Right before her eyes, the Shadow Beast began to coalesce into a more solid form—into the shape of a man, still with enormous black wings. Once more, Wilhelm rushed forward to pierce the creature with his sword, but he ventured no closer than the breadth of the creature’s wings. Its leathery appendages smacked him away, as easily as though he were no more than a flea.
Landing more than twenty feet away, his look dazed, Wilhelm sat, staring in horror as the creature put talons into Rosalynde’s waist, clutching her so brutally that she thought it must have broken her flesh. She cried out in pain and terror, and it was then Giles appeared, tearing through the woods atop his black courser, and what he did next took Rosalynde’s breath away…
As her spell solidified the beast, Giles charged them, his every move as darkly sinuous as that of the Shadow Beast’s, his movements as choreographed as a macabre dance—a dance of death. To her desperate eyes, it happened as though in slow motion. Once he cleared the boughs of low-lying trees, he rose up on the back of his courser, unsheathing a shimmering golden blade and wielding it so expertly it appeared to be an extension of his being—and he, an extension of the horse.
That sword—it glowed unlike anything Rosalynde had ever seen before. Her eyes transfixed on the haloed metal, even as the creature cut its talons deeper into her flesh.
She shouted the binding words again…
I call the fifth to me!
Goddess hear my plea!
Of smoke and mist you might be born.
Here I bind you now in mortal form.
Crying out, the creature thrust its black talons even deeper into her middle, and Rosalynde’s eyes teared with pain. But, then, just as the Beast hoisted her up, dropping her, only to catch her again more securely, preparing to fly away, Giles leapt off his mare, spinning through the air like a whirling blade. His shining sword caught the beast at its neck, severing the head.
The Shadow Beast opened its claws, releasing Rosalynde and plummeted to the ground. She fell with a thud and a yelp of pain, and barely had time to roll out of the way before the creature came tumbling into the bracken.
Stunned, Wilhelm remained seated on his bottom, staring with his mouth open.
Rosalynde righted her dress, crawling over to seize the grimoire, and rose to her feet as Giles knelt beside the creature with his bloodstained sword still in his hand.
With trembling limbs, she ventured over to join him. But when she looked down into the Shadow Beast’s face, she gasped in horror. “It’s Mordecai!”
“What is a Mordecai?”
Rosalynde shook her head, her face pale as parchment. “Not what, but whom… he’s—”
Before their eyes, the creature writhed one final time, losing its wings and mutating into the shape of a man. His youth fell away, withering his flesh until it turned to dust, and without so much as a breeze, the dust rushed into the reliquary still tangled in Rosalynde’s hand—vanishing… as though it had been sucked into the reliquary. Swallowing convulsively, she peered at the bauble in her hand… and the cuts and burn in her palm, then tossed the reliquary away, thinking at once of her sisters…
She’d had no idea such things were possible, and now, she feared she’d left Arwyn and Seren to their doom. “No,” she whispered.
“Where the hell did you learn to do that?” demanded Wilhelm, his face bloodied and scarred.
Giles turned to look at his brother, who was still seated on his rump. “In the seminary,” he said evenly, and Rose screwed her face, casting a questioning look at Wilhelm, wondering how that could possibly be true.
At this point, her wimple and veil were gone—her glamour as well, judging by the way Wilhelm was looking at her—as though she had suddenly sprouted another head.
“You knew him?” Giles asked, dismissing his brother, and turning to question Rosalynde, with one brow arched and his pupils darker than they had ever appeared before. They penetrated her to her very soul, probing her secrets and promising to reveal them.
Alas, it was past time to confess.
Come what may, she could not keep that grimoire from her mother without help—and clearly, this man had what it took to keep her safe. There was no doubt in her mind now: He was sent by the Goddess.
“Aye,” Rosalynde said, clutching her side, grimacing with pain. “I knew him.”
“And?”
She winced, more over the pain of her confession than over the pain in her middle. “Alas, I have a confession to make,” she said, looking Giles’s straight in the face. “I am neither a nun, nor am I in route to Neasham.”
He tilted her a knowing glance, his black eyes shining, his gaze betraying little surprise. “And is that all?”
She might as well confess everything. “Nay…. I was the one who stole your horse…”
Both his brows lifted now, and still he pressed her, “Something more?”
Rosalynde shook her head sheepishly, realizing the words must be said. “My mother’s name is Morwen,” she said, tears forming in her eyes, and she then buckled to her knees, the edges of her vision blackening as pain shot through her side.
Chapter 19
In a motion equally as fluid as his effort on his horse, Giles re-sheathed his sword and swept Rosalynde into his arms, leaving Wilhelm and the horse to follow. “You’re injured,” he said, in a far gentler tone than she’d expected. And yet, even as Rosalynde clung to her Book, she was terrified.
That was Mordecai—her mother’s disciple—but what in the name of the Goddess was he? A gargoyle?
Her brain still could not reconcile what she’d witnessed.
Wilhelm recovered himself far more quickly than she did, hurrying ahead, snatching a blanket from the back of his horse and shaking it out as Giles carried Rosalynde over and placed her gently atop it. He laid her down with such care that it made her throat tight.
She peered up, clutching his tunic. “Thank you,” she said, groaning in pain as he released her.
“I beg pardon, but…” His gaze fell to her waist, where her gown was soaked with her own blood, and Rosalynde blinked, glancing up again, meeting his gaze. “I would see what damage was done.”
“It doesn’t hurt,” she lied, and tried to push him away. Even now, she didn’t wish to explain. If he would just leave her be and go away, she would heal herself and be done. Already, the blood flow was ebbing. If he hadn’t already determined who Morwen was, she was beginning to doubt the wisdom in revealing herself.
He caught her by the wrist and said, “I would see it with my own eyes… with your permission and your pardon.”
Realizing he wouldn’t let it go, Rosalynde nodded dumbly, and let him push her gently back onto the blanket. He produced a knife from his boot and sliced the gown at her midriff, so he could see her wound, but still salvage some semblance of modesty.
“There’s a lot of blood,” he told her, his face crestfallen, and Rosalynde peered into his dark eyes, her own eyes filling with telltale tears as she lifted her hand instinctively to heal herself. Not understanding her intent—perhaps thinking her too modest, he once again caught her hand, holding it firmly in his own. “I don’t know how deep it is,” he said. “You shouldn’t disturb it.”
Rosalynde was afraid… though not about the wound. For the first time in her life, someone besides her sisters was looking at her… perhaps not with love, but concern, and it begged her to speak her truth. She lay exposed—literally—and trust was the only means to her salvation.
Inhaling a fortifying breath, she shook free of his hand, holding his gaze, and pleading with her eyes for him to allow her to do what she must.
Giles frowned but didn’t resist, and she peered down to inspect her wound. Now that the shock was wearing off, it was beginning to ache, but not for long. She put a hand over the torn flesh and whispered the necessary words—not out loud. It wasn’t necessary, and she would be embarrassed for him to hear her. Slowly, her flesh began to close before his eyes. They couldn’t see her magik workin
g, but they could witness the end result—healed flesh, only stained by blood as proof of what she had endured. Except the burn on her palm remained. Healed though it might be, the scar remained dark… and she glanced down, moving her dress to find that her puncture marks were black as well.
Alas, there was no sense holding anything back now…
These men, too, had suffered by her mother’s hand, and if anything, it gave her hope of convincing them to ally with her. She had no doubt any longer that Giles was her champion—hers, not Seren’s. No one could have done what he did, and she would be dead now without his help.
Without being asked, Rosalynde proceeded to explain all that she dared to explain, beginning with the details of her glamour spell. It wasn’t much different than a lady with maquillage, she told them, only this face paint was not powder or cream, it was a mask woven of aether, a suggestion by the Goddess to give mortal eyes what she wished them to see.
She went on to explain about the grimoire, as well—how important it was to deliver the Book to Elspeth. Alas, Aldergh was the only place she knew to take it. Her sister Rhiannon was being held at Blackwood by agents of her mother’s, and she had no hope of infiltrating that stronghold without help—nor could she ultimately be certain the grimoire alone would be enough to give Rhiannon the means to overcome her captors. After all, the only place she felt certain would receive her without sending her back to Stephen was Aldergh. Malcom Scott had once been a vassal of the Usurper’s, but he was no longer. Stephen had named him an enemy to the crown.
“I know who he is,” said Giles.
Of course, he did. There seemed to be very little of her story that surprised him. But, all through the telling, Wilhelm stared at her, his dark eyes wide with horror, his shredded and blood-stained face like the Shadow Beast, contorting with every word she spoke. Only now that she had revealed herself, she was entirely at their mercy and she was too far into her explication to pretend it was aught less than it was. “I am not a witch,” she explained. “I’m a dewine.” But, when both men furrowed their brows, she relented. “Very well, I am witch. But this is not what you suppose.”
She didn’t like that word—witch—because of what it meant to others. She was a child of the Earth Mother, a Maiden pledged to the hud, but for all these men knew of the Craft of the Wise, witchery was as good as any word she might use. And nevertheless, she endeavored to explain that in their native tongue, they were known as dewines, not witches. Translated more precisely, they were enchantresses, but also healers, prophets, seers. As with any art, not everyone had the same skills, and certainly not all were dark.
“And your mother?”
“Whatever Morwen may be, her heart lies far from the principles of our tenets, which dictate we do good, harm none.” She looked warily between the brothers, trying to gauge their thoughts, but there was no help for it. Here and now, she would propose treason, and they might as well know it. She held Giles’s gaze, ignoring Wilhelm, realizing that Giles now held her future in his hands. She said, pointedly, “My mother is an enemy of the realm, so much as Stephen may not realize… so, too, is his son.”
To this, Giles merely nodded, and without a word, he stood, unsheathing the golden blade from his scabbard. He laid it down on the blanket beside her, flicking a glance at his brother. “Do you see that sword?” he asked. “Do you know what it is?”
“’Tis a sword,” said Wilhelm, confused.
Rosalynde shook her head.
“Look closer,” he bade her, and with Wilhelm peeking over her shoulder, she dared to look closer to read the inscription etched in Latin.
“Mea est ultio, et ego retribuam,” she said, and even as she read, the golden serpents in the sword’s hilt seemed to slither and the words themselves lifted from the blue steel, doubling in size and igniting before her eyes—magik.
Vengeance Is Mine, I Shall Repay.
She blinked, recognizing the passage from her days in the priory. If your enemy be hungry, feed him; if he be thirsty, give him drink; for in so doing you will heap coals upon his head. Never avenge yourselves… but… She finished the passage aloud, with sudden revelation, “Leave it to the wrath of God,” she whispered, and Giles gave her a nod.
His brother sat utterly still, listening, and Giles finished the passage for Rosalynde, lifting a golden brow. “For it is written that, ‘Vengeance is mine, I Shall repay, saith the Lord.’”
Rosalynde peered up, into Giles’s face—into his dark knowing eyes, alight with something not entirely holy.
He gave her another short nod, realizing she understood, and then a bow. “I am and ever shall be the wrath of God on Earth, a humble servant of the Palatine Guard.”
Chapter 20
Giles was a Paladin—as formidable a commission as the king’s Rex Militum, save that he served the Holy Roman Empire, not the English crown. And yet, he wasn’t a priest; he was a man, with all a man’s faults, and his body trembled at the sight of the woman peering up at him so haplessly, her expression something akin to horror.
But he knew why she was looking at him that way, and he sensed she understood precisely who—and what—he was.
Her own grandmother had been subject to the laws of the Church, and she’d suffered a heretic’s death, burned at the stake by the edict of the Empress’s first husband. As it was with the Rex Militum, the Palatine Guardsmen were executioners for the realms, and it was their company who’d been assigned to carry out justice for Morgan Pendragon. After all, it was their task to dispatch enemies of the Church, whether they be heretics… or witches. And yet, his post was a bit of a contradiction, because it was the Prophet Merlin—a Pendragon himself—who’d given them their rites of passage. It was a fact that kept them relegated to the shadows—a stain on the sanctity of the Church.
“You’re a Huntsman,” she said quietly, though it wasn’t a question.
Giles shrugged dispassionately, despite there wasn’t a single muscle in his entire body that didn’t feel tense, and there was naught apathetic about his thoughts.
“That’s perhaps one word for it,” he said.
Rosalynde blinked again, and he swallowed now as he studied her face—the same face he’d first spied when he’d encountered her sleeping… and it was that face he’d envisioned in his dreams. To look upon it now left him breathless. And, not even the fact that she was Morwen Pendragon’s daughter had any tempering effect upon his ardor. It was as though, in truth, as he stood gazing down upon this Daughter of Avalon… all meaning to his life became clear. He was meant to be here… this moment… with her, and not even his true mission in England held the same verity. Somehow, he was meant to be Rosalynde Pendragon’s champion, and she was meant… for what?
What role had she to play in her mother’s demise?
He flicked a glance at her book; understanding dawned.
Avoiding Rosalynde’s gaze, he bent to pick up his longsword and then re-sheathed it—another legacy of Merlin’s. As it must be for all the men in the Palatine Guard, the sword had been chosen specifically for him, but there remained twelve such swords, all forged from blooms of steel, and containing a special consecrated alloy that glowed faintly in the presence of evil.
This girl was not evil. The sword’s golden halo had vanished the instant he’d dispatched the Shadow Beast, and not for an instant during their travels had he felt the low thrum of the finely-honed metal at his hip.
As for Morwen Pendragon… she was another matter entirely. Morwen herself was a demon, and the Church had dispatched Giles—not only to reclaim a valuable seat in his father’s name, but to pave the way for the Empress’s son to take his rightful place on England’s throne.
Now, more than before, he understood that the Church must not confirm the Count of Mortain. Stephen must not be allowed to install his son on the throne. Morwen Pendragon must be stopped at all cost, and Eustace was no more than her poppet. If the king managed to hand the realm to his miscreant son, England would be lost.
&n
bsp; And yet, so much as the barons had sworn their fealties to the Empress, neither was Matilda destined to be their savior. She was a woman, and so much as a woman could destroy it, no woman could unite England’s barons. It must be Duke Henry, and they must continue to weaken the king’s hold and strengthen the resolve of the Church.
Giles had but needed his dispensation to give the illusion he was Stephen’s loyal man—to keep those bastards off his lands. Even now, there were ships due to arrive at his port with men enough and supplies enough to begin reconstruction—all save for the stone he must procure, and perhaps that dilemma might be solved now by speaking to the very man whose aid Rosalynde was seeking—the lord of Aldergh. The ex-king’s man had access to a sizable quarry, and it was for that reason alone he had managed to construct and maintain such a monstrosity as Aldergh. If the earl of Wallingford could hold back a siege for a year, Aldergh could do it for three.
He realized Rosalynde was still staring at him, perhaps waiting for confirmation. “Aye,” he said.
His brother, as always, was clueless. “What is she talking about, Giles?”
He turned to Wilhelm now, gauging how much he could say without betraying his oaths, and then said in jest, “I mustn’t be so dreadful with a blade, after all.” And he gave his brother a lopsided grin.
Wilhelm tilted him a look of confusion, bemused, perhaps as he should be. More than once Giles had tried to tell him that he was not the man he believed, although if the dispatching of the Shadow Beast wasn’t proof enough, there wasn’t much more he could say—or do. And nevertheless, he could say this much: “I am sworn to protect the Holy Church from its enemies, no matter what form they take.”
Wilhelm pointed into the woods. “What was that?”
Giles shrugged, again. “That… I don’t know, brother, but this lady might enlighten us…” He returned his gaze to Rosalynde Pendragon, entreating her with a tilt of his head. “As you were saying, Lady Rosalynde… what, pray tell, is a Mordecai?”
The Daughters of Avalon Collection: Books 1 & 2 Page 41