Of course, it was one thing to be born a legitimate heir to the crown, another to be a king’s bastard. She supposed she should be thankful that they’d been allowed to wander the palace, until such time as they were no longer welcome… Once she and Arwyn turned six—the year their father died—she and her sisters were roused from their beds in the middle of the night and ferreted away to Llanthony in Wales, to be hidden away like embarrassments—or at least that’s the way it seemed to Rosalynde.
Morwen always claimed that it was for their own good and she’d only meant to keep them safe from harm, but she’d spoken those words with the tenor of a lie. In retrospect, she’d only pretended to fear Stephen’s wrath, and she’d claimed that he’d meant to dispose of Henry’s children—illegitimate or nay—but from where Rosalynde stood now, that never appeared to be the case. Rather, it seemed to Rosalynde that the only thing Morwen was ever afraid of was that her five little brats would get in her way. She was despicable, and her years of neglect had left Rosalynde with an emptiness in her heart that might never be assuaged.
It was no wonder she was looking to Giles for… what?
Now that his fire was burning stronger, he surprised her by coming over and sitting beside her.
“It looks to be quite old. May I?” He lifted a hand as though to request Rosalynde’s book, and then, when she didn’t hand it over at once, he told her, “As I’ve said, I spent quite a few years in the seminary.”
“It is old,” she said. But still, she pressed the tome closer to her breast, protecting it, even though she didn’t believe he could see what she saw. Regardless, she daren’t allow him to have it. It was far, far too precious, and she didn’t wish to let it out of her hands—not even for an instant. So long as she lived, no man nor woman would ever pry it out of her hands—and that was beginning to be the dilemma. The longer she remained in this… this… place, undefended and unprotected, the more probable it was that someone would do precisely that.
Her mother.
Morwen Pendragon.
A fallen daughter of Avalon.
His hand remained turned between them, beseeching…
“I beg pardon, my lord… I would prefer not.”
He gave her an odd glance, his hand lingering only an instant longer. Thankfully, Wilhelm saved her from denying him again. Returning with their supper in hand, he grinned broadly as he held up two fair-sized conies.
“Hungry?” he asked.
Chapter 15
Sleep was not possible.
Outside the door could be heard an occasional shuffling of feet—guards, probably, but little good ever came from wandering the halls by night. Only two nights ago, a woman had been murdered, her body left to be discovered by the palace guards. And yet, as dangerous as Westminster’s halls might be, by first light, with Mordecai still at large, both Seren and Arwyn were contemplating escape.
It was impossible to say what could be keeping Morwen.
Day by day, the king was growing over suspicious, believing everyone was out to subvert him, particularly now that the Archbishop of Canterbury had steadfastly refused to confirm his heir, leaving his succession in question and reinforcing the illegitimacy of his reign. Rumors abounded that he had sent agents into his court to ferret out spies. Some were whispering lies to fill their purses. But, whatever the case—whatever had detained Morwen, there could be no doubt that when she returned, she would peel the skin from their bodies to attain what information she required. Both girls had recognized the look in her eyes as she’d walked out the door. It promised the worst of her hud du.
Neither Seren nor Arwyn were experienced dewines, and until that night at Darkwood, neither had truly understood what depravity could be wrought by magik of any sort, nor why good folks should fear them. But that night, they’d learned. And it soon became apparent that their mother was not to be bargained with. She reveled in their tears.
Resolved now—for what better chance would they have?— the girls moved swiftly through the chamber, gathering all the supplies they could carry. Every loose piece of silver and gold Morwen possessed—everything that was not locked away—they shoved into sacks. Then, they turned to more perishable items—anything they could find to sustain them.
With a bit of good fortune, they might find themselves reunited with Elspeth or Rhiannon.
Finally, when they were ready to walk out the door, Seren’s gaze fell upon the scrying stone that had once belonged to their grandmamau.
It was too large to take in its current form. It would be impossible to travel with… and yet.
Rosalynde had the Book of Secrets, and here sat Merlin’s Crystal. To leave it with Morwen was folly, because their mother would only use it to vanquish them—and more importantly, she would use it to find Rosalynde.
Seren herself had never witnessed its use, but they knew it was precious and powerful, and in its current state, their mother could easily use it to ferret them out.
Gently, Seren lifted up the scrying stone. The instant she touched it, the interior began to shift, the stone swirling and billowing through the marbled depths like a storm made of crystal. Helpless to do aught but watch, their eyes became affixed to the images forming…
Passed down through the ages, the scrying stone was powerful, indeed. As the story went, even as the Witch Goddess Cerridwen had been sucked into the depths of her watery prison, her screams had formed bubbles that drifted to the surface. The instant her breath returned to the aether, it solidified into crystals, the largest being the crystal Seren held in her hands—Merlin’s Jewel. In the stone’s opaque, vaguely shimmering depths, she saw lithe figures arising from mist… a man … kneeling… and… Rosalynde, seated on a stump in her nun’s habit. Her glamour was gone, and she was watching some man kindle his fire.
Arwyn gasped, sounding dismayed. “She has revealed herself,” she said.
Seren tilted her head to continue watching. “Not necessarily… the crystal would naturally reveal her to us; it would never be fooled by her glamour.”
“What should we do?”
The sun was rising, sending tendrils of soft pink in through their windows. Soon the palace would wake, with a great swell of breath, like a stone beast arising from slumber.
And soon… Morwen was bound to return.
Some part of Seren longed to ask the crystal where she might be, but both she and her sister were still beguiled by the images the crystal had revealed to them—Rosalynde… in the company of… was he her champion?
And then Seren looked closer… recognizing the man. “Sweet, merciful Goddess!”
“What is it, Seren?”
Seren’s hand flew to her lips in wonder. “That, my dearest Arwyn, is Giles de Vere.”
Arwyn’s entire face screwed with confusion. “Your betrothed?”
“So it seems.”
The sisters lifted their gazes to peer into one another’s eyes, blinking in surprise. Why would Seren’s betrothed be Rosalynde’s champion? Could it be that he was acting in her mother’s behalf? What were they doing together?
“Will she be alright?”
Seren’s brows drew together and she shook her head, but she said, “He did not strike me as an evil man, but who can say, Arwyn. The Goddess works in mysterious ways.”
“What should we do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Should we warn Rose?”
Seren inhaled a fortifying breath, though she still could not wrest her gaze away from the crystal. “Nay,” she said. “We daren’t risk it… not now. Instead, we must pray he was sent to aid her.”
The sounds of people stirring resounded from the hall, doors opening, whispers filtering in under the crack beneath their door. “If we mean to, we must go now,” urged Arwyn, peering nervously at the door.
At last, Seren lifted her gaze from the crystal. “What about the scrying stone?”
“We cannot leave it.”
But it was too big to carry afoot. Morwen had a special le
ather pouch that hung over her pommel, but they would have no horse to carry it, and even now, it felt inordinately heavy in Seren’s hands, because within its hallowed depths, it bore all the possibilities of the aether—all things to come, all things past, and all things that lingered in twilight.
For a long, long moment, the sisters stared at one another, their gazes shifting back and forth, one to another, and each to Merlin’s Jewel, where Rosalynde and her dubious champion remained visible.
Giles de Vere had abandoned the woodpile, and moved to sit beside their sister, and Arwyn said softly, “Do it, Seren. The Goddess will forgive you.”
Ancient and irreplaceable, there was no other scrying stone of its worth in the entire World. There were certainly others with less power, but this was the only crystal born of the breath of the dragon. Like the Book of Secrets, it was priceless. “Do it,” Arwyn said, urging her.
Seren, gave her sister a nod of accord, and with one last glance at the door—lest Morwen enter and surprise them—and an inhale of breath for courage, she lifted her arms high and brought them crashing down, releasing the ancient stone to the floor. It shattered at their feet, exploding into a thousand shards, its vague sea-green glow at once diminished, like a flame extinguished.
At once, both girls bent to grab a small piece—if only for posterity—and then, shoving the pieces of Merlin’s Jewel into their rucksacks, they left what remained on the floor, rushing to the door.
Chapter 16
It was only as she inhaled her supper that Rosalynde realized how very famished she was and how long she’d gone without supping—not since yesterday morn, long hours before leaving London. Goddess forgive her, but never had she enjoyed the consumption of cooked flesh with such abandon. She had relished every small bite, including the charred skin. Consequently, as her mouth was moving without any true purpose of speaking, she learned a number of things.
First, the power of mind over body was fascinating. She had been too preoccupied to allow herself to feel any hunger, and now that she had essentially acknowledged it, she was like a wild beast, snarling over her food, and eating with all the eagerness of a London beggar.
Secondly, Wilhelm of Warkworth was conflicted. She recognized his love and his concern, even as she acknowledged his anger. It was there in his eyes and his voice when he spoke to his lord brother. Whether it was because of Lady Ayleth, or some other grievance, she hadn’t any clue, but it wasn’t really her concern.
Thirdly, the man didn’t seem know what to do with her, though he was perfectly content to ignore her. Unlike his brother—who couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off her—every once in a while, he peered out of the corner of one eye and then swiftly away when she met his gaze.
And fourthly, like a child looking for validation, Wilhelm talked a lot, rambling on and on about everything, from the difficulty of catching cony, to the idiosyncrasies of a good war horse, to the dissembling of Stephen. Rose wondered if Giles realized that a simple thank you from him might actually tame his brother’s prattling. And nevertheless, since it wasn’t forthcoming, Wilhelm carried on. And on. And on…
Now, he took it upon himself to name every known infraction Stephen ever made—everything from the breaking of his oaths to her father, to the handling of the kingswoods.
But, of course, neither of these men had any inkling they were speaking about Rosalynde’s father, and she hadn’t any inclination to tell them. She sat quietly, watching, listening.
“You were not there, Giles. I distinctly heard him say—with his own mouth—he would overturn Henry’s forest laws,” Wilhelm talked through greasy fingers, as he gnawed at his bone, spitting out slivers. “Still he has not. Twelve years of lies and more lies.”
The differences between these two brothers couldn’t be more distinctly evident by the manner of their supping. Wilhelm, dark and brooding, tore after his meal with more zeal than Rosalynde had, much to her chagrin because it wasn’t very attractive to watch. But at least she had the veil to hide her greasy teeth and lips. Giles, on the other hand, purposely sliced his meat from the bone, placing the neat slices into a growing pile. “I have no issue with the kingswoods,” Giles said. “As it stands, there’s hardly any boar left anywhere. At least Henry’s Forest Law protects them.”
Wilhelm argued, “There’s boar in Pickering and Inglewood.”
“For now, and yet the instant he overturns that charter, every man and his brother will hunt them. They’ll be gone before you know it.”
Wilhelm harrumphed. “And you think that man honors Henry’s Law because he cares about boar? Nay, brother. He maintains those kingswoods because he covets them for himself.”
Giles offered his brother a lift of his brow. “There’s much I do not respect about our king, but I warrant he hasn’t time for hunting, Will. Gossip doesn’t behoove you.”
Wilhelm growled, tossing away his bone, sliding Rosalynde a prickled glance. Meanwhile, Giles leaned back against the stump Rose had been seated upon earlier, staring contemplatively into the fire, and every now and again he looked at Rose, studying her as though she were a suspicious roll of knucklebones.
Only now that she had a bit of food in her belly and she could think more clearly, she realized that, whilst she continued wearing the veil, the worst case might be that her eye color would change, and Giles might note it. Else-wise, much of her face remained hidden, and if either of these men suspected something, there was hardly any chance they would rip the veil from her face to reveal her.
And nevertheless, she could not abide the smell of the veil now that she had cony grease all over it, and if the itchy fabric wasn’t annoying enough, the foul odor made her long to rip it off and toss it away.
Truly, now that she was away from London, there was no reason to keep the glamour or the veil, save that these two arguing brothers had already seen her face, and how would she explain it? She had but needed the glamour to escape London without being recognized. Here on the road, it was enough to be wearing the habit.
She tried her best to ignore Giles, eating quietly, listening intently, and therein also discovered precisely where they were—not in any of the kingswoods, so it seemed, even despite their heated discussion over the subject.
Long past Darkwood, Giles had directed them to some small woodlot south of Whittlewood and Salcey, where only small quarry survived, which was indubitably the reason the woods seemed so quiet. Sadly, it couldn’t even be called a forest. Unlike Darkwood, with its thick cluster of trees, the woods were thin and sparse. There was hardly any place for hart or boar to roam or hide—nor for that matter, any place for anyone to hide, which, in essence, was the deciding factor in Rosalynde’s decision to leave—the sooner the better.
So much as she appreciated these brothers grim and their sweet, lovely horses—and so much as she’d like to believe the Goddess had sent them to aid her—she had no choice.
Rhiannon once told her that following the will of the Goddess should be easy. It was only difficult if you were attempting to force your own will over the will of the Mother. So, if, at some point, all of life seemed to be conspiring, it was time to reexamine one’s decisions.
Therefore, so much as she had hoped Giles could be her very own champion, it mustn’t be so. It was too difficult to be in his company; and there were many, many reasons to leave, only a few to stay. And truly, considering that she hadn’t actually anticipated finding herself a champion at all, there was only one true reason to stay: the mare.
On the other hand, when she considered all the many reasons to flee, they were a multitude.
Most significantly, there was the matter of the warding spell—without it, she would never sleep at night. And, when it came right down to it, two surly brothers with shiny swords were hardly any defense against her mother, and, anyway, both men were far too immersed in their own squabbles to have any sense for impending danger.
Moreover, even if Rosalynde could manage to find a good warding spell to be used without a
proper pentacle, she was afraid they would be shocked to see her cast it, despite that they could no longer witness the effects it wrought upon the aether—startlingly beautiful formations, not unlike fae dust, or tiny, winking stars.
Sadly, most folks could no longer see the things a dewine saw, nor hear the voice of the Goddess. But to a dewine’s eyes, all things were made of stars—even this… strange appeal betwixt her and Giles. Rose felt it like an annoying tug at her heart and a crackle in the air, and it was hardly as comforting as she’d imagined it should be. It filled her with incredible angst, and she had more than enough of that already with worries over Morwen.
So, then, whilst Wilhelm continued to complain about Stephen’s reluctance to overturn her father’s Forest Law, despite his promise to do so, Rosalynde planned her escape…
If she could manage to slip into those puny woods, perhaps these contenders would be too busy thinking up ways to best each other and too replete to bother coming after her—at least for a while. As exhausted as she was—and, sweet Goddess she was—she knew they must be all the more so, because at least she had managed to sleep last night and a little while in the saddle.
And anyway, neither of these brothers should care about a silly nun. Quite to the contrary, they should be pleased to be rid of her—and, no matter, Rosalynde didn’t believe they should trouble themselves with a search when they had days and days left to travel on their own account. Warkworth, she’d learned, lay far, far to the north—nearly as far as Aldergh. It was a week yet to Neasham, or so Giles had said, but that was by horse, and she would be afoot. Neasham was south of Aldergh—perhaps only halfway—and yet, so much as Rosalynde loathed to add another week or more to her travels, if she managed to hide herself well enough, even from these contentious brothers, she’d arrive at Neasham, long, long after they’d departed. Then, she could entreat upon the sisters to sell her a horse—and so what if they should happen to mention a silly nun from their travels. She would have more than enough of the philter remaining to cast one final glamour—one that would mask her dress as well as her face. They would see her as a luckless traveler and she would tell them that she had been robbed. If they wondered why she still had money to purchase a horse after being burgled, she would explain that she’d hidden the gold marks in the hem of her gown—and in fact, she could show them, and once she was gone, that would be the last of her lies.
The Daughters of Avalon Collection: Books 1 & 2 Page 39