The Daughters of Avalon Collection: Books 1 & 2

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  A shocked murmur swept through the council. For all that these fools knew, Giles was a younger son of a lowly baron, with no experience and scarcely any influence. It was unthinkable what David had proffered, and yet… Giles could not and would not accept. He shifted in his chair, ill-at-ease, because there was so much he hadn’t leave to say, and the council room was filled with too many curious ears. His gaze skittered down the table, from man to man, resting for a moment on the lord of Bamburgh, whose youngest daughter was wed to his father and had died by Eustace’s hand. There was no love lost between their houses, despite the familial alliance, because Bamburgh bent the knee to David. But for Giles, this was inconsequential. In essence, he was only reclaiming his father’s seat by behest of the Church. And if they had not ordained it… he would still be wielding his sword in whatever capacity they demanded. That he was now a lord of the realm—an earl for the time being—did not come without obligation. There was only so much he could bargain with and keep the spirit of his oath.

  He chose his words carefully. “I do not need warriors, Your Grace. I have warriors. I need stone, and whatever men would be required to convey and work the stone. It is my intent to restore Warkworth to a defensible state as swiftly as is humanly possible—most certainly before I am expected to return to London and bend the knee to Stephen.”

  “Do you plan to forswear your oath to Stephen?” asked David quite shrewdly.

  Giles said naught, for there was naught he could say. He picked at a bit of dried foodstuff encrusted upon the table.

  “It sounds as though you mean to forswear England, and if so, who else would you bend the knee to, but David?”

  Giles flicked a glance at the lord of Bamburgh but didn’t answer the man. His gaze returned to David.

  More than any man present, Giles knew that David understood the significance of his Papal commission, and yet David mac Maíl Choluim was king because he pressed his advantages when he saw the opportunity. “Whatever the case, I haven’t men to spare,” he persisted. “And yet… I would offer… if only you bend the knee to Scotland.”

  Giles shook his head, his eyes never leaving the king’s. “I cannot give what is not mine to bestow.”

  The tension in the room was marked. In this day and age, few men dared to defy David mac Maíl Choluim. He had risen to such a venerable position. And yet, one man did speak up—a very unexpected ally, and only by virtue of the fact that Giles had arrived with two of his men. “I can spare you whatever men you need,” said Malcom Scott.

  His brows colliding fiercely, David shifted in a chair that was made for lesser men, turning to spear Malcom with a disapproving glare. “You have men to spare? And yet, even knowing my plans, you would offer them to Warkworth?”

  Giles recognized the hard glimmer in Malcom Scott’s eyes. As would be expected, he was a man not easily cowed. He said, “I have given you my oath, Your Grace, and I mean to keep it.”

  “This time,” interjected the earl of Moray.

  “Shut your gob, fitz Duncan!”

  Uncowed, Malcom met de Moray’s gaze and said, “I have given my sword to Scotia, and I will honor my pledge for the rest of my days.” He turned to the king. “Your Grace, would you leave Aldergh without protection, or have me arm bricklayers and quarrymen?”

  “Nay,” said the king, waving a hand for peace.

  “And yet these are the men I would pledge to my lord of Warkworth, not my warriors.”

  The king conceded. “Yeah, times are not so dire as to send bricklayers into the field—have it your way.”

  As much as he would like to cede, Giles was forced to disagree. “Do not mistake me, Your Grace. Times, indeed, are so dire…”

  Very slowly, the king’s eyes slid back to Giles, his gaze narrowing, “Speak,” he demanded.

  Giles shook his head again. “I will not speak aloud what I know, lest you lock me in a tower and call me a madman. And even so, I would advise you to gird your loins.”

  “Gird his loins?” wailed de Moray, in protest, clearly not comprehending his cautionary words.

  “He means prepare for war, eegit,” said David.

  Giles ignored the man. “And nevertheless, Your Grace, I do not need a grant of men. I need stone… and for this I pledge you my word of honor I’ll not join any campaign to wrest the lands you already possess.”

  The king’s eyes glittered fiercely. “What of Warkworth?”

  “Again, Warkworth is not mine to barter.”

  “It is yours,” argued the lord of Bamburgh.

  “In name,” returned Giles. “My true oath and my sword belong to the Church, as your king knows.”

  David mac Maíl Choluim’s gaze fell to the sword hilt that peeked above the table, a sword that, even now, glowed very faintly with some unnatural light. There were twelve men present at David’s table—and how prophetic that the king of Scotia should have his own Judas. Alas, there was only one way to ferret out a traitor, and so he said, “The Church means to see Duke Henry on his grandfather’s throne, and I will do my part to bring that to fruition.”

  Giles’s canny dark eyes scanned the entire table, from the lord of Bamburgh to the earl of Moray, looking for any telltale sign of the betrayer. Unfortunately, the man did not make himself known, and yet, if the sword spoke true, at least one of these allies would carry this news to Stephen, and the Church would know his name.

  Perhaps not entirely surprised, David put a hand to his chin, rubbing softly. “Duke Henry?” he said.

  “Aye, Your Grace. He is favored above his mother, and should his foray into Wiltshire have proven successful, he might already have been granted an army.”

  “And it was not?”

  It was phrased as a question, but they already knew what came of that campaign, and for the most part, it came to naught. Giles lifted a shoulder. “His courage did not go unnoticed.”

  “He has what it takes. His grandmother would have been proud,” the king said, sounding maudlin, and it seemed, for an instant, that he lingered in some faraway place. Finally, he declared, “The stone is yours, so long as you pay its rightful lord. If you have a bargain, who am I to contend?”

  And still, there was one more matter to be discussed… this one with the lord of Aldergh. “One more thing…”

  The king lifted his grey-peppered brows.

  “As part of my bargain with Stephen, I am pledged to wed one of Henry’s daughters…” He turned his gaze toward Malcom Scott. “Seren Pendragon.”

  Malcom’s brows collided. “My wife’s sister?”

  Giles nodded, and once again, David waved a hand in dismissal. “Why should any of that concern this council?”

  “Because… I would wed another in her stead… her sister… Rosalynde Pendragon.”

  The king looked confused. “Are these not both Morwen’s daughters?”

  “They are, Your Grace.”

  “I see,” the king said, narrowing his eyes. “You risk much if you are already forsworn.”

  “And nevertheless, I will have no other, and it is my desire to be shed of any need for Stephen’s blessings by the time I am expected in London. Therefore, I seek your blessing, for what it’s worth.”

  “Again, I ask; why should I concern myself with your bride?” argued David. “You have declared for England. And I cannot be bothered with Morwen’s witchy daughters.”

  Giles narrowed his gaze. “Because, Your Grace… whether you acknowledge them or nay, they bear a king’s blood, and so I ask your blessing, as I do the lord of Aldergh’s, because it is a matter of state. And... you are—were—their father’s dearest friend. You must have known that Elspeth Pendragon was the king’s favorite.”

  “Aye, well, I am also responsible for the death of their grandmother, in case you did not realize, and I have no regrets. There are forces at work in this realm that must be condemned.”

  “And still, you came to aid us,” reminded Malcom. “It was not me, but my lady wife who called you.”


  David of Scotia nodded, and after a moment, he said, “So I did. So I did. Well then, for what it’s worth, you have my blessing. For what it’s worth…”

  Giles turned to Malcom. “So then, I have one more concern…do you, perchance, have a priest in residence at Aldergh?”

  Malcom’s blue eyes glinted. “As it happens, I do. And, if the lady will have you, you have my blessing as well.”

  Chapter 29

  For all its lateness, winter descended upon the north with a vengeance not unlike Morwen Pendragon’s. Bitter winds howled through the old castel, leaving everyone it touched shivering. Rosalynde discovered firsthand what her sister meant about the tapestries. Wherever they were hung, those rooms were warmer, quieter, and cozier—much in the same manner of a warming spell, except that these spells were woven of wool, linen and gilt-wrapped silk.

  As it turned out, it was fortuitous for Rosalynde that her sister’s twins were wont to come so early, else she might not have returned in time from Chreagach Mhor. Traveling in this weather would seem impossible, and particularly so with two small babes. As it was, she’d delivered them well and spent a good month with her husband’s family before returning to Aldergh.

  Alas, so brave a soul as one might be, it wasn’t advisable to venture beyond their refuge of stone and tapestry. Rosalynde resolved herself not to see Giles for a while—if ever again. She realized he had far more important matters to attend, the very least of which was a woman he’d already hardened his heart against. And nevertheless, she had, very knowingly, even despite his warnings, given herself to him. And, in the end, if she ended with a babe in her belly and a sullied reputation, it would be her own fault.

  Trying not to think of Giles, she spent her time helping Elspeth with her babies—feeding them, burping them, loving them. And whenever the babes were sleeping, she and Elspeth studied every page of the grimoire, poring over the annotations—some of which were written by their mother. But some were not. They had been scribed in a hand neither of them recognized and in a script the sisters couldn’t understand—runic symbols that shivered over the vellum when they were touched. But perhaps these were destined to remain as much a mystery as the reliquary she’d taken from Mordecai. After all, Rosalynde showed the strange trinket to Elspeth.

  Beautifully etched, it was cylindrical in shape, about a half-inch in diameter and one and one-quarter inches long, with a crystal shoved into one end and a cap so tightly fitted it was impossible to remove. And yet, she had witnessed with her own two eyes as Mordecai’s spirit—for lack of a better way to put it—vanished into the object, mayhap into the crystal.

  The chain itself was a brass ball chain, solidly formed, and if it had not been, Rosalynde would never have been able to clasp it so doggedly in the glade as Mordecai whipped her about, trying to be shed of her.

  One evening, as the babes were upstairs asleep in the care of their nurse, she and her sister sat in the privacy of her lady’s solar, trying again to open the reliquary. Nothing—not even magik—served to meet their needs.

  “It’s indestructible!” Elspeth complained, and in frustration, she put the cylinder to her teeth, biting down in an attempt to squash the metal, but even then, it would not bend.

  “Do you think it is ensorcelled?”

  “Certainly,” Elspeth said. “I cannot think our mother would take any chances with something so….” Elspeth set the reliquary down on the desk she used to scribe her letters. “Precious.”

  By now, Rosalynde had told her all she could remember about their journey and their encounter with the Shadow Beast. Even now, it was impossible to guess what might have waylaid Morwen, but they were in accord that whatever it was, it was the only reason Rosalynde and Giles had found their way to Aldergh in one piece.

  As they stood there, Rose fell silent, feeling guilty, for keeping one last secret from Elspeth. “Well,” she demurred. “Perhaps it is not the only reason.” It was past time to tell her sister about Giles. “He’s a Huntsman,” she blurted.

  Elspeth blinked. “Who’s a Huntsman?”

  “Giles.”

  “Giles?”

  Rosalynde nodded.

  Her sister inhaled and did not immediately exhale.

  For a long moment, they stared at one another, and Elspeth gleaned the rest by the look in Rosalynde’s eyes.

  “I do not know if he was there… that night when she died…”

  “Grandmamau,” Elspeth said, and Rosalynde nodded, as tears formed in her sister’s eyes.

  A thousand lifetimes would pass, and her sister might never forget the day their maternal grandmother was burned at the stake. She suffered guilt over it, because it was Elspeth herself who’d sealed her fate. At five, she’d innocently boasted to a stupid little boy that their grandmamau would put a spell on him if he didn’t cease to annoy her. The wretch tattled to his papa, who told the Archbishop of Canterbury. And when they approached Morwen for confirmation, their mother assured them that the sins of Avalon would die with her dewine mother. For a price, she’d handed her own mother over to the Church to be burned alive.

  “One might think a body dies quickly on the stake,” Elspeth said, staring at the reliquary on the desk. “It isn’t true. I watched… at first, because they made me… and then, in the end, I did not want her soul to leave this realm alone. I held her gaze until she submitted to the flames, and even as her flesh was consumed… I could still see the life in her eyes...”

  She bowed her head and covered her trembling lips with a hand, and Rosalynde stared down at the pate of her sister’s bowed head. “I wish I could have known her,” she said, tears brimming, but she wasn’t only crying for her grandmother. Her heart was in tatters.

  And yet, what did she think would happen when she gave herself to Giles? Did she think he would forsake himself and his people? His duties? His brother? His name? His title?

  Alas, if he kept her by his side, if he publicly forsook Seren, he stood to lose everything.

  Finally, when Elspeth’s gaze lifted to Rosalynde’s, her eyes were shining with tears. “Do you love this man so much?”

  Rosalynde nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I do, and I know his heart, Elspeth. It is true. After all, he could have left me to fend for myself, and yet, even after learning who I was, he set his face against all that he was sworn to do and became my champion… as Malcom did for you.”

  Elspeth nodded, and Rosalynde continued. “That night I gave him my body, I heard Rhi speak to me. She entreated me to do it—in the name of the Goddess. And…” She cast a glance down at her side, thinking about the wounds she had received by Mordecai’s talons. “His kiss healed my wounds when my spell did not… I confess, I took it as a sign.” She turned her palm up, showing Elspeth the black lines on her hand… marks left by the reliquary. Though lighter now, they were still there.

  Elspeth stared at her open hand, her violet-blue eyes so full of compassion. “I have come to understand that the Goddess works in mysterious ways, Rose. After all, even after David of Scotia’s hand in our grandmother’s demise, I wrote to him at Carlisle… and he came. There is great magik to be found in love and forgiveness.”

  Her sister’s gaze fell again to Rosalynde’s hand, and she picked up the reliquary, examining it. “I tell you true, if he had not come… that spell I cast would not have saved us from Morwen’s wrath. She left the premise only because her poppet was in danger, and without her precious Eustace, she could not see her plan to fruition. To speak more plainly still, if David of Scotia had not arrived with his army… I would not be here today, and neither would my boys…”

  She peered up at Rosalynde, with another flood of tears brimming in her eyes. “In the end, you must look to your heart and determine for yourself what the Goddess has entreated… for you… and whatever you choose, my dearest sister, neither I, nor Seren, nor anyone who loves you will ever fault you for your choices. I am your sister forever, and I’ll not be your judge nor jury.”

  Rosa
lynde attempted a smile, but her lips trembled. Because, in the end, what would any of it matter if Giles did not return? If he did not value her as she did him… if he did not…

  A great boom sounded below stairs, like the slamming of a door. Elspeth stiffened as a burst of cold air traveled up the stairs and swept into the solar. She set the reliquary down upon the desk as footsteps raced up the stairwell, echoing throughout the keep. A commotion resounded in the hall and a smile lifted her face. “Malcom,” she said, and even as she turned, she found her lord husband standing in the door of her solar. Rosalynde watched with bated breath as the lovers ran to each other, embracing.

  “Oh, Malcom!” her sister said. “Malcom! Malcom! Malcom!” She hugged her husband so desperately that Rosalynde feared she might cut off his breath, and nevertheless, her husband smiled lovingly at her, rubbing a hand across the small of her back. And, finally, Elspeth wrenched herself away, complaining, “I did not hear the horn announce your arrival!”

  The lord of Aldergh met Rosalynde’s gaze over his wife’s shoulder and said with a smile, “There was no horn. I came through the postern. Every once in a while, I mean to remind my lazy men that not all guests will announce themselves at the gate.” And even as he bent to kiss his wife, another figure appeared over Malcom’s shoulder, and Rosalynde’s knees buckled as the earl of Aldergh stepped aside, pulling his wife with him to give Giles de Vere room to pass.

  Rosalynde’s throat constricted and her eyes filled with hot tears, and from that instant, it was as though everyone else faded from the room. Dressed in his Warkworth colors, he strode confidently into the room and with purpose, unsheathing his sword as he fell to one knee before Rosalynde. He peered up at her with a light shining in his eyes, and said, “My lady… I cannot promise you lands or titles, but I can offer you the protection of my sword and the eternal flame of my heart…. will you wed this man who adores you more than life itself?”

  Rosalynde gasped, her eyes widening, her hand flying to her breast. “What about Warkworth?”