He smiled at her. “If tomorrow they should strip me of everything—my titles, my lands—it occurred to me that I will still be a very rich man…” He took her by the hand, turned it to face him, then gently kissed it. “Because of you.”
More tears welled in Rosalynde’s eyes and then tumbled down her cheeks, but these were not tears of sorrow. Her heart was so full of joy she feared it would burst.
Say, aye, she heard her sister mindspeak. Say, aye.
“Aye,” Rose whispered, and Giles rose to his feet to embrace her, kissing her soundly. “Aye,” she said again. “I will wed you.”
Epilogue
Warkworth, April 1149
“The destiny of man is in his own soul.”
—Herodotus
Not for the first time, Rosalynde peered down in wonder at her unblemished palm… free of scars. Like the ones on her midriff and the ones on her heart, her husband’s love had healed her. He was The One the Goddess had ordained for her, and she had no doubt remaining at all. She only wished she could lessen his burdens. Her heart yearned for more time alone with him. Even now he was ensconced with emissaries in the marquee they were using as their living quarters during this time of reconstruction.
Seated high atop a motte, on the banks of the River Coquet, less than a mile from the sea, Warkworth castel was slowly but surely rising from its ashes. Completed only yesterday, two sturdy towers now guarded the entrance to the inner bailey, and the curtain wall had been completed as well, twenty-feet thick and solid as the bond she was forging with her new husband. Tomorrow they would begin construction on the donjon. Already, the first stones were laid for its foundation—stone that had been quarried from lands belonging to Elspeth’s husband. Wearing the blue gown and the matching cloak Giles had purchased for her at Neasham, she stood atop one of the cornerstones, precisely in the spot where Giles had said their bedroom tower should be erected, with windows facing the sea.
Stretching her hand, she peered over the horizon, and tried to imagine what it would be like to peer out her bedroom window on a moonlit evening whilst her husband called to her from their bed… the brazier warming their room, the stars twinkling like fae dust over a black velvet ocean.
From this vantage, even without a tower, the beach was clearly visible. Offshore, waiting for permission to enter the harbor, a new ship waited to dispatch cargo, sails unfurled and the sea stretching endlessly. Not unlike her husband’s kisses, the view never failed to steal her breath. As lovely as she imagined Blackwood must be, as much as she someday hoped to see it, and so much as she appreciated the size and edifice of Aldergh, she could simply not imagine a more beautiful place to be than Warkworth—its lady in truth, even if she could not yet shout it to the heavens.
After all, Giles would keep his new title, and he would keep it, not because Stephen ordained it, but because the Church intended to install a champion here at Warkworth—a voice for change and an agent for Duke Henry, who even now was being groomed to restore his grandfather’s dynasty.
Only now, months later, Rosalynde understood so much of what Giles could not tell her, and she knew it despite that he had kept his vow of silence. She understood because she and Will had been there as witnesses… on that day, in the woodlot south of Whittlewood and Salcey.
Little did her mother know, Giles was not some lowly lord with so little power or influence; he was a man who governed from the shadows, and his whispers were more formidable than shouts. That ship out there—one of many that came and went so furtively—was a testament to the power her husband wielded. In less than three months, they’d already accumulated more than two years’ worth of rations, and there was a secret hermitage under construction for emissaries of the Church, with a chapel carved directly into the stone.
In an effort to forestall hostilities, it had been Giles’s idea to put a worm in Matilda’s ear… to give Stephen a conciliatory offer: Keep his throne whilst he lived, but pass it off to Duke Henry, instead of his son. In return, Matilda would appease her barons to keep the King’s Peace. The proposal would be presented to her at the next council in Rouen, and even now they were discussing the particulars.
As for news from Westminster… with two months remaining before Giles must formally renounce her sister, the London palace was silent as the sword in her husband’s belt.
Life was complicated, she realized. Destiny was so much like the forging of a great sword. You melt the steel, brilliant and mercurial, and once poured, you must allow it to settle according to its will. But the cast, as well as the character of the alloy, would determine how the steel cooled. A hundred times the cast might be filled, and a hundred times the alloy would settle. And then, once removed from the die, knowing hands would hone and polish it, and despite the unalterable sameness of the die, every single time it would produce a slightly different sword. Where Rosalynde’s choices might lead, she had no clue. But she now understood as she never had before, that she, too, had a part to play in the story of England, as her sister Elspeth did… as Rhiannon must.
Little by little, she saw the mystery unfolding…
Even as Warkworth was being restored—stone by carefully laid stone—so, too, would England’s tale be told. But if Elspeth had never escaped the priory, she would not have met Malcom, and if Malcom had not been tested, he would never have abandoned the Usurper. Now, he bent the knee to the Scots king, and his defection had begun a chain of events that, even now, continued to weaken Stephen’s—and Morwen’s—hold upon the realm. For now, the Book of Secrets was safe… and that was all Rosalynde could do.
Her gaze was drawn to the figure ascending the motte, carefully picking his way over the newly delivered stone. “Have a care, Rose,” he called. “I’d not see you come to harm in your own home.”
Her home.
His home.
Despite so many lingering worries, the thought lifted her mood. Eager to see him after the long morning—to hold him, kiss him—she moved to the edge of the stone, and threw her arms out, reveling in the breeze that gave wings to her cloak. “’Tis beautiful!”
For the moment, Giles made no move to climb to her height, seeming content enough to stand in her shadow.
“You are beautiful,” he argued, with a familiar gleam in his eyes. It was a game they so oft played, one that normally ended in a bed—their bed.
“Nay,” she said with a grin. “You are beautiful.”
As it always did, the saucy argument made her husband laugh. But he sobered at once, staring a long while, before opening his palm and producing a small object—a shining ring. Very deftly, like a trickster, he moved it between his fingers, then held it aloft, so Rosalynde could see it.
When she squinted, he leapt up onto the cornerstone, as agilely as a boy. “Wilhelm recovered it from the fire,” he said, turning the ring between his fingers, so that the sun glinted off the metal. He turned it slowly, so Rose could examine the depiction of a lion sejant holding in his dexter-paw an axe, and in the sinister, a tilting-spear. It was a sigil, she realized—a smaller, more delicate version of the lord’s ring.
“He gave it to me when we returned from Aldergh. I saved it, intending to present it to you… but after.”
He had no need to explain what “after” meant. The two of them had wedded in secret, with only her sister, her lord husband and their priest as witnesses. As of yet, Giles had not revealed their God-spoken vows to anyone, save Will, though it was hardly a secret that the lord of Warkworth had returned, if not with a bride in name, then a bride of his heart. Later, once all was made right with her sister, and Warkworth was ready to withstand a strike, he would rebuke the betrothal to Seren, and they would wed again, only this time with the Church’s blessing, here before all their people at Warkworth.
“Did you come to tease me?” She asked.
He shook his head. “Nay, my love. I saw you standing here and realized… tomorrow is never promised.”
That was true. For now, there was a fragile peace
in the realm, and even Will was thriving in his role as steward, but tomorrow promised more discord. No matter how diminished Morwen might be, her mother would stop at naught to see her prodigy seated upon England’s throne.
“After all we have been through, you will not be my Ayleth,” he said, and reached out to take Rosalynde by the hand, sliding the ring onto her small finger. Rosalynde’s heart tripped, knowing what it meant. There was no one who would see this ring upon her finger who would not understand. “It was once my mother’s.” He gave her a nod. “Now, it is yours, my lady of Warkworth. If you will have it…”
She held up her hand to look at the ring. “Oh, Giles,” she whispered. “’Tis beautiful!”
“You are beautiful,” he argued, and when Rosalynde laughed, he pulled her into his arms, kissing her soundly.
“Yeah, I will have it,” she said with glee. “I will have it, and I will have you. And I will have you until the end of my days.”
His dark eyes crinkled at the corners, but then he sobered. “Rose… there’s more,” he said. “There’s another reason I gave it now.”
“Oh, no. What more?” A feeling like dread doused Rosalynde’s joy as he reached back to pluck something from his belt. It was a parchment… bearing the king’s seal… already broken. “It came for me whilst we were in council,” he said, avoiding her gaze for the moment. “We spoke at length about the implications. Read the letter,” he demanded.
With trembling hands, Rosalynde took the parchment, her heart tripping painfully, as she straightened it, then read as he bade her…
To Giles, son of Richard de Vere, heir apparent to Warkworth
It is with a heavy heart that I compose you such dire news. But I shall come straight to the point with an economy of words. In the matter of your betrothed, Seren Pendragon, you are hereby released from your contract—
Rosalynde’s eyes widened. She peered up in fright. “Oh no, Giles!”
Giles held up a hand and shook his head, then pointed a finger to the letter, begging her to continue. With a sinking heart, she returned to reading and the very next words gave voice to her worst fears.
As the lady has been unaccounted for now for nearly three months, I cannot, in good faith, keep you to our bargain…
Fearful tears pricked at Rosalynde’s eyes. “Seren is gone,” she said, though she didn’t wait for Giles to speak. Once again, she lowered her gaze to the parchment…
… and nevertheless, if you would agree to honor your oath to the Crown, I will ask you arrive on the fifth day of June to seal your vows. In good faith, I will keep my promise to see you honored as the first earl of Warkworth.
However, in the event you do not appear as summoned, I would assume you have no desire to keep your northern estates, and I will assign the seat elsewhere. To be sure the delegate will be agreeable, I shall assign the transference to my son and his loyal forces.
He would send Eustace? Again? The very fiend who’d burned Warkworth to the ground once already? With an army no less! If that were not a threat, she didn’t know what was. The letter was signed…
Subscribed and sealed this twentieth day of April in the year of our Lord 1149. Stephen, Rex Anglorum by the Grace of God, Protector of the Realm and Defender of the Faith.
“Nay,” said Rosalynde, stunned, returning the parchment to Giles. And for the first time in her life, she had the most desperate longing to send a raven to Morwen—what about Arwyn? Were both of her sisters gone? Where were they? Together? Dead—but nay, nay! If any harm would have befallen her twin, Rosalynde would know it. She knew in her heart… she would know it. “Nay,” she said again, swallowing, because, in truth, they’d never received any word, not even from Morwen, and they still hadn’t any clue why her mother hadn’t pursued Rose to reclaim the grimoire.
“What will you do?”
“The only right thing to do. I will go, of course. Were it not for Seren, I would defy Stephen to send his son, but they are bound to reveal more to my face than they have in that letter. Therefore, I would go, if for naught else, to investigate where Seren may have gone.”
Rosalynde nodded. So much for their fragile peace. Her fingers sought the ring he’d placed around her finger, wishing that life could be so easy as a fae’s tale. “When do you leave?”
“We still have two months. We should use that time to prepare. In the meantime, I know you crave news of your sisters, and I encourage you to use your gifts as you will.”
She peered up at him, surprised. “Even with… your emissaries?”
He shrugged. “If the Church is willing to use magik in one form, they must accept it in another.” He was speaking of the sword, of course—the one he wore in his scabbard. And now she understood why it glowed that day in the glade. It was forged by dewine magik—a very powerful magik not unlike the sorcery that forged the sword of Arthur.
“Shall I go with you?”
“Nay, Rose. You are safer here, surrounded by loyal men. If you travel with me to London, I will not be able to keep you safe.”
Alas, she knew he spoke true. It was here that they had an army to serve them. In London, they would be at the mercy of the king. “Will you kneel?”
He smiled sadly. “Alas, my love, to keep you safe, I would kneel a hundred times over.”
And so here it began… somehow, she must get word to Elspeth, and perhaps together they could find a way to reach Rhiannon. Rhiannon would know what to do. Rhiannon always knew what to do.
“What about Warkworth?” she worried, realizing how much work was left to be done. The perimeter walls were complete, but there was still so much work to be completed.
“I would leave it, along with my armies, in capable hands.”
“Wilhelm?”
“Nay,” he said, shaking his head. “I will dispatch my brother at once, with two loyal men to search for your sisters.”
“Thank you!” Rose said, hardly realizing how much she’d longed to hear those words until she did. “I love you, Giles. I love you so much. Thank you, thank you!” And yet, as happy as it made her, she feared for the castel in his absence—who could be this commander he trusted so well? “Who?” She demanded. “Who will you leave?”
Very tenderly, he brushed the hair from her face. “Who else but you, my lady of Warkworth? You are a Pendragon who knows better than any what your mother is capable of—I would leave you in command of three hundred men, and a ship at your disposal, should you need it. If by chance worse should come to worst, you will board that ship and sail to France. But I warrant it will not come to that.”
“But—”
He held up a finger. “Before you gainsay me, my lovely wife, let me remind you that I saw you battle a Shadow Beast, all the while my butcher brother sat on his bum—I know your warrior’s heart.” And he would leave her in charge of an army? Just like that? A woman? A witch?
“Giles,” she protested, “I know nothing of battles nor armies—nor even how to wield a sword.”
“Oh, yeah,” he said. “I nearly forgot.” And he stepped back to unsheathe the sword in his scabbard, then held it out, presenting it to her lengthwise, suspended atop the tips of his fingers. “It served me well, but ’tis only fitting it should serve a Pendragon since the alloy used to forge it was designed by a dewine to serve a Pendragon. And before she could speak another word, he said, “Lessons begin on the morrow.”
Rosalynde blinked, reaching out to touch the shining metal—perfectly made, perfectly preserved, even after so many centuries.
The sword was imbued by the Merlin of Britain, she realized, the father of their coven… Taliesin.
Very reverently, she took the sword from her husband’s hands, and with some effort, she held it aloft, lifting the blade so it pointed skyward, catching the sun with a hard gleam that no doubt shone for miles. It was only then… as the sword stood erect in her hands… that she noticed something she hadn’t seen before—a single word inscribed between the serpents… Caledfwlch… translated,
it meant cut steel… and in the language of the Holy Church… Caliburn… or Excalibor. Blinking, with sudden realization, she peered up at her lord husband.
He lifted one golden brow, and then shrugged. “Luck of the draw,” he said.
What’s next for the daughters of Avalon? Turn the page.
Up Next in the Daughters of Avalon series…
Fire Song
September 24, 2019
Connected Series
Series Bibliography
Have you also read the Highland Brides and the Guardians of the Stone? While it’s not necessary to read these series to enjoy the Daughters of Avalon, all three series are related with shared characters.
These books are Also available as Audiobooks
The Highland Brides
The MacKinnon’s Bride
Lyon’s Gift
On Bended Knee
Lion Heart
Highland Song
MacKinnon’s Hope
Guardians of the Stone
Once Upon a Highland Legend
Highland Fire
Highland Steel
Highland Storm
Maiden of the Mist
Also connected…
Angel of Fire
Once Upon a Kiss
Daughters of Avalon
The King’s Favorite
The Holly & the Ivy
A Winter’s Rose
Fire Song
Rhiannon
Also by Tanya Anne Crosby
The Daughters of Avalon Collection: Books 1 & 2 Page 48