough to bounce a penny off. “You should be relieved,” Giles said. “You never relished the notion of bringing her home, anyway.”

  Nor had Giles, in truth, but that was neither here nor there. Morwen Pendragon had pressed her advantage, and when all was said and done, King Stephen gave into the lady’s fervent demands, sending Giles home without her beauteous daughter, but with the promise of a title and the dispensation to rebuild—so long as he agreed to bend the knee. He was to return six months hence to kneel and take his bride.

  “Relieved?” said Wilhelm, casting a glance over his shoulder at Giles. “He made you earl, Giles—earl, for the love of Christ! For what reason, but to appease you so you might sooner kneel, and now you certainly will.”

  Wilhelm bolted past him and Giles narrowed his gaze on his brother’s back, restraining his temper. Finally, at long last, they would arrive at the crux of Wilhelm’s rage. Giles had been back now for four months, and his relationship with his half-brother was no less contentious than it was on the day he’d arrived. Wilhelm questioned his every edict and Giles was at a loss as to how to address the matter, since he couldn’t glean its cause. But, until this instant, it hadn’t occurred to him that his loyalty might be in question. “So, then, you think the gift of a title is enough to make me forget his son murdered our kin?”

  “Don’t forget Lady Ayleth!”

  Giles screwed his face. God’s save him; he loathed to confess that he’d been gone so long he couldn’t even remember Lady Ayleth’s face. And despite this, he mourned her as he did all Warkworth’s wasted lives. He only wished Wilhelm would stop baiting him, as though her name were a battle cry meant to rile him against Stephen. They were already on the same side, even if he couldn’t share everything he knew. “Nothing has changed, brother. You may continue to sneer and despise our king at will, but I am compelled to look the man in the face and pretend an alliance I will never honor.”

  Wilhelm said nothing, and Giles continued. “In the end, I, too, will have forsaken all my oaths—and worse, because at least Stephen must have believed his lies when he spoke them to Henry.”

  Put precisely so, there wasn’t much to argue over, and to his credit, Wilhelm remained silent, though Giles wasn’t yet through. “Simply because I was not there to cart out those bodies does not mean I cannot imagine the atrocities committed. I grieve for them as much as you.”

  If he did not openly weep—it wasn’t his way—his losses were just as profound. In the space of a single night, both their lives changed.

  Wilhelm marched before him, quickening his pace, and Giles said in a moment of pique, “You may have known him longer, Willie, but I am Warkworth’s rightful heir.”

  “And well do I know it!”

  “By the saints!” Giles snapped. He lurched forward, reaching out to snatch his churlish brother by the sleeve of his tunic, yanking him back. “What in God’s name ails you, brother? Have I not done all you’ve asked and more? Before this is done, I will have given up my very soul for this cause.”

  And this was hardly an embellishment. If he told Wilhelm what price he’d paid to be released from his obligations, Wilhelm would shed blood tears.

  Wilhelm closed his eyes and thrust a trembling hand to his mouth, clearly overwhelmed, and Giles realized only belatedly that he must have been walking away so vigorously, not because he was furious, but because he was in danger of unmanning himself with tears.

  “I… I am… not… angry… not with you,” he said.

  Giles stared at him, confused. “What, then?”

  “’Tis that…” His brother swallowed visibly, his brows slanting sadly. “I feel… less… a man… for having stood in that lady’s presence... I did nothing.” He shook his head with despair.

  Giles furrowed his brow. “Lady Seren?”

  “Nay, Giles! Morwen Pendragon!” Clearly, whatever it was that had unsettled Wilhelm in the hall had shaken him to his bones. It took him a moment before he could compose himself, and then said, “It was her, Giles. I felt her that day. Only I did not realize. I took it for my own rage, but I felt it again today—a presence black as night.”

  The lady of Blackwood was, indeed, quite formidable. Her gaze had never left them in the hall. “I understand,” Giles said.

  “Nay, brother, you do not!” Fear turned Willhelm’s pupils to pinpoints. “It was as though she were here…” He thumped a finger to his head, hard. “In my head. Laughing all the while.”

  Giles nodded, squeezing his brother’s arm, realizing only belatedly how much this ordeal must be weighing upon him. He cast a glance toward the stables, considering the holiday. Already, the crowd had thinned. “Come,” he said. “The horses can wait. Let me buy you an ale for the journey.”

  “Piss water!” complained Wilhelm, sliding a hand down, and squeezing the tendons at the back of his neck. “I would defy you to find one good alesman amidst the lot.”

  “I know a place,” said Giles, reaching out, pulling his brother in the direction of Castel Tavern. Finally, Wilhelm relented.

  From where they stood, it was but a short walk. Regrettably, the establishment was as much a rubbish heap as he’d remembered, but at least they served their clientele quickly, and being so close to Westminster, they had better ale than most. After a drink to settle Wilhelm’s nerves, he would remove his brother from this hell pot and the journey home was bound to be more pleasant.

  Twenty minutes later, they were seated at a table in the dimly lit common room, clinking tankards. “To father,” said Giles.

  Wilhelm gave a rueful nod. “To my… Lord de Vere,” he said, “May God rest him in peace.” And then he raised his glass a little higher, offering a hint of a smile. “And,” he said, “to the newly appointed earl of Warkworth.”

  Giles reached up, clinking his brother’s cup, meeting his gaze and holding it fast. “I give you my word, Will… I will avenge our dead.”

  “Aye,” his brother said, flicking his nose with a finger. “I know you will.” After a moment, he swiped the back of his sleeve across his suds-covered lip
s, and the two of them drank awkwardly.

  Their relationship had never been close, but over the past few months it had been strained in a way it had never been before. In so many ways, they were strangers—too far apart in years to have any fellowship or shared memories. And, in some ways, Giles was more a bastard son than Wilhelm, because, at least Wilhelm had had their father’s praise and he’d had a mother. Giles had come into this world a babe without a breast to suckle, and he’d scarce recovered his strength by the time he was old enough to train. By the age of ten, Richard de Vere had dismissed him as an able warrior. Far more readily, he’d embraced Wilhelm, who, from the first had shown a warrior’s aptitude and a willingness to learn.

  Their father had been a proud man, with a penchant for siring daughters. His first wife bore him a son—Roger—but then she gave him a daughter and died with her babe. His next wife gave him two daughters before Giles, then she, too, died. And if there was one thing to be said about the elder de Vere, it was that he was persistent. He married again to the youngest daughter of the Bamburgh’s lord, just before her father bent the knee to David. Ayleth was her cousin.

  But as for his sons… he hadn’t known what to do with Giles, who was sickly until he’d sprouted his first whiskers—and in the end, perhaps more to distract him than aught else, his father encouraged him to academia. That, more than aught else, was what drove Giles to the seminary, to excel where he thought he might—for the same reason Wilhelm and Roger worked so hard in their training: to make Richard de Vere proud. None of his sons were immune to that aspiration. Richard de Vere had been a force of nature, magnanimous and ever-ready with a smile—but hard on the field, because he’d understood the consequences of frailty and inexperience. His own father had fought in the People’s Crusade, and he himself had fought by Henry’s side during the Battle of Tinchebrai in Normandy.

  So many years Giles had watched his brothers, wishing so much that he could match them, and absurdly, it was whilst he was attending the seminary that he’d discovered, though he did have a mind for academics, he was equally adept with his sword. Simply because he’d quit Warkworth did not mean he’d quit the desire for his father’s approval. He’d trained in private, and all that time he’d spent watching his siblings and father spar had not been in vain. After a time, he’d found himself enrolled in a very elite Papal Guard—so they’d claimed, a good warrior understood the value of both his pen and his sword. If he was now solidly built, it was due to the vigorous training he’d received, but only once in his life had Giles ever spied the glint of pride in his father’s eyes—and it was a day that would haunt him till his dying breath… not simply because he’d finally earned his father’s praise, but because… on that day he’d also sealed Warkworth’s fate.

  God’s truth, he was equally responsible for the deaths of Warkworth’s innocents, and even so, given the same circumstances, he would do it all again. And if he was pleased to have been raised to earl, it was only because it would better afford him the opportunity to see justice done.

  Wilhelm raised his glass with a slow, unfurling smile. “Another toast… for Roger, who’s like to be howling in his grave over hearing his weedy brother made earl in his stead.”

  A short rumble of laughter escaped Giles, but he shook his head. “Weedy?” he said, tipping his cup, and peering over the rim. He paused before putting the tankard to his lips. “Weedy?” he asked again. And yet, there was no malice in the insult, and so he let the jibe pass, wondering if Wilhelm must be blind. They held gazes a long, awkward moment, and then Wilhelm shrugged.

  “’Tis been overlong since ye been home, Giles… I’d warrant Roger’s got nay memory o’ ye looking as ye do.”

  “Dead men haven’t any memory,” said Giles, and Wilhelm lifted his face to reveal the torment in his gaze.

  “Even so,” he said, raising his cup higher. “A toast to Warkworth’s firstborn. Seems unfair… to work so bloody hard… only to die the way he did.” Wilhelm shook his head, peering down at the table. “I mean you no insult, Giles. But here you are… earl…”

  “To Roger,” Giles interrupted, eyeing his brother pointedly. The last thing he wished was for Wilhelm to say something in his cups that he might regret… or worse, that Giles wouldn’t be able to forgive. As it was, he found himself subject to emotions he’d never realized he was capable of… most notably, an insidious, underlying resentment that was being stoked to life by Wilhelm’s persistent judgments.

  God’s truth, he wished he’d known his eldest brother. For that matter, he wished he’d known his father better. But for all that Wilhelm must be grieving for everything he’d lost, Giles was also grieving for all that would never be. He had precious few memories, even of his beloved sisters, and all that remained of his brood was seated here… across this damnable table… and that man found him wanting.

  Now that Wilhelm was calmer, he tried again to reassure him… after a fashion. “Remember, brother, like good vin, vengeance is a toast better served aged.”

  Wilhelm frowned.

  Giles explained. “If you believe for one instant that Morwen and Eustace do not anticipate retribution, you must think again. They will look for it, day in, day out, and then… one day… when they least expect it, we will serve give our salutes from a position of power, and they will drink. Merely because I do not speak of it, does not mean I do not have a plan.”

  “Truly?” Wilhelm asked.

  Giles reached out, clapping Wilhelm on the arm. “Truly. Have faith.”

  Wilhelm offered a tentative smile. “Let’s drink to that,” he said, and he did, tipping the glass fully, quaffing the remainder of his ale. And then he grinned—a wide, face-splitting grin that Giles hadn’t seen in far too long. Pleased to see him smiling for the first time in so long, Giles ordered another round.

  “For Lucy and Alice,” Wilhelm said, raising another toast, and Giles declared, “Hear, hear!”

  But, then, against caution, Wilhelm ordered another round. “To Lady… Margaret,” he offered this time.

  Three drinks in, and his brother was now grinning perpetually, even if his words didn’t suit his smile. “May her father rot in hell for not coming to our aid,” he said, swigging another gullet full. “I’ll put him there myself if I e’er see his face.”

  Giles gave him a rueful laugh. “I warrant, there’s going to be a crush down there already.”

  “So be it,” said Wilhelm, slamming down the tankard. “One more!” he shouted.

  “Wilhelm nay…”

  His brother waved vigorously at the waitress, who, without question, brought one final round and Giles pushed his own tankard aside as Wilhelm raised another toast. “This one… to Lady Ayleth,” he said, with a catch to his voice.

  Giles sat back in his chair, disgusted, but not for the sake of the toast. And nevertheless, he reached out, raising his empty glass, giving the girl her due, even despite his annoyance over Wilhelm’s persistence in bringing the lady up. Only then… as he set the glass down, he realized something by the look on his brother’s face…

  “She loved youuu,” Wilhelm said, and the last word recalled Giles to a mournful howl. And, suddenly, he understood his brother more clearly—his fury and his grief, all those veiled barbs, and the constant needling…

  So, it seemed, Wilhelm loved a lady who was lost to him, long before the fire. For his part, Giles had never even considered Ayleth of Bamburgh, and all these years, it must bedevil Wilhelm to know it. Perhaps he was looking for proof that Giles had not taken her affections for granted. And nevertheless, they were never betrothed, and Giles never so much as kissed the sweet girl. For all of five minutes, there had been a bit of flirtation between them, and yet, the moment Giles realized he was destined for the seminary, he’d put all his flirtations aside. So, all these months since the fire, every time Wilhelm brought up Lady Ayleth’s name, he’d done so because he was mourning her. There was grief in his countenance now, and it occurred to Giles belatedly that he must ha
ve harbored great affection for Ayleth of Bamburgh.

  Alas, if there was any trace of resentment in his tone when he spoke her name, perhaps it was because his station had prevented him from loving where he would, and it was certain Wilhelm would never have been so bold as to speak his heart; therefore, Lady Ayleth had likely gone to her grave never knowing how Wilhelm felt.

  This, then, must be their nameless discord?

  It had never even occurred to Giles that Ayleth had caught his brother’s eye. Understanding dawned as he shoved his tankard forward, rising from his seat, anxious to be away. As the night grew colder, the inn had become nearly as much a crush as the palace, every bloke in the city filtering in from the streets, until there was scarcely standing room.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  It was time to leave, now, before they turned into a pair of maudlin fools, weeping amidst London’s finest. He skirted around the table, put his arm about Wilhelm’s middle, hoisting him up. “We have a long way to travel,” he said. “What say you we stop by Neasham?” he added for incentive.

  “Why?”

  “To give alms for Lady Ayleth’s soul.”

  Wilhelm grinned, reaching one last time for his empty tankard, but Giles pushed it away. “That would be…” He hiccoughed. “Aye,” he said, surging to his feet and swinging an arm about Giles’ shoulder, giving him a rush of relief. The man was a bloody bulwark and if he planted his face into the table, there would be no human being alive who could remove him.

  Chapter 5

  “As iron is eaten away by rust,

  so the envious are consumed by their own passion.” —Antisthenes

  “My, my, wasn’t he a striking fellow?” I ask. “Tall, handsome, well-mannered—naught at all like the brother.”