The Daughters of Avalon Collection: Books 1 & 2

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Already, there were particles of water in the air, and her dewine senses could feel them. It was no more fantastical a feat than to lure these particles together, like a lodestone with metal. And yet, no matter how many times she performed the feat, it never ceased to amaze her.

  After an instant, her palm began to glisten, then fill before her eyes, and she lifted her hands to the animal’s shining black lips, all the while listening to her belly grumble. There was no time for food tonight, and it wouldn’t be the first time she’d gone to bed without supping.

  “I wonder what your name is,” she said to the mare. “You are so beautiful.” And she was. Shining black as the deepest night, she would hide very conveniently amidst the brush. And, if, by chance, some predator came near, she felt certain the mare would warn her. “Won’t you?” She said, stroking the sweet girl’s cheek.

  Rosalynde was thirsty, as well, but so long as the mare kept drinking, she kept pulling water from the air, filling her palm, knowing that once she cozied into her pentacle, she wouldn’t be able to leave it again. At last, the animal seemed quenched, freeing Rosalynde to tend to her own needs. And when she was ready, she retrieved her grimoire from the saddlebag and knelt before the Book in the center of her diagram. She retrieved the pin she’d hidden in the hem of her skirt, pricked the tip of her finger, squeezed a few droplets of bright red onto the vellum, and once again, it vanished. Rosalynde spoke the rites to open the book, then settled in to read, ignoring the persistent grumbling of her belly.

  By now, she was famished, though not enough to go foraging and risk being discovered by her mother. There were far more important matters to consider.

  Skimming the pages quickly, she settled on a fire spell, and put the book down. Closing her eyes to harness the power of the emerging moonlight, she laid both palms above the facing pages until a veil of blue illumined the words. Reading aloud, she whispered…

  Goddess of light shield me tonight.

  Ye who would harm, ye who would maim,

  Proceed and face the same.

  A band of firelight burst at the edges of her pentagram, burning low, then diminishing. Startled, Rosalynde nevertheless continued:

  With cloth and cord of darkest night, I shroud my soul.

  Light is the weapon I would wield to keep me whole.

  By all on high and law of three,

  This is my will, so mote it be.

  All of this was so new to her. She hadn’t any way to know what precisely should come of the words, so she waited, listening, until she felt it—water, air and fire, coalescing all about her, binding itself to her diagram, before settling into stillness and silence. Rosalynde inhaled deeply over the feel of it. The unbridled power of nature was exhilarating, and she sensed an impossible world out there, looming. Perhaps once she and Elspeth were reunited, they could study the Book together. With a bit of patience and practice, they might even grow to be as capable as Morwen—albeit far, far less vile. And, regardless, Rhi would be proud of her.

  With a satisfied smile, she cast a glance at the mare, then proceeded to conceal her pentacle with bracken—very, very carefully, so as not to disturb the magik.

  Although she had so much to learn about the Craft, she had more than enough practice with concealment, particularly from Elspeth. Unfortunately, the warding spell wasn’t a fail-safe. It was still possible for someone to stumble over her while traipsing in the woods, and if they should happen to discover her by accident, it wouldn’t serve her if they suspected sorcery—only how humorous it might be for someone to see a hapless nun sleeping in a witch’s pentacle. The thought alone made her giggle, and she was still giggling as she cozied with the book beneath her cheek. She lay upon the vellum, sobering over the realization that she had so much left to do… For one, Elspeth still hadn’t any notion Rosalynde was coming. Somehow, there must be some way to reach her sister without using the hud, but she didn’t know how. Nor did she have any inkling how far she had to travel to Aldergh. And, even if she could get there safely, she hoped Elspeth would have some notion how to keep the Book safe. After all, whatever magik her sister had cast to protect Aldergh, it had been strong enough to make Morwen take note and withdraw.

  She rolled her eyes. Her mother would have everyone believing that Malcom Scott had kidnapped Elspeth, and that some accursed malady had swept through Eustace’s camp whilst they were attempting to negotiate with Aldergh’s lord—a malady that coincidentally killed only Morwen’s birds. In the end, Scotia’s king had intervened, arriving with more than three thousand warriors, forcing Eustace’s army to withdraw. But, really, Rosalynde preferred to believe that, for love’s sake, Elspeth had entreated the Goddess and, somehow, her sister had summoned a powerful warding spell—the most powerful kind of magik of all, magik borne of love from the aether. And she knew in her heart that Elspeth would never have attempted such a thing if she’d been forced to wed a man she didn’t love. Moreover, only true love could have forced Elspeth to acknowledge her dewine blood.

  Of all her sisters, her eldest had the least affection for magik—perchance because she was also the one who’d been forced to watch their grandmamau burn—a penance from their mother dearest, to castigate Elspeth for wronging them by revealing them as dewines.

  Elspeth still remembered the day Morwen abandoned them at the priory. With that hateful look in her eyes, she’d squeezed Elspeth’s hand with such fury, and said, “You are the eldest. Do not be tempted. Be certain your sisters are never tempted. Remember what happened to your grandmamau? This, too, will be your fate, and my fate, should you ever dare to defy me. They will tie you to a wooden stake… and they will burn you till your skin turns black and blisters off your bones.”

  Poor Elspeth. Poor, poor Elspeth. What a terrible burden that must have been, and it was little wonder it haunted her still. And yet, after all was said and done, the Goddess had sent her a guardian…

  Sighing over the notion, she wished with all her might that she could have a champion as well.

  How sweet would that be?

  Curling herself into a protective ball, she tucked her knees to her breast, lifted the veil so she could lay her naked cheek against the soft vellum, and took comfort in the feel of the soft, worn leather against her face. By its very presence, she felt the spirits of her brethren…

  Tomorrow would be a bright new day.

  Everything would be clearer on the morrow… and in the meantime… defend yourselves, sisters.

  The worst is still to come.

  Trying to ignore the itchy fabric of her gown and fighting the overwhelming desire to remove the wimple and veil, she fell asleep, wondering if her horse’s master had yet to discover his horse was missing. It never occurred to Rosalynde to be concerned that he might find her. It was her mother she most feared, and if she could remain hidden from Morwen, what could she possibly have to fear from an empty-headed man?

  How stupid must one be to leave a stableboy guarding one’s horse, and, anyway, unlike Elspeth, Rosalynde had no qualms against using magik to defend herself and those she loved. She would call upon the Goddess in a heartbeat, and if she had a sword, she would wield it.

  Ye who would harm, ye who would maim,

  Proceed and face the same.

  Chapter 7

  Alas my LOVE you DO me WRONG

  To cast ME… OFFF… discourteeeeously;

  For I… have… loved YOU… soooo LONG

  Wilhelm of Warkworth sang as he stumbled, punctuating his ludicrous verses with hiccoughs and burps, his voice echoing down empty streets.

  As crowded as the tavern had been, the streets were deserted. Even the least pious must be home, warming themselves by a fire, eating pie and waiting for the Magi.

  That Stephen would call anyone to London at such an hour was prickling to say the least, but at least Giles knew the king’s paranoia wasn’t particularly discerning. Even Arundel had been in the City this morn, despite the rumors of his wife’s confinement. And, after all, th
e lady of Arundel must be content with her match, judging by the brood she was providing d’Aubigny—even while she was still passing messages to her step-daughter, though he supposed even lovely little spies had dreams of hearth fires.

  His thoughts turned to Seren Pendragon.

  He had no desire to align himself with Morwen’s progeny, no matter how lovely the girl might be. She was naught but a lovely spy, and unlike Matilda, there was no noble cause to champion on her behalf.

  Listening to his brother sing, he suffered a touch of bitterness, because, unlike Wilhelm or Roger, he’d never been the man to dream of hearth fires, but at the moment, it didn’t sound so bad—a pretty wife, a warm bed…

  Perhaps Wilhelm’s were naught but broken dreams, but his eldest brother had been deprived of his first Yuletide with his unborn babe, and his wife. Isabel, God rest her soul, was still asleep in their bed, her belly four months thick with their firstborn when she died. Meanwhile, Roger was discovered in the garderobe. Evidently, having risen during the night, he’d fallen asleep nursing an irritable bowel. The flames must have swept through that old palisade with a terrible fury, and the irony didn’t escape Giles. His brother had trained all his life to die in battle—God willing, many years after their sire—and, instead, he’d died shitting on a pot.

  It was unfair, he thought, and yet, as he had discovered throughout his time in the Guard, fairness wasn’t precisely the purvey of God. Otherwise, Richard de Vere would have grown fat and happy, surrounded by grandchildren, his halls ringing with peals of laughter. He sure did give it a good try. Alas, his father would never steal another sweet into a slipper. There would be no more Magi gifts for his children or his bride.

  His sisters would never again titter over imagined beaus, nor would they blush over compliments, or long for springtime, when they could peek out from their windows as their father’s wards brandished shining silver swords.

  For all intents and purposes, Warkworth would be restored, but nothing could bring back its spirit, and Giles wasn’t sure he had it in him to give his people the joie de vivre his father inspirited, even in a bastard son—and that, for all it bespoke, gave Giles the greatest prick of envy, because, in truth, how many bastard sons mourned their fathers so bitterly?

  Wilhelm did.

  For all his brother’s enduring snorts and grunts and growls, he was naught but a softy, with a gentle heart, and in that instant, he resolved to be more patient with Wilhelm.

  For the first time in all his living days, he felt a kinship with his half-brother—a man who’d served his father loyally, and who’d vowed to serve Warkworth’s heir, even despite his endless debates.

  They passed a young boy alone on the street and Giles noted his gaunt face and rags. As best he could whilst supporting his brother’s uncomfortable weight, he reached for his purse found a penny, and tossed it to the boy. After all, it was the Twelfth Night, and when should a man offer charity if not on the eve of the Magi? The lad smiled as he hurried to catch the shining copper, saying, “Bless you, good sir! Bless you!”

  “Bless me!” exclaimed Wilhelm. “Bless… every… one!”

  “Aye,” said Giles. “Indeed.” After all, they had each other, and they still had Warkworth. And, if they were lucky, someday his love-starved brother would find himself another love and Warkworth’s halls might still ring with children’s laughter. Pleased, after all, that he and Wilhelm had found some accord, he felt better… for a time… until they returned to the stables and found that one of the coursers was missing. What was more, it was the sable belonging to Giles. And what more, all the stable hands had clearly abandoned their duties to go home and eat pie.

  “I tole ye,” said Wilhelm, brandishing a finger. “Tole ye… but ye ne’er lis—ten.” He hiccoughed.

  Bloody hell. Giles hated being wrong—particularly when it concerned Wilhelm. But it wasn’t just that he knew Wilhelm would not let him live this down. He’d paid good money for those bloody coursers and he’d spent hours upon hours training the sable. Still, though he was furious, he reminded himself that it was the Twelfth Night and he had only himself to blame. He should have known better than to leave good horses hobbled outside the stables, no matter the season.

  God’s teeth, at least they had the one remaining, and they were lucky it was still hobbled where he’d left it.

  As God was his witness, if he was fortunate enough to catch the thief who’d stolen his sable on the eve of the Magi, he was going to rip out the man’s heart, because he clearly wasn’t using it anyway.

  With some effort, he mounted Wilhelm’s courser, then, hoisted his brother’s dead weight onto the back of the horse.

  “I tole ye,” Wilhelm sang again, poking a finger into the back of Giles’s head, and then, immediately after ascending, he tumbled forward, his chin plummeting into Giles’s back with the force of ten stone. And then before Giles could take offense—or curse his father for raising up a bastard so the man had so little fear of his betters—Wilhelm drunkenly wrapped his arms about Giles, hugging tightly as he had when Giles was six.

  God’s breath, would he never outgrow his brother’s ribbing? He was a grown man already—lord of Warkworth, heir to his father’s seat—but his elder, half-brother clearly had no fear of him. Perhaps, Giles should have provided more cause for it—after all, he wasn’t the man his brother supposed. If his fellow guardsmen ever witnessed such a thing, they would piss their pants laughing. They would marvel over his patience, and then, in truth, endeavor to call him St. Giles. But it would be the last words they uttered, and well they knew it, and only the fool at his back would ever dare.

  For all Wilhelm’s height and breadth, Giles could easily flatten him on his back. The fact that he would not do so was because… well, he loved the sot.

  Reassuring himself that it was all for the best, he settled his ire. There was no way his brother could have maintained his saddle in the condition he was in. Even now, he was clutching Giles about the middle—like some oversized maid—grinding his whiskered jaw into his shoulder.

  Cursing softly, ready to be shed of London’s buggery and filth, he wasted no time returning to the King’s Road, hoping the bastard who’d stolen his horse would treat the lady with the respect she deserved.

  They’d ridden only about an hour before Wilhelm awoke long enough to grouse. “He musta sold her… thinking… ‘Why should I take ha’penny when I can fill my purse?’” He burped, the smell foul, then dropped his chin back down, catching Giles again between the shoulders. “Ye shoulda let me choke him… off,” he complained.

  “Save your fury for Morwen, Will.”

  “Alas, brother… an’ ye would not let me choke her… off… either,” his brother complained.

  Giles laughed, though ruefully. “Not yet,” he promised. “All in due time.”

  “Ye’re too bloody soft,” Wilhelm lamented, “Ye shoulda told the pillock to… piss off.”

  Giles sighed but held his tongue. After a moment, his brother’s snores rattled his eardrums, but at least he was no longer singing and there were no more words coming out of Wilhelm’s face—jibes or otherwise.

  The night was cold, but not so cold he appreciated the mantle of flesh on his back, and thanks to Wilhelm’s added weight, they were traveling at such a snail’s pace the mare could have slept erstwhile she walked.

  His brother certainly did.

  God’s bones, at this rate, they’d never catch their thief, but he was going to try. And still, he sighed, because Wilhelm was not his enemy; he was only a jealous fathead. And, in the long run, he wanted exactly what his brother wanted—even regarding the Lady Seren.

  He no more intended to be saddled with a mole in their midst than he enjoyed riding two-to-a-saddle with the ox at his back. If only to counter Wilhelm’s snores—not because he relished the season, nor because he longed for a burning Yule log, or because he was bloody glad for the company of his brother—he adopted the ear worm his brother left him.

&nbs
p; Alas my love you do me wrong

  To cast me off discourteously;

  For I have loved you, oh, so long

  Delighting in your company.

  Greensleeves was my delight,

  Greensleeves my heart of gold,

  Greensleeves was my heart of joy

  And who but my Lady Greensleeves.

  Chapter 8

  Nearly half a dozen times through the long night, Giles had considered stopping for a piss and a rest.

  He didn’t for a number of reasons: To begin with, there was every possibility his thief would be traveling north. The deduction was elementary: He knew of an inn near-about, where the most unsavory of characters were wont to gather. There was no way to say whether his thief could be in route to this place, but there weren’t many establishments along these roads, so if he found the inn, he would, conceivably, discover his thief, and then he would give the knuckle-dragger a Yuletide gift he wouldn’t soon forget.

  And if he didn’t find his thief, there would be other stolen horses to purchase.

  He followed his gut, pressing forth, never imagining how close he was, until, right before sunrise, he made a fortuitous discovery. Wilhelm may have passed on by, but Giles had a nose for his horse; her scent tickled his nostrils.

  She must have scented Giles as well, because she nickered softly, and Giles reined in abruptly, dislodging Wilhelm’s head.

  “Wha—”

  Giles elbowed his brother in the belly. “Shhhhh!” he said.

  Sensing trouble, Wilhelm sat upright, sobering.

  Dismounting quietly, Giles made his way toward the sound of grazing and what he discovered in the thicket hobbled his tongue as surely as she had hobbled his sable.