As little as she’d ever complained over that matter, it pained her immensely that her mother’s brother could so easily renounce her. And yet, it was not Henry’s Empress daughter whose arse was planted on the Queen’s throne, it was Maude’s. Nor would Duke Henry triumph in the end, despite that her son seemed so ready to throw it all away.
Damnable boy.
Eustace was a hot-headed fool, and for this, she blamed Morwen Pendragon, even though she remained grateful for the witch’s… support. Though she tirelessly campaigned for Eustace, she also put notions into his head that boded no good. What the devil had she been thinking to goad him into attacking Aldergh? What could she possibly have imagined they would gain from that? And now, they stood to lose yet another foothold in the north…
Maude smiled serenely at the northern lords, studying the pair, as Morwen and her husband continued to spar.
There was something about Wilhelm Fitz Richard that gave Maude pause. Really, she could not fathom how any man could watch his household burn to the bedrock, knowing her son was to blame and not entertain vengeance. And, nevertheless, here he stood—the bastard son of Warkworth—his face devoid of expression, and mayhap too placid, considering the circumstances. It was as though he’d slid a veil over his dark eyes, and every now and again, something like a glimmer of loathing slipped by—not unlike a stab of morning sunlight through heavy drapery. And yet everything about his demeanor led her to believe his service to his brother was sincere… he was seething, quietly… like a tea pot over a flame, standing one step behind the brother, his hand resting firmly on his hilt, and it was certain to Maude that he was aching to unsheathe his sword…
If only Stephen should give a nod, and Giles were to be… removed from the premises at bladepoint, his bastard brother would wield his sword without the first thought for his own wellbeing and he would stab his steely blade into as many breasts as he could manage. She spied the truth in his eyes, even as the King sat grumbling beside her.
“I promised her hand,” Stephen said low. “I promised. Do you hear? All throughout these years I have been called many, many things, but never once have I been called a liar.”
Of course, that wasn’t true. Maude tried not to roll her eyes. After all, her husband had told the biggest lie of all. He’d knelt before his uncle with the most radiant smile, and he’d sworn his allegiance to Henry’s daughter, only to rescind it the instant Henry gave up his ghost. Usurper they called him—some to his back, some to his face.
Feeble. Ineffectual. Weak.
These were more of the things her husband was reputed to be and most were true. Stephen of Blois had no spine at all when it came to punishing those who deserved it. And so here they were… addressing betrayals by honoring a traitor’s son.
Her canny eyes moved to Giles de Vere, wondering if there was any truth to the things she’d heard—that he was a member of the Palatine Guard. Named for the first twelve knights of Charlemagne's court, over whom Count Palatine had been in command, the Guard had been recommissioned to the Vatican, in exchange for indulgences. But, if that were true, why in God’s name would de Vere leave such an extraordinary position, only to return to a lowly northern province? For that matter, why in God’s name would the Church let him go?
Could it be that he was a man of rare integrity, whose loyalty lay with his blood kin?
Alas, there was naught about his aura, nor his expression, nor his dark eyes that gave Maude any clue. Perhaps her son should not have burned his keep… but at least Eustace knew how to command respect.
Beside her on the dais, Morwen growled, like a dog and the sound gave Maude a shiver.
“Your Grace, certainly it is a King’s prerogative to change his mind. After all, do you know how many times Henry changed his? I could tell you stories!”
Perhaps rediscovering his balls, her husband cut her off, waving her away. “Yeah, yeah… I am quite certain you have endless stories to tell about my Uncle. Still, I promised this man your daughter’s hand, and I am not Henry as you cannot have failed to note.”
“Of course not,” said Morwen softly.
Her husband peered up at her. She was standing with her hands held in prayer, as though in perfect supplication, but Maude knew the lady to be anything but pious or sweet. Secretly, she reveled in their disagreement, but she dreaded the consequences.
Apparently, Stephen wasn’t through. “This is all your doing, Morwen. Must I remind you? Yours and my son’s!”
Maude could tell it pained Morwen to restrain herself. The lady cast her gaze away, her sharp eyes surveying the room, and Maude so very much wished to warn her husband to mind himself with this viper in their midst. It was one thing to put his mistress aside, yet another to disenfranchise the lady of Blackwood. She would not step aside so easily, nor quietly, but at the moment, her husband seemed unfazed by her smoldering temper.
He continued. “Not once, but twice you failed to curb his temper, and if only you had thought to do so, you will have saved me a defender to my crown.”
“Malcom Scott?” Morwen asked, if only to clarify. “I beg pardon, Your Grace,” she argued, turning her dark gaze back to Stephen. “With this, I must take issue. If, indeed, the Earl of Aldergh was ever meant to be faithful, he would still be faithful, regardless of what we did.” Her whispered words were terse. “That man was always meant to be a traitor. We—Eustace—merely forced his hand, and better you should know it than to need him later and discover he has turned his heart. His blood is Scots and he has but returned to his brood, like a dog to its master.”
Growing impatient, the brothers below the dais cast each other questioning glances. Maude did not miss the subtle lift of the lord’s fingers—a gesture meant to bid the other man to stay his hand. It was entirely possible that in the near future, Eustace would need pay another visit to Warkworth as his father didn’t seem to have the constitution to do what was necessary to ensure their son’s ascent to the throne.
“Perhaps,” said Stephen, as he sat thumbing a raw spot on his chin. “But I knew him well, and I disagree. Nevertheless, yet, what is done is done.”
“I will not give my daughter to this man,” hissed Morwen.
* * *
“You forget yourself, woman!”
Stephen gripped the arm of his chair, wishing it were Morwen’s throat.
A number of heartbeats passed before she replied, and then too calmly, “Pardon, Your Grace… we all forget ourselves on occasion.”
Her voice was smooth as oil, but her meaning was clear: He forgot himself. He, the sovereign of England—he forgot himself. Not for the first time in the lady’s presence, he found himself apoplectic, and ready to cast her in a cell, if only to teach her a lesson.
He was fool. His son was a bloody fool. And now, more than ever, he recognized his folly—God help any man who crossed Morwen Pendragon. She’d dangled her carrot in front of his face, and, like an overeager ass, he’d pounced on it. But the day he’d allowed that pythoness to whisper in his ear, that was the day his life ceased to be his own—more and more, he longed to find himself returned to Henry’s court, once again prostate before his King, giving obeisance, and if he had it to do all over, he’d never betray the man again.
It aggrieved him more than he could say to think of all the wrongs that would never be righted. If he gave any quarter here or there, it was only because he realized that no man’s sins could be worse than his own. Sighing, he peered down at the Warkworth brothers, patiently awaiting his decree, standing far enough from the dais that they couldn’t overhear him, but close enough to see every defiant gesture.
In fact, for all that everyone could tell, he was Morwen’s poppet, and it shamed him more every day. Once these men were gone, it was high time he saved face, and showed the lady of Blackwood who was King.
As it stood, Giles de Vere was no traitor to England. And simply because his father had been passing messages to the Empress didn’t mean his sons would follow suit. He knew l
ittle about the bastard brother, but he knew enough about Giles de Vere to he was every bit as principled as Archbishop Theobald, who, by the by, was willing to be exiled rather than confirm his son. And anyway, it was difficult to blame even the sire, when, in truth, Stephen was a Usurper. Nay, he might not confess the sin aloud, but he knew it in his heart, and he knew it every time he looked in the mirror.
Henry gave him so much, still he’d betrayed him—spurred by Morwen, whose viper tongue had ensorcelled him with lovely words of duty and honor. But there was no honor in Morwen Pendragon, and whatever good will her kinsmen had lent to the rise of England, she’d squandered it all by now.
Nay, he decided. Nay. A man’s word was his honor, and he would keep what little remained of his. In exchange for the dispensation to build, Giles de Vere had been promised Seren Pendragon’s hand, and from all that he had come to know of the girl, she was nothing like her eldest sister. Having her in de Vere’s household could well be a boon, no matter what her fork-tongued mother feared.
Forward as she was, the witch bent again to whisper in his ear. “Your Grace,” she purred. “I know what you must be thinking… and if truly you see this as your best recourse, may I endeavor to persuade you to at least delay their nuptials? Rather, give him time to prove himself, and then—”
In a rare show of solidarity, his wife agreed. “I find myself in accord, my lord. Ascent now, if you please, but instead of sending the girl north, perhaps invite de Vere to return in June?”
Stephen grimaced, caught between two adders. It galled him that these two women held him so tightly by the balls—and Maude, no less than Morwen, but at least his wife knew how to persuade him with pretty words, and please.
Maude continued sweetly, her voice gentle and soothing. “Offer to host the ceremony here… at Westminster. How lovely would that be?”
Stephen nodded, warming to the suggestion, and she continued, “It would give you yet another reason to summon your barons to England, and we would offer a grand celebration they’ll not soon forget.” She smiled at him across the expanse between their seats. “Only think of it… whilst they are here, you could entreat upon them to renew their vows.”
“Perhaps,” agreed Stephen.
“In the meantime, you must give Giles de Vere his dispensation.” She shrugged. “Why not? Allow the man to rebuild. After all, merely because he has a dispensation does not mean he will have the means to purchase supplies. Have they not already spent years in process?”
“Precisely!” interjected Morwen, and she dared to fling a hand back to touch Maude’s sleeve. Maude recoiled, and Stephen smirked—so much for solidarity.
Still, his wife held his gaze. “It will be years before he can fully rebuild, and in the meantime, why must we blindly gift him a maiden with Seren’s… talents?”
Stephen sighed. “I need that seat in the north,” he persisted.
“Of course,” Maude said. “And, if all goes well, and he proves to be a worthy ally, we shall happily send Lady Seren to be his esteemed lady of Warkworth.”
“Thank you,” agreed Morwen, bowing her head to Maude in a rare show of gratitude.
Again, Stephen sighed, wearied by the women in his life. “Very well,” he ceded. “So be it.” He waved Morwen away impatiently and motioned for the brothers to come forward, closer to the dais. Wilhelm of Warkworth held his place. Only Giles de Vere approached, putting one foot on the bottommost stair, and gracing the King with a courtly bow.
Stephen considered the man a long moment, appreciating his honest face, and decided to follow his heart—perhaps to give the ladies beside him one last dig, and a gentle reminder that he was still their sovereign. “You may have your dispensation, lord de Vere, and, to be sure you fully comprehend your worth to the crown, I intend to elevate you to Earl.”
Giles de Vere blinked. “Your Grace?”
Beside him on the dais, Maude gasped, and Stephen felt Morwen’s eyes bore into the back of his head.
He grinned as lord de Vere cast a glance at the bastard brother, then lifted his gaze to the golden throne.
Stephen gave him a satisfied nod. “I would assign you the title when you return. Sadly, there isn’t much I can say or do to account for your losses, but I can assure you that Eustace acted in good faith. You will come to know my son’s good will once he is confirmed. But, in the meantime, I would have you understand, beyond a shadow of doubt, that, I, as your sovereign, am not unaware of your value.”
He turned to his wife first, then cast a glance upward at the viper standing between them. “I do know a good man when I see one,” he said.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” de Vere said, sounding surprised, but if he considered it a moment, he nevertheless fell to one knee, bowing his head. “I will serve you well,” he promised. “Far more loyally than did my father.”
Morwen endeavored to smile, and Stephen returned his attention to his vassals as Seren Pendragon finally made her entrance. As always, there was a collective gasp from the room at large, for she was by far the loveliest maiden in London—present company included.
As she moved through the room, the golden ribbons in her strawberry blond plaits gleamed by the light, and her skin appeared translucent. Dressed in all her finery—a rich blue sendal surcoat that complimented the violet of her eyes, and a pale-blue diaphanous gown beneath—she was a vision to behold. Even at his advanced age, Stephen was gobsmacked by the sight of her.
Unlike her mother, Seren’s every move bespoke elegance. She swept into his hall with a siren’s grace that wrested a sigh from every male in the room—and perhaps even a few of the ladies. But not her mother. Morwen was stone faced, but he thought he heard her hiss, and he was coming to recognize the sound of her envy, for this, too, had once been Morwen’s providence. Once upon a time, she had been the envy of every lady and the dream of every man.
His own, as well.
No longer.
Now, though he valued her counsel, and he’d come to understand that her threats, whenever she made them, were far, far from empty, he kept the lady at arm’s length, and feared for the soul of his heir. But it was too late for Eustace; he was already tangled in her web. And yet… it was never too late to teach the lady some lessons.
As Seren approached the dais, only Giles de Vere had not yet turned to see what had captured everyone else’s attention.
Tearing his gaze away from Morwen’s beautiful daughter, Stephen addressed the man standing before him, motioning for de Vere to rise. “As to your father… I am quite certain you must have expected some consequence to his actions, but in consideration of the travesty to have befallen your house, I shall consider the matter done, and I give you my word, as your king, that, barring some act of treachery on your part, there will not be a repeat to the actions initiated by my son. It was… a misunderstanding,” he said, and swept a hand toward Seren as she approached the dais. “I bid you meet your new bride, lord de Vere, the beauteous Lady Seren, daughter of Morwen Pendragon.”
The Earl of Warkworth rose, turning slowly to face his betrothed, inclining his head, as he said, “Lady Seren.” He put a hand out to request hers, and when she gave it, he kissed it respectfully, and despite the man’s apparent lack of bemusement, Stephen was certain he must be pleased. How could he not be? She was Seren Pendragon, whose legacy was Avalon, and whose blood ties were hearkened to the long dead warrior, whose sword reunited the quarrelsome kings of Wales.
Alas, Seren was also the illegitimate daughter of his Uncle, and he was heartily glad now that he’d never planted his own seed into Morwen’s belly, lest she provide daughters to an uncle, a father and a son—the shameless harlot.
“Now,” he said. “As to the wedding…” He cast a glance up at Morwen. “I must insist you allow me to host you, particularly since Warkworth remains in ruins. As my humble gift to you and your lovely bride—” He glanced at his wife— “I should say, our gift. I must insist you return to Westminster, six months hence, to take your v
ows in London—with my witness and blessings, at the expense of the royal treasury.”
Stunned silence met his declaration.
“Yeah, of course,” interjected Morwen. “But we must also insist you take one of our ravens, as a token of our affection and a symbol of our alliance.”
Stephen grit his teeth until they hurt.
Those bloody birds. Always those birds. They were as instrumental to his governance as was the woman who’d trained them, and yet, he was never more livid that she would endeavor to speak on his behalf.
The lord of Warkworth nodded, releasing Seren’s hand, and turned to face Stephen, inclining his head. “I humbly accept your charity, but I beg you keep the bird until our wedding, as we must travel lightly, and…” He turned to look at Morwen. “We will have to rebuild our aviary.”
“How gracious of you, Earl de Vere,” said Maude, but her tone bore a hint of the same quality Morwen’s so often did, and Stephen rubbed his chin until it felt raw.
“Let it be so,” said the King, and he dismissed the court, at once. It was past time to remind Morwen where she stood… firmly in the shadow of his throne.
Chapter 4
Despite the holiday—or perhaps because of the holiday—the halls were a crush of human flesh: people awaiting audiences with the king; merchants hawking wares; clergymen stalking the halls. Even in the midst of winter, the abundant smells were disturbing—particularly for a young woman raised in the Welsh countryside. Richly adorned ladies waltzed by, drenched in Flemish perfumes, followed by men, whose clothes and bodies were perfused with far muskier scents. Though, fortunately, considering the disparity between the king’s subjects, no one paid Rosalynde any mind as she rushed through the halls.
Praying her mother wouldn’t read Seren’s mind the instant she arrived in the King’s hall, she moved swiftly through the mob, her heart thrumming like priory bells. But, thanks to the glamour she’d cast, her appearance was so altered that, at one point, she passed Seren in the vestibule, and even her sister, for a full instant, did not recognize her.
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