“You seem to be very much at ease,” he said, this time allowing her rest.
“Aye, my lord. Because, after all, you’ve been so kind.” He caught a smile in her voice, and, inexplicably, it made his cock stir again. She inhaled deeply, her ample breasts brushing against his arm, and he shuddered over the sensation. “I was lost until you found me.”
“Ah, yeah,” he rejoined, perhaps testing her. “And what man, having a hundred sheep, if he has lost one, does not leave the ninety, to go after the one…”
“Ninety-nine,” she said.
“Ninety-nine,” he amended. “You do know your scripture, Sister Rosalynde.”
She was silent a moment. “Alas, not so well as I should. But you also know yours?”
“I do, indeed,” said Giles. “Until recently, I was… conscripted to…” He peered at Wilhelm, who seemed to be doing his utmost to ignore them. “The seminary.”
“I see,” she said.
He very much doubted she did, and yet what he did and where he’d been until the day he’d returned to England was not a matter for public consumption. He cast a glance at his moody brother. Even despite their recent discussion, something was bedeviling Wilhelm, though Giles couldn’t put a finger on it. He was tired, that much he could see. He was beginning to slouch in his saddle, but as tired as Giles might be, himself, he didn’t intend to stop until Wilhelm begged for mercy. If he had to hand the nun over to keep him awake, he would do it—except… for some odd reason, he realized he didn’t want to. And, more, the longer she remained burrowed in his arms, the stronger his desire to pull her back against him and keep her safe. The scent of her was like some witchery… lulling him into a state of bliss, making him long for his siren, invented though she must be.
“My lord, we’ve been traveling the King’s Road for some time. Perhaps we should return to the woods?”
Sister Rosalynde peered over her shoulder yet again, and Giles cringed at the presentation of her face so near. It wasn’t so much that she was unattractive, but to look at her made him feel drunk, and it didn’t help much that he was already exhausted and growing more so by the second. He hadn’t slept all night long. And so much as he didn’t regret it, because of the return of his sable, he was growing more and more vexed by the mile—both at this sweet, unsuspecting nun, and his lame-brained, ill-tempered brother.
“We’ll be fine,” he reassured her, and hating himself for the rudeness, he gave her a twirling motion with his finger, so she would turn back around. If he must be forced to suffer the tantalizing curves of her body, he’d rather suffer his own imagination. But, if only… because she was perfectly formed. So much as he didn’t wish to know that, he did, and it was impossible to deny it—as impossible to ignore as her sweet, beguiling scent, and he blamed it on his wasted state.
Consequently, the more confused he grew, the more cantankerous he became. “Sister, please, must you lean… so… close?”
Beside him, his brother chuckled, and Giles tensed.
Clearly, Wilhelm was enjoying his discomfort, and, evidently, he’d forgotten everything they’d discussed back in that tavern, else none of it had meant a bloody thing to him. It was enough to sour his mood.
“Say Wilhelm… do you recall my suggesting we stop by Neasham?”
“Of course,” Wilhelm said, impatiently. “You said we could deliver Sister Rosalynde with time to spare.”
“Nay, brother… before that… in the tavern… do you not recall I said we should stop to give alms for Lady Ayleth’s soul?”
His brother did not answer—not at once, and when he did, his voice was thick with emotion. “Nay,” he said. “I did not.”
Chapter 12
Lady Ayleth?
Who was this woman who’d aroused such raw emotion betwixt these brothers?
Instinctively, she sensed Lady Ayleth must be the needle beneath their bums, the cause of their enmity, the pebble in their boots. But whoever she was, she must also be quite dead—or dying—since Rosalynde didn’t believe one gave alms for the souls of the living.
Alms, as well as she could glean, were paid by the devout for the souls in purgatory, so they might be freed to see the pearly gates of Heaven. However, according to her own beliefs, there was only this world and the Other World. And, if, indeed, there was a third place, according to dewine tradition, it wasn’t a place mortals could bargain their way out of.
The Nether Realm was a great black void where all things simply ceased to be, just as the Isle of Avalon and the Great Witch Cerridwen. It was as mysterious a place, even to a dewine, as the fae glens.
And yet, whatever the case, her heart ached for these brothers, even as she suffered a strange pang that could only be described as envy. Oh, to have a man love her so deeply that he would vie with his brother, even beyond her death. She sighed wistfully.
As a girl, she’d so much loved all those troubadours’ songs. Every so often, as she and her sisters had toiled in their garden, bored and forgotten, she had dreamt of a beautiful champion who would ride to her rescue. In her dreams— she peered over her shoulder—he looked like Giles.
So, then, could this Lady Ayleth be the reason Giles de Vere had abandoned her beauteous sister in London?
Sad to say, if sweet, beautiful Seren did not manage to turn this man’s heart or soften the pain of his loss, what hope had Rose to do the same? And why in the name of the Goddess would she aspire to do so? Had she gone mad?
Two days alone without her sisters and already she was pining over a man.
And regardless, she rebuked herself, simply because Elspeth had married her champion did not mean Rosalynde should do the same—nor was it even clear yet that Giles was any sort of champion at all. The man was a newly appointed earl to England’s Usurper, and he might never dare risk his new title for the likes of Rosalynde, nor even Seren, for that matter.
And here was the plain truth: Rose was bound for Aldergh and her sister’s husband was an enemy to the crown.
She was not some plain, hapless nun; she was a daughter of Avalon, a child of the Goddess. And just as soon as this came to be known, Giles de Vere would return her to her mother. Because if he so much as dared to oppose his king, he would sooner find himself dispossessed and perhaps even imprisoned.
As for Rosalynde… well… she would do well enough to put all her romantic notions aside—forget the bards’ tales, forget notions of courtly love and champions.
This was not the time for fantasies, and there was too much at stake here—war games, politiks, deception, brothers at odds—the realm was in peril. And if there was one thing she must accept, it was that Elspeth was right. She might not share Elspeth’s love for politiks, nor any true affection for Matilda, but she now understood what a precarious path they were traveling as a nation, and if Matilda did not reclaim their father’s throne, England might be lost.
For all these many months in London, Rosalynde had been so preoccupied with her own troubles that she hadn’t had much of an inkling what was happening elsewhere in the realm. To her mind, there were only two places of consequence—Blackwood, where she believed Rhi was being held, and Aldergh, where her sister Elspeth had gone. Unlike Elspeth, she hadn’t much interest to know about the Empress Matilda, what she was doing, who was whispering in her ear, or where she was going. Alas, she and her true sisters had more immediate concerns, and despite that she shared blood ties with Henry’s daughter, Rosalynde could scarcely even recall Henry, much less a distant half-sister.
Now, in the fourteenth winter since Henry’s death, why should she bother to care about a sister who was twenty-seven years her senior, and who’d never once troubled herself over their welfare?
Quite certainly, Matilda didn’t care about them, and, for all that Elspeth seemed to admire the lady, she mustn’t care about Elspeth either.
And yet why should she?
Their father had sired many, many bastards, and despite that Matilda had loved Robert of Gloucester, it was probab
ly because they were more of an age. She and Matilda were not, and they scarcely knew of each other. When Matilda left England to be married at the age of twelve, Rosalynde wasn’t even born yet. When she returned to court after her husband died, Elspeth herself was but two. Three years later, when she’d married Geoffrey d’ Anjou, even then, Rosalynde and Arwyn were scarce seedlings in their mother’s womb.
Half a lifetime had already passed for Matilda by the time Rosalynde and Arwyn came wailing into the world. And, for those few times their half-sister had paid attendance to their father in London after their birth, she could scarce have been asked to bother with Morwen’s brats. In her shoes, Rosalynde wouldn’t have either. Not only was Morwen Henry Beauchamp’s whore—a woman who’d disrespected her mother’s memory—but even then, Matilda and Morwen had been at odds.
None of that mattered here and now. What did matter was her real sisters, and no man should come between them.
And anyway, she didn’t even know for sure that Giles had repudiated Seren. For all Rosalynde knew, it simply hadn’t been appropriate for him to bring her home—and here she sat pining over a man who didn’t even know her true face.
How ludicrous was that?
Perhaps, after all, Giles was looking forward to wedding her sister… and mayhap Seren, too, had found him appealing. Who wouldn’t? Only now, Rosalynde was behaving like a wanton, prepared to throw herself into his arms—and why? Because she had some silly notion that the Goddess may have deigned to send her a champion… as she had for Elspeth?
This was hardly a fae’s tale. Lives were at stake, and hers no less than anyone else’s. She hoped, in truth, that the Goddess had been gracious enough to send her a champion, but it mustn’t be for flights of fancy. She had her mother’s grimoire in her possession, and if she didn’t keep her wits about her, she would lose it, and lose her life, as well.
Moreover, if she wasn’t careful, she would send these brothers to their deaths, as well.
That was a sobering thought.
Brooding now, she held the grimoire close, trying to remember what she knew of Giles de Vere—not much.
He was a younger son, come into his inheritance after the death of his sire and an elder brother. Morwen had had little more to say about the man, but Rosalynde had never sensed that her mother wished to give Seren up so easily—not to some lowly northern lord, who hadn’t any true power or influence. In fact, she’d had the impression that Morwen was furious over the betrothal and that she might thwart the king if she could. Perhaps, after all, that’s what waylaid her? Perhaps she’d angered Stephen and he had locked her away, as his wife so oft threatened to do.
To be sure, the Queen Consort was no wilting flower. As diminutive as the lady might be, she swept through Westminster’s halls with a stature that cowed men twice her size. Nor did she concern herself with niceties. The one time the sisters had been left alone in her company, she’d informed them rather baldly that her mother should be persona non grata, and that the only reason she was not, was because of her. Simply because Morwen was useful, the Queen would continue to pave the way for the Pendragons in her court, but if a one of them crossed her, they would see how fast they would be put out the door.
Rosalynde also remembered Elspeth telling a story about the day they were summoned to meet Stephen for the first time—right after his coronation. Rosalynde was far too young to remember the occasion, but apparently, the Queen had marched into their mother’s quarters and informed Morwen in no uncertain terms to be discreet with her lord king, lest she defy her husband and feed Morwen’s eyeballs to her precious birds.
No one spoke to Morwen that way. No one. But, after all, there must be something dark in Stephen’s queen, because what sort of wife conspired with a husband’s paramour? What sort of mother encouraged a son—England’s heir—to disport where her husband had already dared?
In Rosalynde’s opinion, if, in truth, England fell to ruin, the fault would lie as much with Maude as it did with Morwen.
But, for all that he’d stolen her father’s crown, Stephen seemed more reasonable. Certainly, he was kinder, and Rosalynde had a niggling sense that he was a man caught in a spider’s web, and his queen was as much a poppet master as her mother. Alas, she also sensed the king was growing weary of his throne. Rumor had it that he was preparing to abdicate to his son—completely unheard of in England, though they often did such things in France—and if he did, Morwen and Stephen’s Queen would gnash their teeth like wolves, and God help Eustace, the poor, arrogant fool. He was too stupid, greedy, shortsighted and godless to survive them. They would rend him in two like a rag doll.
The thought gave Rosalynde a shiver, and she shivered again, feeling the first signs of cold. And not merely the cold…
It was all she could do to keep her head from lolling and her eyes wide open. In her current state, she doubted she would have any recourse against her mother. She would lie down at Morwen’s feet and snore herself into an early grave.
Gooseflesh erupted on her skin as Giles slid an arm about her waist, pulling her close, lending his warmth and his support. This time her shivers had naught do with the weather.
“Rest,” he said. “We’ll stop soon.”
The tenderness in his voice startled her, and the warmth of his breath against her nape made her heart flutter wildly. She said not a word—couldn’t speak, because now the tightness of her throat strangled her words. But she nodded, shivering as she laid her head back to rest against his shoulder.
Goddess have mercy, despite having spent the past hour talking herself out of girlish fancies, she dared to revel in the warmth and safety of his arms.
Chapter 13
She was in a castel that could only be Blackwood.
Born in London, neither Rosalynde nor Arwyn had ever chanced to see their family estate in Bannau Brycheiniog, but she recalled every word of Elspeth’s stories, and she envisioned it clearly… the ivy-tangled courtyard with the sacred cauldron once tended by Gwion, that boy who’d stolen the Witch Goddess’s potion. Pregnant still, and fat with its great iron belly, the cauldron sat above a ring of blackened stones, the fire beneath it burning with an eternal flame. Rose couldn’t see what was being brewed within, but she watched smoke that curled above the cauldron and rose into the open courtyard toward a cloudless blue sky, rushing past lichen-covered stone…
And then, suddenly, she herself was the smoke… drifting through rusted metal bars and coalescing into a solid form…
Here, from her prison bower, she had a view of the Endless Sea… and outside her door stood a man… leaning against the wall, facing away, so she couldn’t see his face, though she could still hear his voice. “There is no future but the one your mother has ordained.”
Familiar laughter. “Ah, my lord… the Goddess truly works in mysterious ways. You have yet to realize what you would give to win your true desire.”
Silence.
“And what if my desire is you?”
Like wisps of smoke from the cauldron, her lips curved into a slow smile, and she laughed again, very softly, even as her nipples hardened with desire. “And you jest, my lord… but you will learn… the heart wants what it wants.”
Silence.
“No matter what you may call yourself, your blood is Welsh, lest you forget… and I know what you really want.”
She was not afraid, though his words should engender fear. “You will never leave here… Rhiannon,” he said, angry, and then she heard him push off the wall and walk away.
His footsteps echoed sharply on the ancient stone.
Silence was the gift of his departure.
Rhiannon!
Rosalynde’s eyes flew wide to find it was late afternoon.
She was horrified to discover herself resting like a limp doll in Giles’s arms. Straightening at once, embarrassed, she saw that he’d laid a hand atop her grimoire, holding it fast, and without meaning to, Rosalynde wrenched the Book away with a gasp.
“Par
don,” he said. “I feared you would drop it and I didn’t wish to wake you.”
Disoriented still, Rosalynde jerked forward, trying to gauge how far they’d come. As far as she could tell, they were still alive… and still on the King’s Road.
On the road, their ambling shadows formed gargoyles—two of them: one big one small—with hoofed protuberances pawing at the ground, and thick bodies with strange appendages growing from their middles, five jouncing heads. For a befuddled instant, she studied the grotesque shadows, realizing that Wilhelm must have fallen behind, and she turned to find him hunched over his horse, somehow dozing. “How long have I been sleeping?” she asked.
“A bit longer than Wilhelm.”
Rose tilted her head, stretching the cords of her neck, and turned again to peer at Wilhelm, marveling over the contortion of his body and his curious ability to sleep in his saddle. At least she’d had Giles to hold her, and for that she was thankful. And nevertheless, she was horrified to discover that, like Rhiannon’s had in her dream, her nipples were pebbled and straining against the course wool of her nun’s habit. Defensively, she pressed the grimoire closer.
Ignoring her traitorous body, she considered the dream. Could it be that her sister had given her a glimpse into her cage? Or, was it only an invention of Rosalynde’s tired, overwrought mind?
Some dewines could descry by dreams—Rhiannon did so all the time, but Rosalynde had never once had any occurrence herself, and she only knew it because Rhiannon had told her so, not because her sister had ever infiltrated her dreams before. And yet, no dewine worth her blood would ever ignore a message from the aether, and it was quite possible Rhiannon had discovered a safer way to mindspeak.
The Daughters of Avalon Collection: Books 1 & 2 Page 37