The Daughters of Avalon Collection: Books 1 & 2

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  He lifted a golden brow, his lips curving ever-so slyly. “To my knowledge, Lady Rosalynde, you’ve never had a loss for any words,” he said, and her face burned hotter, until she felt the flush ignite her bosom. “And nevertheless,” he said. “Never fear, as it seems to me you have more than your share of gifts already—not the least of which is your smile.”

  Rosalynde’s heart tripped wildly.

  Very shyly, she lifted her goblet to her lips, grateful for the sweet elixir to calm her nerves—and Goddess please, she planned to drink a lot tonight, if only so she could forget that she meant to lie with her sister’s intended.

  And no matter… she knew in her heart that Seren would be the first to sanction this union. Seren was not capable of envy, and neither could she possibly have any affection for Giles de Vere—not like Rose did. After all, how could anyone endure such trials and not be bonded?

  Unbidden, the Goddess’s words came back to tease her, and she flushed hotly, because if those words were not imagined… if, in truth, they were to be believed… they must already be wed in the eyes of the Goddess… and still… not once had Giles dared to acknowledge what had happened.

  Rose understood that he must not have experienced them. Such things were not meant for the ears of common men—and yet, he was hardly, in the true sense of the word… common.

  Whatever the case, she had no compunction about what she was about to do—none at all. She had been taught to revel in all that made her a woman. Her ancestors had been pagans, who, instead of being ashamed of the act of procreation, had been taught that the creation of life was the greatest gift to be bestowed upon the world, and if she could thank Giles, she would thank him with her body and her soul.

  Only what she felt for him was more than gratitude. She felt something deeper. She felt… love, for what was love after all, but a higher form of magik, born of faith, trust and devotion?

  When all was said and done, it wasn’t just that Giles was the first man she’d ever known so intimately. It wasn’t merely that he was also the most beautiful man she’d ever known. Nor was it only that she’d spent so many hours reveling in the warmth of his embrace. And nay, it wasn’t because he’d saved her life. She liked him, truly. She liked everything about him. She liked the way he ate. She loved his smile. She loved the way he walked and talked. She loved the quiet strength and power he wielded so easily. She loved the patience he showed his brother, and most of all, she loved the way he made her feel…

  He gestured toward the table, and Rosalynde’s knees buckled as she moved closer to discover that he’d brought her a bit of mutton, cheese and bread. In truth, she wasn’t very hungry, but she knew she must try—else the vin would go straight to her head, and she wanted desperately that tonight should be divine…

  “Forgive me,” he said. “I ate. All save the vin is for you.”

  Rose’s hand fluttered to her breast. “For me?”

  She was overcome with emotion. It wasn’t enough that he would buy her gowns and then deign to serve her, but not even at Westminster had she dined so finely. Not for one minute was her mother ever concerned about how her daughters filled their bellies, much less what they ate. And so much as they had been surrounded by opulence at the palace, they would have preferred Llanthony with their crude dirt floors. At least then they could have eaten from their garden. But this—she swept her hand reverently over the laden tray. It was too much to eat alone, and what was worse, as famished as she should have been, she had inexplicably lost her appetite. There was a fluttering in her belly, like a hundred thousand angels flittering all at once.

  Retrieving her hand, she put it about her cup, bringing the goblet slowly to her lips. “I shall eat later,” she promised with a smile, as he watched her, all the while twirling his own cup in his hand.

  What should she do now?

  Rosalynde turned to regard the bed, wondering what should come next… the room was so warm now that she could easily undress… and rush into the bed.

  “How is your wound?” he asked.

  “Healed,” she reassured him. “But… I do have scars.” And her blush returned as she considered that she must now reveal all her imperfections.

  And yet—she furrowed her brow—she was quite puzzled, because, truly, she had never known a healing spell not to remove wound marks as well. She now had eight hideous black pocks that were clearly visible, even after a week—not unlike the darkening scars that Wilhelm now wore on his face.

  “And this surprises you?”

  Rosalynde nodded. “Perhaps,” she confessed, but then… she didn’t know what else to say.

  Now should she undress and get into the bed?

  What must he think of her compared to her sister?

  Behind her, Giles sank into one of the chairs. And then he sat for such an excruciatingly long while, facing the bed. In fact, he waited so long to speak that, outside, full darkness descended, bathing the room in shadows. On the bed, the rainbow prism vanished, and still, he sipped quietly at his vin…

  What if, after all, he didn’t want her? What if, in truth, Rose imagined everything? What if the bond she felt was nothing more than a heartfelt wish?

  Feeling compelled to, she now returned to the table, forcing herself to pick up a piece of the bread, taking a nibble. “’Tis good,” she said, and thanked him again, acutely aware that his eyes never left her, until, at long last, he broached the subject they’d been so studiously avoiding all week long, and she felt a terrible prick of dread.

  “You must know, Rose… I am betrothed to your sister?”

  “I-I do, my lord.” Rosalynde’s heart thudded to a halt.

  A deeper silence fell between them… a silence that brought the sizzling inside the brazier to a roar, and Rosalynde forced herself to take another bite of the bread, making herself chew.

  “As God is my witness, I do not care about the title, and yet… if I do not honor my contract with Stephen, I stand to lose Warkworth.”

  Rosalynde’s throat constricted. The bread inside her mouth turned to paste, and her heart squeezed painfully.

  Somehow, she had not considered him in this, but… yeah, of course. He stood to lose everything… and why did she think he was only here to serve the will of Goddess?

  “I made a bargain,” he said. “My fealty to Stephen for the chance to rebuild… and… to seal our deal, I accepted your sister’s hand. Our wedding is to be six months hence.”

  “I wouldst…” Rosalynde shook her head, setting the rest of the bread down, losing what little appetite she had mustered. She lifted her hand to her mouth, perhaps to keep herself from retching, and with much, much effort, she managed to swallow what she had in her mouth, then, she lifted her goblet, along with the flagon, pouring from its contents until her goblet was full to the brim. “I… I do… not… wish to see you lose Warkworth… my lord.” She set the flagon down, very quietly.

  “If it were only me…”

  Rosalynde would have lifted a hand if she could, but both of them were strangling her goblet. “You need not explain,” she said, tipping the goblet to her lips, draining the contents. “So, then… you would still wed my sister, Seren?”

  “That… is the plan,” he said, and Rose’s eyes filled with hot tears she daren’t shed. With shaking hands, she poured another goblet full and then once again tipped it to her lips, gulping until she was no longer in danger of weeping. “My sister… Seren is wonderful,” she said, swallowing her grief. “You will love her.”

  He said naught to that, and until that instant, Rosalynde hadn’t ever dared begrudge her sisters aught. Only now that she knew Giles… now that they had shared so much together… the very thought of Seren wedding him seemed a sore, sore lack of grace on the part of the Goddess.

  Something like anger ignited in her breast, for how could she provide Rosalynde a champion, only to wrest him away and return him to her beautiful sister?

  It wasn’t fair.

  “You mustn’t worry, R
ose. I gave you my word to see you safely to Aldergh, and this I’ll do. As luck would have it, whilst I’m there, I have business to address with your sister’s husband.”

  Rosalynde nodded once, wanting to ask what business a dutiful earl could have with a traitor to the crown, but her tongue was too thick to speak. Swallowing her grief, she turned away, refusing to meet his gaze. “I… I am not hungry, after all,” she said as she moved toward the bed, suddenly, feeling more enervated than she had even on the day she’d faced Mordecai.

  Goddess help her, for all that she’d felt a sense of purpose in regard to the grimoire, it suddenly seemed a terrible, terrible waste—not for the rest of the realm perhaps, but, for her. Without Giles, it felt as though her world had already ended. But how could that be so? “Thank you… so much… for all you’ve done, my lord. If you would pardon me now, I should desperately like to sleep.”

  “I understand,” he said, watching her tear down the bedding. “Don’t worry, my lady,” he said formally. “I intended to sleep in this chair.”

  Rose’s brows slanted sadly. “Of course,” she said, and crawled into the bed, pulling the covers high over her head, not caring that she might wrinkle her fabulous new gown. She didn’t want Giles to see her tear-stricken face, and she wished so much that she still had her wimple and veil.

  Yeah, she was angry, embarrassed, disappointed. Sad. And all these things shouldn’t have mattered, because, after all, he was still helping her with the one thing she most needed… getting the grimoire to Elspeth.

  Everything else was all but fantasy.

  It didn’t matter, she told herself.

  Nothing mattered.

  She didn’t need him.

  And yet, she did.

  Giles tossed down another gulp of the vin, and sweet as the taste might be, it was bitter on his tongue.

  Rosalynde’s emotions were honest and without guile. He could tell that he had hurt her, and it sorely aggrieved him.

  They had been inseparable since the ordeal in the glade, but he was losing his resolve, as swiftly as he was losing his religion. Rosalynde Pendragon was not for him, and he mustn’t confuse the mission he’d embarked upon. His sword belonged to the Church, even if his heart now belonged to a beauteous witch… a witch, in truth.

  And that, too, was a cross to be borne… because he no more intended to kill the lady, than he meant to bed her. Instead, he would be her advocate to the Church. He would make certain they understood she was not her mother.

  For the longest time, he sat, watching the poor girl sleep, feeling more exhausted and confused than he had in all his years. More than aught, he wanted to go to her, comfort her, make love to her… make her his own.

  But… he’d had plenty of time to reconsider his folly, and simply because he’d dreamt of her face didn’t mean he was meant to have her. The dream could simply have been God’s way of letting him know that her plight was not to be ignored.

  Or, it could be a warning, because in his dream, she had been a water nymph—a beautiful siren from the depths of the sea, who’d lured him into darkness, and perhaps to hell itself.

  In truth, if he forsook his oath to Stephen, he would put in danger all the Church had planned.

  And, more… in his selfishness, he would betray both his brothers, his father, and his sisters, and most of all, England.

  He could not risk it. How then would he face Wilhelm if he returned to Warkworth with Rosalynde Pendragon by his side and it cost them everything?

  Nay. He could not take her. So much as his heart longed to and his body yearned to… he simply could not.

  Chapter 24

  The room was a prison, and yet, it was not.

  The window might have bars, and the door might be locked, but the brazier burned hot and strong, and the woodpile was tall—taller than any they’d ever had at Llanthony.

  What was more, there was no longer any need to hide what she was… She was a dewine, a child of the Earth Mother, a student of the hud. There was freedom to be had in that, even as her body remained imprisoned.

  Outside, the moon rose high, bathing her in its silvery light. It was long, long past the Golden Hour, but she was strong now—strong enough not to need the time between times to fortify her magik.

  Rising from the bed—a finely curtained bed, thick with feathers, not straw to fatten the mattress—Rhiannon walked across the room, lifting up a good-sized log, then carried it back to the brazier, pushing it into the iron belly.

  With a sigh, she reached into her pocket, and took out the herbs she’d separated, tossing them gingerly into the fire, giving them a moment to burn. Finally, once she was ready, she spoke the words.

  Blazing fires as you dance,

  Give me now a fleeting glance.

  A puff of smoke lifted from the brazier, the scent like burnt honey. The wisps and curls took shape, forming, forming… forming…

  She didn’t need the fire, or words anymore, but she reveled in the rites her people had performed for ages.

  Still, her face fell, and her brows slanted at what was revealed to her, and her heart wrenched so painfully that she thought she might howl at the moon.

  Goddess please… it was the most impossible decision for any sister to make—to choose one to lose.

  Encourage one to a given path, and it sent the other to her doom.

  Few things in life were only coincidences. No happenstance occurred without consequence.

  If only people understood that there was a price to be paid for every thought that formed and every decision made, they might tremble in their boots.

  Her lips trembled as she fought her desire to weep… how utterly impossible a decision… help one, lose two. Help two, lose one. And if it could be possible to sacrifice herself, she would do so without hesitation… but this would not change the fates. Even without a scrying stone, even without mindspeaking, she knew where Seren and Arwyn were. She understood the decision Rosalynde must make, and she knew what it would cost.

  And yet… no matter how many times she twisted and turned the aether, there was only one true path that would return their mother to the place whence she’d come.

  Goddess save them, she knew the truth; it was more terrifying than anyone could imagine: Morwen was not her grandmamau’s child—not any longer. In her greed for power and glory, she had brought forth a demon from the Nether Realm—a soul that should not have found its way back to the dominion of men. She was not Morwen, daughter of Morgan Pendragon. She was not a child of Taliesin… she was the witch who’d sought the prophet’s doom. She was Cerridwen, destroyer of realms, called back to this world by a blood magik so hideous that by its very act, the veil between worlds had rent but long enough for Cerridwen to escape, and after thousands and thousands of years trapped in her black prison, she would stop at naught to see vengeance done.

  For a long, long moment, Rhiannon dared to grieve for the little girl who’d once been her mother… the child who’d lamented her faults… the young lady who’d envied her mother’s affection for her elder brother, the last warlock of their age. Emrys Pendragon had been his mother’s pride and joy—even as Cerridwen had loved her own son, Morfran. Except, Emrys was not cursed as Morfran had been cursed. He was blessed, as the sisters were blessed, by the blood of Taliesin. Emrys Pendragon, not Morwen, was the regnant priest of their age, and Rhiannon knew it… because… Emrys was her father. Murdered by her mother… even as Morwen had murdered Rhiannon’s twin in her own womb.

  She’d poisoned him.

  Rage burned hot as the embers in her brazier, and she swore that one day she would avenge them all, even as she must avenge the sister who must now die by her own judgment…

  Grief twisted her heart, curdling in her belly, and she didn’t care who heard her cry. She wanted to curl into a ball, and somehow cease to exist, but that was not the way of a regnant priestess.

  Heartsore, she returned to the bed, and sat upon it another long while, burdened by the weight of h
er duty. The bed creaked beneath her, and she heard the shuffle of feet outside her prison door.

  He was there… again… but she didn’t care.

  And neither did she care if her mother overheard her. If she hesitated, the moment will have passed.

  It must be tonight, else he would harden his heart, and so, too, would Rosalynde, and if their union was not consummated, the consequences would not be theirs alone.

  Rosalynde, she called through the aether. Sister hear me. And she closed her eyes, easily infiltrating Rosalynde’s thoughts as her sister lay weeping… her eyes red-rimmed and sore. “Stop,” she whispered softly. “Dry your eyes, my dear.” And then she hardened her voice. “We are not born to weep for our sins, we are here to honor the Goddess with our gifts. You have a duty to fulfill.”

  “Rhiannon?”

  “Aye, ’tis me, Rose, but there’s no time to explain. Bind him to you. You know how. The Goddess has ordained it. Seren will understand. Trust your heart to do what is right… as you have always done.”

  Silence.

  One tear slid from her amber eyes, trickling onto the richly adorned bed as she repeated the words of the Goddess.

  Bound by destiny, to destiny bound,

  Another to one, and one to another...

  Outside her door, she heard a man’s rueful laughter. Then she heard a slam of his fist against the stone wall, and his footfalls fell away.

  Let him go… in the end, the Goddess’s will must be done… even in regard to him.

  Rosalynde had been half asleep, dozing fitfully, her eyes swollen with tears, but she awoke with a start.

  Bound by destiny, to destiny bound,

  Another to one, and one to another...

  Those were precisely the words she’d heard the glade, and her sister betimes knew things. As a child Rosalynde had learned to trust Rhiannon, even when Elspeth had constrained them.