The Daughters of Avalon Collection: Books 1 & 2

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  “She swept into our cottage like a cold, bitter wind, put us on our knees and railed at us for being ingrates. All the while, Ersinius stood smirking as we knelt, choking on our tears. Once she was through, the windbag sent in two guards to escort Rhiannon out the door.”

  Elspeth’s brow furrowed. “Did they perchance take her to Blackwood?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Malcom spoke to her.”

  “When?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Elspeth said, patting Rosalynde’s hand, and whatever joy she’d had twinkling in her familiar eyes, it was gone now, at least for the moment.

  “We cannot allow Morwen to retrieve the book,” Rosalynde said, and she brought a hand to her breast. “In my heart of hearts, I know that book is crucial, and I am as certain of that fact as Rhi was the day she bade you leave us at the priory.”

  Fat tears swelled in her sister’s eyes; one slid past her lashes, then rolled down her cheek. “I am so… so… sorry,” she said, taking both of Rosalynde’s hands, and folding them together, covering them with her own. “I would have returned if I could… and yet… I did send Malcom to find you.” She peered down at her blue-slippered feet. “You were gone.”

  Rosalynde nodded. “We were gone by first light. Ersinius, for all his pandering to the Church, is her willing servant. He does her bidding no matter what cost. I dare not imagine what treachery they have planned together. But, alas, she has agents across the realm, including the Count of Mortain, and that stupid fool burned Warkworth by her behest—burned it to the ground.”

  Elspeth’s eyes grew round with ill-concealed horror. “Is that not the lord you traveled with?”

  Rosalynde nodded.

  “Does he know you are Morwen’s daughter?”

  Rosalynde nodded again and squeezed her sister’s hand. “Eustace must not be confirmed, Elspeth, and if you have any way to send word to Matilda, you must warn her. He is a villain, no less than our mother, and you were right… we must not turn blind eyes to the truth.”

  “I have dealt with that man; well I know it.”

  “So we heard. And yet mother would endeavor to convince everyone you are not here of your own free will.”

  Elspeth’s face flushed. “Rest assured, my sweet sister. So much as I loathe being apart from you, there is nowhere in this world I would rather be. Malcom is…” She inhaled deeply. “Blood of my blood, bone of my bone. He is The One the Goddess ordained for me, and I love him to the depths of my soul.” But then, Elspeth looked momentarily away, as though she feared the answer to her next question. “Pray tell, how are Seren and Arwyn?”

  Rosalynde shook her head sadly. “I do not know. They were well enough when I left London, but Morwen…”

  “Say no more.” Elspeth patted Rosalynde’s hand again. “We must not fear the worst,” she said. “Our sisters are as savvy as you, Rose, else I’d not be here today, and you… you, my dear sister, you would never have found me.” She shook her head with a look that betrayed both grief and wonder. “And to think you endured so much. I must thank Giles for taking such great care of my littlest sister, and I will be sure the kitchen prepares him something special.”

  Now it was Rosalynde’s turn to blush, and she did so fiercely, even as she lifted a thumb to her lips in dismay. “Aye well, as to that… there is something else you should know.” And then she told Elspeth all about their bonding… about Rhiannon… about the night they spent at Neasham.

  “I see,” said Elspeth, but if Rosalynde had expected her sister’s censure, it wasn’t forthcoming. Elspeth gave Rose a sly smile. “I should be the first to say virtue is prized far too highly. You must follow your heart, Rose, and the Goddess will bless you for it. Our sister will doubtless forgive you.” And then her smile returned, even brighter. “Come,” she demanded again, taking one of Rosalynde’s hands and pulling her again down the hall. “I will show you the rest of my home later, but now I really need to show you something…”

  Chapter 27

  The something Elspeth needed to show her wasn’t a cauldron at all—and now that she stood gazing upon the marvel, she understood why her sister had dragged her away so hastily and insistently…

  Two small babes lay swaddled in a crib, both fast asleep. One had the look of their mother, with pale coppery hair. The other had hair so fair that it could have been spun silver. Both their cheeks were round and high with color as they lay sleeping near a brazier. The woman who’d been tending them moved away to give her mistress privacy, and Rosalynde’s heart swelled with joy as she gazed down at the sleeping pair. “Yours?” she asked with wonder.

  “Born on the Solstice… whilst in Scotia. They came early, though it did not seem so. I was quite ready to be done.”

  It was clear by the look in her sister’s eyes that she was content—more content than Rosalynde had ever imagined.

  “We went to celebrate the Yule with my husband’s family, and, that night, I went into labor. This was two months ago.”

  “Twins,” Rosalynde said with wonder, as she studied the babes, shocked that both had come from her sister’s womb. Instinctively, she put a hand to her own belly… Twins were a Pendragon blessing—or curse, so their mother would have them believe, for she, herself bore two sets of twin girls: Arwyn and Rosalynde, of course, but before them, she had carried another set. Only one of those girls lived. That babe was Rhiannon.

  “Such beautiful girls,” Rosalynde whispered.

  Elspeth burst into laughter. She put a finger to her lips, stifling her mirth. “Never say such a thing in their father’s presence. He would cut out your tongue!”

  Rosalynde tilted her sister a questioning look. “They are not girls?” The blessing was nearly always girls.

  Elspeth shook her head, grinning behind her finger. “Boys, to my husband’s delight—and, you my dear, should have seen his father when those lads arrived. Sweet Goddess save me! Never in my life did I hear such a whoop and holler in a house.”

  Rosalynde giggled. “Well, I suppose it would be a matter of pride to father boys—and not one, but two.” She reached down to touch the air before the redhead’s nose, afraid to disturb either one. They were sleeping so blissfully, without a care in the world.

  “Broc and Lachlan,” Elspeth provided. “The fair one is named for a beloved uncle—a man called Broc Ceannfhionn. Alas, though I did not meet this man whilst in Chreagach Mhor, I have been promised a visit.”

  With a look of perfect rapture on her face, she reached down to smooth her hand across the sleeping babe’s cheek. “The name, I am told, means Broc the Blonde… and he should be so fortunate if he receives the blessings of his namesake.” Elspeth turned to face Rosalynde. “He is lord of Dunloppe.”

  “I don’t know Dunloppe,” said Rosalynde, but it didn’t matter. Whilst she stood, gazing down at her sweet nephews, she felt in her heart that all things would end as they should end. No matter how much terror lived in this world, the Goddess would not bring such perfect little beings into this realm without hope—sweet fates, she was an aunt and Elspeth a mother!

  In the midst of so much heartache and peril, there was still so much joy to be found!

  Both babes were so astonishingly beautiful, and whilst the red-haired child’s face so much resembled his mother’s, the other one… the fairest child… seemed to glow. His countenance was precisely how Rosalynde always imagined the radiance of Taliesin to be. The babe’s skin was iridescent, his nose perfect, his lips so rosy in color, his brows tipped with a gold so pale… She stared at the boys, comparing them, as it would be natural to do. After all, she herself was a twin, and she knew how different twins could grow to be… and yet, how much alike. At the instant, she missed Arwyn more than words alone could say.

  “He looks to be the image of Emrys,” Elspeth said.

  “Emrys?”

  “Our uncle, who died before Rhi was born. I never met him, though Grandmamau described him just so.”

  “Emrys,” Ros
alynde said again, whispering the name as she tried harder to remember. But, alas, there was no memory for her to draw upon, because her grandmamau had been long dead by the time Rose and Arwyn were born—murdered by Huntsmen, though she mustn’t think of that right now… not now, when the man she loved carried the same serpentine sword as those men who’d arrested Morgan Pendragon and sentenced her to death… not when she had hopes to bear his children, even knowing what he was…

  Alas, that was something she had yet to tell Elspeth, and she dreaded the moment, because, so much as she could never keep such a thing from her sister, she also knew how much Elspeth had loved their grandmamau. It was bound to color her feelings about Giles.

  Giles!

  Peering up at the window to gauge the time, she realized with a start that they had left Giles waiting so long. She should return to him now, introduce him to Elspeth. She wanted desperately for them to know each other, before she dared to tell Elspeth what he was.

  Her heart longed for him, even now—even as she wallowed in the joy of her reunion with her sister.

  Her sister hadn’t any notion of the turmoil that raged in Rosalynde’s heart. “It occurred to me, Rose… according to Grandmamau, Emrys was a dewine,” she said, her voice soft and sweet as she petted her boys in turn. “Evidently, not only did Emrys look like the prophet Taliesin, he was blessed with his dewine gifts as well.”

  There were very few dewine males in the world—very, very few. Normally, these gifts were passed to girls, and even then—as was the case with Arwyn, sometimes the gift was not strong. However, when a dewine male was born, it was prodigious… Suddenly, noting the boy’s shimmer, Rosalynde blinked, as she looked up to ask, “Elspeth… do you think…”

  Elspeth smiled radiantly, though she still didn’t look at Rose. At the moment, her eyes were for her boys alone. “That he has our gifts?”

  Rosalynde nodded, and her sister shrugged, unconcerned one way or another. “Only time will tell,” she said, and then reached across the crib to cup Lachlan’s sweet cheek, her violet-blue eyes radiant with love. “Every time I think of our mother,” she said, with no enmity at all, “I turn my eyes to my babes, and they give me such faith. After all, how could there not be hope for all when I know the miracle of my sweet boys?”

  They were, indeed… two sleeping miracles, and Rosalynde might have been content enough to stand and stare at her nephews for hours longer… but she heard a horn blast, and a stab of fear entered her heart.

  Elspeth started, her eyes widening, and she said breathlessly, “Malcom!”

  Chapter 28

  Not only had the lord of Aldergh not returned from his council at Carlisle, Giles was gone now, as well. With the steward’s permission, he’d requisitioned two men from Aldergh’s garrison, and before leaving, presented the reliquary and grimoire to Cora’s husband for safekeeping, explaining that the items were priceless and every care should be taken to safeguard them. In turn, Alwin presented the items to Cora, and Cora handed both the book and reliquary to Rosalynde, looking perfectly confused over their value. To her undiscerning eyes, the reliquary would seem to be little more than a brass bauble, and the book must have appeared a dirty volume with the look of a Holy Writ, only with yellowed pages and vellum that was already cracked and blackened with age.

  Her heart tripping with the news that Giles had so easily departed—essentially abandoning her at Aldergh—Rosalynde took the book and gave it to her sister.

  At least the book was safe, and truly, that’s what mattered, she told herself, and yet, her heart felt as though it might be rent in two, and Giles still had the lion’s share.

  Despondent though she was, she understood Elspeth’s intake of breath as her fingers touched the sacred volume. Its hallowed pages must be more than five hundred years old, but the spells and recipes held therein were easily a thousand or more. Not since Elspeth was a small girl had she laid eyes upon their grandmother’s grimoire, and, in truth, until they’d arrived in London, none of the sisters had ever even looked upon it. Only Elspeth had ever had the chance to hold it and open it, under the supervision of Morgan Pendragon.

  “We must keep it safe,” Rosalynde entreated. “On pain of death. Mother must never see the Book of Secrets again.”

  “I have precisely the place to keep it,” Elspeth reassured, and then led Rosalynde to her salon, to a corner of the chamber, where the floorboards were loose. She lifted a board, and set the book beneath, then replaced the floorboard, and peered up at Rose while still on her knees, her blue eyes full of concern. And it was in that instant Rosalynde weakened.

  Tears sprang to her eyes—tears she could no longer deny. “He’s gone, Elspeth,” she said, her face twisting with grief.

  Her sister’s brows slanted unhappily as she rose to her feet, embracing Rosalynde, putting her warm, comforting arms about her. “Here, here,” she said. “I am here, Rose. Do not fret. I am here.” And she let her sister comfort her, sinking like a hopeless child into her consoling arms.

  So many weeks she’d traveled to arrive here, so much peril she’d endured—she and Giles both together. But now he was gone. Gone. And he had ridden away to see to his own affairs without so much as a bittersweet so long.

  Carlisle Castle lay but an easy half-day’s journey from Aldergh. The jewel of Cumberland was impossible to miss, with its fiery red stone and enormous girth.

  Having gathered his most trusted advisors to discuss his new stratagem—a possible siege of York—the king of Scotia was in residence, sequestered behind closed doors. Giles needed only present his Paladin sword, with the serpentine emblem, and he was admitted at once.

  Without a word, he took an empty seat among the men gathered and listened quietly as the Scots king carried on about the strengths and weaknesses of York and the benefits of controlling the archdiocese there. Already, he held Bamburgh, Newcastle and Carlisle, and Giles suspected that, if he could, he would bring the entirety of the ancient kingdom of Northumbria under his dominion. Regrettably, he would soon learn that the Church would not sanction this plan. There was already a plan in motion, and it did not include negotiations with yet another contender, regardless of David’s intentions or associations.

  David of Scotia was well respected by the Church, else he’d never have been brought into the inner sanctum, but that didn’t matter. And now that Rosalynde and her book were both safe, he had a job to see to, and, knowing what he knew now, there was all the more at stake—not merely the fate of a northern estate, or even a kingdom.

  As God was his witness, he’d never coveted Warkworth for the sake of a title. His father had earned the lands through sweat and blood. He’d answered every call to arms by King Henry, and he’d raised his sons to honor England and its God-appointed sovereign. And even after Stephen usurped the throne, Richard de Vere had been prepared to keep the King’s Peace. It wasn’t until very recently that he’d turned his eyes toward the Empress, aligning himself with Matilda, and Giles had had a hand in that matter. When the Church asked him to approach his sire in the name of the Empress, he had done so without reservation. He had convinced the elder de Vere to join their cause. This, after all, was why Wilhelm was sent to Arundel, in order to convey their father’s answer to Henry’s widow, who secretly passed his answer to Matilda. Giles suspected that Lady Arundel’s husband discovered the correspondence and immediately dispatched one of Morwen’s ravens—those bloody aberrations. It would have flown directly to its master, not to Stephen, and unfortunately for Warkworth, Morwen and Eustace had been only a few leagues from Warkworth when the message arrived. After his resounding defeat at Aldergh, the king’s incompetent son had endeavored to assuage his puerile ego by teaching the wayward lord of Warkworth a lesson, putting his “adulterine castel” to the torch, with innocents still asleep in their beds. Ultimately, Giles felt responsible for the entire ordeal, and if it were possible, he would have handed Warkworth to his brother lock, stock and barrel.

  Right now, he needed th
e lord of Aldergh’s help, but evidently, this was no longer a matter of one defender of the realm appealing to another. Malcom Scott was no longer Stephen’s man… he was David’s—quite clearly, because here he sat, divulging York’s weaknesses and expounding upon the complications of wresting York from the English. And yet this was far more complicated than even Malcom realized.

  Although William FitzHerbert, the king’s nephew, had been deposed and the succession to the archbishopric was still in question, the Pope had yet to decide between Henry Murdac and Hilary of Chichester. The king’s choice was Hilary, and he had already endeavored to deprive Murdac from taking up residence in the city of York, but he was currently negotiating with the Pope. He would give Murdac the archbishopric if only the Pope would agree to coronate his son. The Pope was not in the frame of mind to do so, and yet, neither would he accept a third candidate for the archbishopric, when he had already decided upon Murdac. At the moment, a siege of York would be met with opposition, not only by Stephen, but by the Church as well.

  Considering how best to proceed, he waited patiently for his opportunity to speak, then put forth a request: He needed stone to rebuild. He would pay well, and because Warkworth lay so close to the Scots border, he sought the Scots king’s blessings. But, of course, David saw an opportunity and seized it. He offered Giles the chance to retain his title… if only he would give his allegiance to Scotland instead of England. If he should agree to it, he could have all the stone he needed without question, and there would be no risk of losing his lands or, for that matter, his title. David would confer it to him now, on the spot.