“I’m guessing you mustn’t have rested well last night,” Giles said. “Much to be expected, there aren’t many ladies I know who could sleep so well in the woods.”
Clearly, he didn’t know her. Rosalynde could sleep anywhere, and the forest was like a second home to her.
Once, she’d fallen asleep in an elm tree, like a cat, and her sisters had worried all day long until she’d returned to the priory that evening. Even so, she was chagrined to confess, even if only to herself, that she had rested far more easily in Giles’s arms than she had in her warded pentacle.
“Speaking of woods, my lord...” She peered up, looking at clear skies—completely unobstructed by the boughs of trees, in perfect view of Morwen’s black-feathered spies. “Should we not seek the shade for a while?”
She turned to look at him with pleading eyes.
Giles blinked at the sight of her very, very blue eyes… but he’d imagined they were green—a shade of green that recalled him to rich, thick moss, not this peculiar shade of blue that made him think of bellflowers.
“What is it?” she asked.
Giles scratched his chin, uncertain what it was, precisely.
“My lord?” She asked again, and he shook his head, averting his gaze, suffering the same bewildering sense of recognition he’d experienced this morning when he’d met her.
“’Tis naught,” he said, determining that he must be over-weary.
So long as she’d been sleeping, he’d let her rest because he’d wanted to put as much distance between them and Darkwood as possible. He didn’t care to alarm the girl, but he had a sense they were being followed, even despite that he couldn’t see anyone. It was entirely possible they’d caught the attention of one of Darkwood’s brigands, and the man was skilled enough to know how to track them, and perhaps wise enough to know that he couldn’t prevail against two armed warriors—which also implied he must be alone, perhaps waiting for an opportune moment.
He hadn’t bothered alerting Wilhelm only because his sword lay resting as quietly as the woman in his arms. Regretfully, stopping for the evening was inevitable and now was as good a time as any. He was the only one who hadn’t managed to catch a kip in the saddle.
And, anyway, he’d already proven his point. Wilhelm had been dozing nearly as long as Rosalynde, and if he denied it, Giles had the girl as his witness. Clearly, his brother had judged himself in superior form. Alas, he was merely the bigger man. And, regardless, it annoyed Giles to no end that this unlooked-for competition had reduced him to a youth, fresh off the field, with balls bigger than his brains, and a yen to prove himself where he oughtn’t bloody care to.
Sister Rosalynde was still looking at him, pleading, and he gave a short whistle, heard a waking snort, then an immediate shift in Wilhelm’s gait. Without turning, he waved his brother into the woods, where the late afternoon sun sluiced through the limbs of naked oaks.
He found a spot near a small burn, where he could see clearly in three directions, and there he dismounted, then helped Sister Rosalynde down from his horse, making sure she was steady on her feet before releasing her...
Blue.
Her eyes were, indeed, blue. Bright as bellflowers.
And more… under the soft, dappled light of the forest, she appeared… different.
Softer, perhaps?
Peering up, over the dingy white veil she wore, her lovely blue eyes were filled with concern, and she held the book between them like a shield.
Amused, Giles released her, and gave the book a nod. “There’s room in my satchel,” he suggested. “Along with your cloak…”
“Nay, thank you,” she said quickly, casting a glance at the sword in his scabbard, the shining rain guard catching her attention as it glinted by the sun. She gasped suddenly, gave a hasty pardon and hurried away, giving him the impression that his sword had intimidated her.
Shrugging, he watched her go, wondering again why she wouldn’t wear her cloak. Clearly, she was cold, or she wouldn’t have been so insistent about climbing beneath his own, and yet…
He had a feeling there was more to Sister Rosalynde than what she’d claimed… and despite her outward appearance, there was something about the lady that appealed to him. There was a spark of brilliance behind those chameleon eyes.
“Do not wander,” he called after her. “Hurry back, or I’ll come looking.”
Chapter 14
Not only could Giles not be sure they weren’t alone in these woods, but his brother was in a fine state to be hunting. Suffering the effects of too much ale and too little sleep, Wilhelm was cantankerous and restless, and Giles didn’t intend for Sister Rosalynde to be mistaken for quarry whilst kneeling behind a bush. He gave her plenty long enough to see to her affairs, before he went searching, sword in hand.
He’d found her repairing the hem of her gown, but she’d complained fiercely when he’d insisted that she return. Now she sat, pouting and worrying her hands raw as Giles finished gathering kindling for the fire.
But it struck him, as he watched her, that for all her worrying, she didn’t appear overly concerned about Giles, nor about Wilhelm for that matter—a man thrice her size. She was barely constraining her temper, and the look in her eyes reminded him of a cornered wolf—wary and desperate, quite prepared to bite the hand feeding her.
He also had a very strong sense that, despite her weariness, she didn’t wish to stop for the evening, and he recalled how nervous she’d been about staying on the King’s Road, in perfect view of fellow travelers.
Perhaps she knew something about the man who was following them?
Perhaps she was running from a husband, or a father?
Whatever the case, the more time he spent with Sister Rosalynde, the more certain he was that she wasn’t who she claimed to be. He’d known many women in service to God, and for what it was worth, she didn’t appear to him to be any sort of candidate for the veil.
He gave her a patient smile as he adjusted the kindling and gave it another click of his fire-steel, annoyed that he hadn’t been able to find more suitable wood. “If you must return, I would happily escort you.”
“Nay,” she said, peevishly. And then, with a tilt of her head, she asked, “Did no one ever teach you that ladies must have privacy? We do not brandish our… swords… in public, as men are wont to do.”
Giles choked on his laughter.
It wasn’t immediately clear which sword she’d intended as her meaning. But, either way, it was clearly a rebuke.
God help her sisters at Neasham—and then, a thought occurred to him: Perhaps, with her five gold marks, she’d intended to bribe her way into the nunnery. Only now that her money was gone, she would have one hell of a time convincing the prioress to take on another mouth to feed—particularly one so colorful as hers.
Nevertheless, she clearly prized her scripture. She hadn’t let that bloody book out of her sight since the moment he’d laid eyes upon her.
And regardless, with that impudent lift of her chin, she would be wasted in a priory. She was spirited, strong and bright. And while, in truth, her face might not be so exquisite as his intended’s, the more he looked at her… the more he recognized a certain quality that spoke to his heart.
There was an inner light that shone from Sister Rosalynde’s eyes. Even with her odd face and penchant for the veil, he would prefer this woman any day over Seren Pendragon.
But Seren Pendragon was the least of his concerns, and so, too, should be this mouthy nun. He had more urgent matters to settle… not the least of which was the disenfranchising of a king and his idiot son. The Count of Mortain was swiftly becoming a scourge to England. He was dangerous, petty and reckless, and if he continued, unmanaged, he would plunge the entire nation into hell itself. What was more, Morwen Pendragon would be the fallen angel who would usher them in. And this was not puffery, nor a disgruntled lord speaking… nor a man who’d lost his kindred to an idiot’s rampage.
If any other man had done h
alf what Eustace had purportedly done, undermining what little of his father’s good will remained, he would have been drawn and quartered. Instead, the mouthy bugger beat his hairless chest even as he laid waste to England, taxing loyal lords, until even those who’d willingly supported his father now begged to see Duke Henry reclaim England’s throne—and so he would.
So he would.
In the meantime, Giles wanted naught more than to take his new title—and his lovely betrothed—and shove them both up Stephen’s arse. Beautiful as the lady might be, her mother would stop at naught to see her will done. And Giles knew as well as Wilhelm that it was by her counsel that Eustace had burned Warkworth to the ground. Still, even knowing this, he’d stood in Stephen’s hall, watching those complicit fools twitter like birds into each other’s ears, and it was all he could do not to unsheathe his sword, there and then, and climb the stairs to the dais to claim their heads.
Alas, he could not so easily have wiped the smug smile off Morwen Pendragon’s face without sacrificing his own life and Wilhelm’s as well.
Or, for that matter, putting everything at risk.
But now he had another axe to bear for Wilhelm’s sake. After everything his brother had endured, he had been forced to stand by Giles’s side and watch as they’d awarded him an earldom—inexplicably—whilst neither their father nor Roger ever achieved the honor—and, no less, in the presence of Morwen Pendragon. Giles would like to gut them all, if only for pouring fuel over the fire of Wilhelm’s rage. His once good-natured bother was no longer the gladsome fool. The Wilhelm he’d known was dead… perished the night of the fire. He was now pettish and brooding, and as tiresome as it was becoming, Giles was determined to endure it with patience. He only wished he could tell the bloody fool that vengeance was forthcoming. But, all in good time, for the Church itself had an investment in Stephen’s ruin.
“My lord?”
Giles couldn’t say he’d forgotten she was there—not precisely—though he’d made it a point not to look at her again. More and more, he was growing ambivalent to her presence, inexplicably drawn to the lady even though she was not at all his type. And even if she were—Good Christ, she was a nun, a woman of the cloth. It was quite unsettling to feel his cock stir in her presence—and more so over the petting of her stupid book.
“Are we truly to kindle a fire?”
There was disapproval in her tone, and perhaps a bit of ire. Giles clicked the fire-steel a few more times, annoyed that the wood was so green and wet. “Aye,” he said. “I am.” And he cast her a brief glance, fighting anew his desire to stare. That face… every time he looked at her, he felt as though he had tippled too many ales.
“My lord… ’tis daylight yet. Shouldn’t we press on?”
Something in her tone gave him pause, and he turned to look at her, considering…
Rosalynde had caught a brief glimpse of herself in the perfectly polished rain guard of his sword. Her true countenance was returning, but he didn’t allow her any time to retrieve her philter, much less see to her spell.
He stared now with narrowed black eyes, his dark gaze probing, and she felt his regard as surely as she felt the change coming over her.
Already, her face felt woolly, and the sensation seemed to be spreading. Moreover, the splotches on her hands appeared to be shifting. Rubbing them vigorously, she hoped to delay the change by sheer will alone.
Breathe, she commanded herself.
Breathe, Rose.
With every second that passed, she grew more acutely aware of the needle and philter in her hem and her immense desire to retrieve them.
“We’ve pushed the horses enough for one day,” he said finally, returning his attention to his kindling—arranging it too meticulously, if you asked Rose.
Sweet fates, had he noticed something awry?
Nay, Rose, nay! Calm yourself. All is well, she reassured. Only think…
Morwen didn’t appear to have to recast her glamour daily, therefore it mustn’t be necessary—unless… there was something Morwen was adding to her philter… something Rosalynde and her sisters had overlooked.
Impressions of Darkwood assaulted her, and she shuddered to think what added ingredient her mother might have included. Forcing those memories out of her head, she watched as Giles struck his fire-steel to the damp wood—over and over again, until the sound of it grated on her nerves.
He frowned then, and rose to search for more kindling, and meanwhile Rose tried to calm herself.
Truly, there could be no true change. The glamour wasn’t even real. It was only a chimera, a spirit mask, a suggestion from the Goddess to deceive mortal eyes. Insofar as she knew, only blood magik could ever truly alter flesh—ergo perhaps the one who’d cast the glamour could always see beyond the countenance it revealed to others? Surely, if her face had changed so much, he would be demanding answers—and regardless, she was still wearing her wimple and veil.
And yet, even if her glamour was still working, there was another problem she hadn’t foreseen: How was she going toward the camp tonight? It simply wouldn’t be possible to do so with these men as her witnesses.
Nay, she couldn’t stay here, waiting to be discovered. She had to go. Now. Before it was too late. She had a terrible, terrible sense of impending doom… like a storm cloud descending.
“Well,” she said, when Giles returned. “I was desperately hoping to arrive at Neasham soon.”
He turned to look at her again, then averted his eyes. Sweet Goddess every time he tore his gaze away, she expelled a breath she’d not realized she’d held. “And you will,” he said. “But not tonight. Even with strong coursers, we’re a week or more away.”
One week!
Rosalynde answered him with silence, though perhaps he could feel her disappointment hanging in the air, for he asked, without turning, “Art expected, Sister?”
“Nay, oh, nay…” She slid a hand beneath her veil to touch her burning cheek. “Not precisely.”
Already, everything was becoming impossible, and she was growing weary of the lies. For all she knew, this was how her mother’s malevolence had begun, with small lies at first, then big lies, until her entire life became a frightening deception.
She lifted her hand from her cheek to her forehead, pressing it firmly across her very warm face, dismayed and confused, hoping the gesture might still the tempest in her head.
Goddess please…
Here she was, seated atop a stump, like a bloody toad on a pad, waiting to be devoured by… what? What sort of beast gobbled toads? It didn’t matter, and regardless, Rosalynde was quite certain the poor toad would have been seated as she was right now… feeling this crippling sense of doom, only too bewildered to move. After all, this was something all mortals shared in common—a keen sense of intuition, and a strong desire to deny it. She was beside herself with worry now, her thoughts spinning nightmarish yarns.
And this man… would he run screaming if he learned who and what she was?
Rosalynde cast a worried glance at her dubious savior. He was still kneeling by his unwilling fire, and so much as she didn’t wish him to succeed, the clicking of his fire-steel was grating on her delicate nerves.
Finally, when she grew tired of watching and listening to him spark the fire-steel to the damp wood without success, she narrowed her gaze over the pile of tinder and summoned the essence of fire.
Unseen ribbons gathered the sun’s waning light, focusing its heat into a small point of light.
Rosalynde’s dewine eyes could see what he could not see—the twisting and turning of the aether as her flame leapt to life, even before he could strike his fire-steel to the tinder one more time.
He froze, staring at his stack of wood with what appeared to be a mixture of surprise and confusion and Rosalynde regretted her impetuousness at once.
“How resourceful you are,” she said, wincing, because at the instant, she was becoming her own worst enemy.
She was only tired, she rea
ssured herself, but huffed a sigh, without realizing how dramatic she sounded—until Giles turned to look at her again.
“Is something troubling you, Sister?”
“Oh, nay… I am but missing my sisters.” Thankfully, this was no lie. She missed her sisters more than words could say, particularly Arwyn. Her twin understood her better than anyone, and though they couldn’t be more different, Arwyn was everything she was not, and she was everything Arwyn was not. Together they were whole.
“Your sisters… at Neasham?”
“Aye,” said Rose, quickly, and Giles gave her another glance, though his gaze didn’t linger.
“I rather had the impression you’d yet to join your sisters at Neasham, and that you were bringing your life’s fortune.”
“Well, so I was.”
He turned to assess her, again with narrowed eyes. “So, then, what is it you were doing in London?”
For the sake of her soul, Rose attempted to compromise one last lie, pretending a calm she couldn’t possibly feel. “I was there to retrieve my inheritance.”
“But then you lost it… to your guide?”
She gave him a disapproving glance—not so different from what she’d imagine a mother might do to a wayward son. “Nay, my lord. So difficult as it might be for men to imagine, gold and silver are the least of my earthly treasures.” He narrowed his gaze on her book and Rosalynde picked it up and put it in her lap. “It belonged… to my grandmamau,” she said.
He considered her another moment before he asked, “Do I detect a bit of Welsh in your accent?”
Rosalynde forced a smile. “You have a good ear, my lord. My mother was Welsh, my father… English. He’s dead now.”
“And your mother?”
“Dead, as well.” Or, she might as well be. In so many ways Elspeth had been more of a mother to her and her sisters than Morwen ever was. Morwen simply couldn’t be bothered with anyone who didn’t serve her immediate needs. Left to their own devices, she and her four sisters had been forced to look after one another.
The Daughters of Avalon Collection: Books 1 & 2 Page 38