“And come to think of it, not only will I escort you, my brother will as well.”
So now she knew which of the two was in charge… Giles. Giles de Vere. The very one who was fated to marry her sister. What a strange, strange turn of fate, but she couldn’t decide whether it was good… or bad.
Right now, it felt more bad than good.
The tension between the two brothers was indisputably brittle. The air crackled between the pair as palpably as it had with her warding spell—which, she realized only belatedly was completely diminished. Giles must have broken her magik when he’d stepped into her pentagram.
Naturally, her first thought was for Morwen… if her mother should happen to peer into her crystal at the moment, there would be naught to keep her from finding Rose. Holding the book close, she frowned.
“As you wish,” said Wilhelm, peering down at his boots, looking as though he might suddenly retch… and then, he did.
Rosalynde twisted her lips into a grimace and looked away.
The lord of Warkworth’s toothy smile reappeared. “You must pardon my brother,” he said. “His ale has gone to his head, and his manners to the devil.”
Rosalynde nodded, but the greater part of her only wished she could flee—without these two men in her company. And nevertheless, she had the sense, after watching them, that there was no true discord between them. Quite to the contrary, the one called Wilhelm seemed to care about his lord brother, and she needn’t read auras to know it; the truth was there in his eyes. Rather, she sensed there was a certain lack of accord creating some rift between them… and she wondered if it had anything at all to do with her sister. These would not be the first two men to vie over Seren. Scarcely a month after their arrival in London, her sister had already had multiple requests for her hand, and two of those men had reputedly come to fisticuffs.
“I would be… grateful for your help,” she said to Giles. “Thank you,” she said to Wilhelm.
At the least, she must feel a little relieved for their protection. No matter how good she might be at foraging, her sisters had always claimed she had more valor than good sense.
Frowning still, Wilhelm swept a sleeve across his lips and said, “No worries, Good Sister. Tis but poor timing, and tis hardly your fault.”
Still clutching the grimoire to her breast, Rosalynde offered the man a smile, confused by their demeanor.
“Where to?” asked Giles.
“Neasham,” said Rose, a little alarmed by how easily the lie slipped through her lips. And yet, it wasn’t entirely unrehearsed. After all, Neasham was run by a small sect of Benedictine nuns, founded in part by the very woman whose habit she had stolen in London—Sister Emma.
“There you go,” said Giles, sweeping a hand in his brother’s direction. “How convenient. We’ll deliver her, with little time lost.”
Wilhelm nodded, though sullenly.
“Thank you,” said Rosalynde yet again, and, affecting her most benevolent tone, she added, “Because of you, my faith in men is restored.” She smiled winsomely, forgetting about her glamour spell and both men turned away, perhaps discomfited by her smile. Rosalynde lifted a brow at the sight of their chagrined blushes, but at least she knew they weren’t escorting her for the wrong reasons.
“It seems to me that your good faith in men should keep a bit of caution,” Giles said, and he turned to his brother. “Go, on… prepare the horses,” And then he addressed Rosalynde again. “Gather your belongings, Sister. We’ll be on our way at once. But, if you do not mind, I would ride my own horse…. and you…”
He looked toward his petulant brother, who was already gone to do his bidding, and apparently changed his mind, because he furrowed his brow. “… you will ride with me.”
Rosalynde covered her answering grin with a hand, and it was all she could do not to giggle. He looked so perfectly disheartened by the notion.
Chapter 11
Few things in life were mere coincidences, and if there was one thing that separated the heart of a dewine from the hearts of ordinary men, it was that a dewine understood intuitively never to ignore a gift from the aether.
Clearly, these two men were meant to be part of Rosalynde’s destiny, and she understood they were sent for a reason. She only prayed that reason would see her safely delivered to Aldergh, and to Elspeth… not to Morwen.
Considering their demeanors, she watched them both carefully. It would be just like her mother to send a beautiful demon to do her dirty work. Thankfully, she didn’t get any sense of maliciousness from either of the two.
The one called “Wilhelm” dutifully inspected his brother’s mare, perhaps to be certain Rosalynde hadn’t somehow despoiled the beast. But despite the feeling of rancor she sensed from him, there was nothing about his actions that gave Rosalynde any indication he conspired against his brother. Rather, he very meticulously tightened the cinches, checked the length of the stirrups, adjusted the lord’s saddle and patted the twin satchels. Finally, after having discovered the lump of her cloak, he peered inside the satchel, pulled out the garment, then gave Rosalynde a bewildered glance, before shoving it back down into the pack.
She had the sense Wilhelm didn’t entirely trust her, though if he believed she’d lied about her circumstances, he didn’t confront her. And that was a good thing because she hadn’t any viable explanations to give him. For one, she couldn’t begin to explain why she wasn’t wearing her mother’s cloak in the middle of winter, when he and his brother were heavily weighted beneath fur coats. She simply didn’t wish to wear the foul garment, and at the instant, she wasn’t cold. Her warming spell was burning strong.
The same might not be true for her glamour spell, she realized, and if she was meant to travel with these men, she must soon reinforce her spell. After all, she hadn’t missed that odd look Giles gave her when she awoke—as though he couldn’t quite fathom what or who she was.
Sad to say, it was impossible to know how long she had remaining before the spell faded, because she was only a novice and most of her philters and spells were untried.
Until yesterday, the grimoire had remained locked in her mother’s trousseau, and she and her sisters had barely had any time to study it alone. Naturally, it was Rosalynde, with her tinkering skills, who’d learned to pick the lock, and nevertheless, during these past six months, there had been so few opportunities, and they’d only had any at all because they’d persevered, realizing that the only chance they had to defeat Morwen was to learn the Craft.
Hopefully, by now, Elspeth, too, must realize they needed magik to defeat Morwen. Men alone hadn’t any chance against her—not kings, nor queens, nor sons of kings. So much as the newly appointed Count of Mortain believed he had some hold over Morwen Pendragon, he most certainly did not. He was her mother’s poppet, no more, and Morwen was evil incarnate. Not even Elspeth would believe it if they told her what atrocities they had witnessed at Darkwood—depravity beyond imagining. Even now, all these months later, Rosalynde still shuddered to think of it…
In her mind’s eye, she saw the blood-soaked biscuits… Morwen’s familiar plucking at the crumbs… those shining black eyes so full of canny.
Forsooth, she didn’t know which she feared most—Morwen, her wicked birds, or Mordecai, with his unfailing eagerness to please the Dark Witch of Bannau Brycheiniog. Alas, she could only deal with one problem at a time… and right now, the problem was her fading glamour…
Twice she’d attempted to slip away, twice Giles warned her against wandering. The second warning left her cold. “Of all the woodlands to choose, Sister Rosalynde, you made your camp very close to Darkwood,” he explained.
Rosalynde stiffened. “Darkwood, my lord?”
“Aye,” he said. “Tis no wonder your guide led you to these parts. These woods have long been a haven for brigands, cutthroats, and more of the like. Rich as they might be with quarry, even King Henry wanted no part of them.”
He and Wilhelm shared a meaningful look, and
Wilhelm shook his head ever so slightly.
Giles turned to wink at Rosalynde. “As tempted as I am to seek out your thief at a nearby inn, I’d rather reimburse you myself than deal with that den of miscreants. And besides,” he said, with a lop-sided grin, “it seems my brother is afeared.”
To that, Wilhelm cut him a mean glance, but Giles ignored him. “Five gold marks, you say?”
Rosalynde nodded, but reluctantly, because she still had all her money hidden in the hem of her gown.
“Worry not, Good Sister. I will provide you the entire sum, especially since I do not intend to part with the mare. But you must be content with a few silver marks until I can send you the rest… if you will trust me.”
Inexplicably, Rosalynde did trust him. Though, sad to say, he had little cause to trust her as she’d been lying to him from the very moment he’d happened upon her. “How… kind,” she said, struggling with her guilt.
He would give five gold marks to a stranger he’d only just met? He must have plenty more, and never mind, because she shouldn’t take a penny.
Giles de Vere must be a champion, indeed, and there could be no doubt he was sent by the Goddess, but… what could possibly have happened in London to change her sister’s fate? Had Giles repudiated Seren?
That seemed… utterly… impossible.
There was naught wrong with Seren. Her sister wasn’t merely lovely; she was as kind and gentle. She was gracious and good in all she did, and no one could fault her for anything—certainly not the likes of Giles de Vere.
The merest possibility of him repudiating her sweet sister did more than confuse Rosalynde, it tempered her gratitude, even as some terrible, terrible part of her—some part she couldn’t explain and didn’t wish to acknowledge—was oddly gleeful their union wasn’t ordained.
But why? Why would she feel this way?
If Giles was such a goodly man, why should she begrudge Seren that boon? Rather, she should be pleased for their union, not relieved that the bargain wasn’t sealed.
Brooding over her ludicrous thoughts—that perhaps Giles was not meant for her sister after all, rather he was meant for her—Rosalynde went about her woodland bower, holding her grimoire close, surreptitiously hoofing at the lines of her pentacle beneath the bracken.
At intervals, both men peered in her direction, casting her odd glances, as though they questioned her very sanity. But, of course, they would; what a sight she must present, looking like a hen scratching at feed.
Alas, she couldn’t take any chances. Covered by bracken, her diagram wasn’t visible to any but discerning eyes, but she didn’t intend to leave anything for Morwen to discover, particularly so near to Darkwood—the very name gave her a shiver. All this time, unbeknownst to her, she had been headed directly toward that place, and it was almost as though her mother had been leading her to her ruin.
Even now, was Mordecai waiting for her?
What might have happened if these men hadn’t come upon her sleeping?
She took comfort in this: If, in truth, Morwen had found a way to influence Rosalynde’s thoughts, Rosalynde should have felt her prying. Even more significantly, it wasn’t her mother’s way to wait about for anything. Morwen did not take lessons in patience from the spider in a web, no matter how sticky her thread or how deadly her poison might be.
Rather, her weaknesses were pride, impetuousness, and arrogance. And, in her vainglory, she would never guess how powerful Rhiannon was growing. None of her daughters would dare reveal it and hopefully, that realization would come too late for her. And nevertheless, before anything could be accomplished along that vein, Rosalynde must first deliver the grimoire to safety… somewhere Morwen wouldn’t be able to reach it. To her knowledge, that place could only be Aldergh.
Hurrying as best she could, she erased all traces of her pentacle, all the while thinking about Elspeth and Rhiannon, how different her eldest sisters were.
Elspeth was their father’s favorite—more beloved even than Matilda, and if only she’d not been born a bastard, she might have been his choice to wear England’s crown—not that it would have ended any differently for her than it did for Matilda. Times were never so dire as to place a woman on the throne. And nevertheless, if anyone could inspire confidence, it was certainly Elspeth. She had their father’s grace, and Matilda’s fearlessness, albeit without the haughtiness that plagued their father’s rightful heir.
Rhiannon, on the other hand, could be as ruthless as Morwen in so many ways, cunning and cold when she must. But she was loyal and fierce in her defense of those she loved. And, unlike Morwen, she did have the patience of a spider, weaving her web so meticulously, only waiting, waiting…
Someday, Rhi must be the one to challenge Morwen, though if her sister had a plan, she’d kept to herself, and it aggrieved Rose to no end that she had so meekly allowed their mother’s guards to abuse her that last night at the priory. They’d placed Rhiannon in iron shackles, tossed her into a tumbril, and to this day, Morwen refused to speak of her second eldest, and Rhi, so skilled as she might be, mustn’t be able to mindspeak outside proximity—why, Rose didn’t know, but she assumed mindspeaking worked like the light of a flame. Up close, it burned brightly, but the further one moved away from the source, the dimmer it became. Long ago, many, many eons before Rosalynde was born, Rhiannon claimed that folks were more accustomed to mindspeaking—not merely dewines, but everyone.
Eventually, they learned to block the ability to save themselves the grief of hearing the truth, because the heart did not always agree with what the tongue proclaimed.
Similarly, right now, her heart was telling her one thing, and her mind was telling her another.
Run! said her mind.
Stay, said her heart.
At long last, the brothers were ready to ride, and Rosalynde whispered a silent prayer of thanks to the Goddess.
Giles helped her onto his saddle, then promptly mounted behind her, scooting as far back as he could possibly go. Perversely, the effort he took to avoid her amused Rosalynde, and she took some small comfort in the fact that he must still think her hideous.
For his part, Wilhelm scarcely ever dared look at her, and he seemed intensely aggravated by their current obligations. She was coming to see him as a sour-faced lout, who was saved from being handsome by the perpetual look of contempt he wore. If only he wouldn’t frown so much, he might be as comely as his brother—which only brought her to wonder how these two could possibly be related. They didn’t look much alike. Both had dark eyes, but Wilhelm’s hair was black and straight, cut in the Norman fashion, whilst Giles’s hair was golden-blond, like the color of honey, with soft, loose curls that teased at his nape.
Truly, the man was beautiful, unnaturally so, and Rosalynde couldn’t help herself—casting backward glances. He had lashes so dark and thick as to appear painted, like that of a Saracen’s. But, no matter how exquisite his face might appear, he was saved from prettiness by the firm lines of a very masculine jaw, and the huskiness of his male form.
In a flight of fancy, she dared imagine him her champion, in truth… and if he could change his surly attitude, perhaps Arwyn might like the brother.
Alas, she daren’t contemplate why Seren didn’t enter her vision at all. After all, Giles was her sister’s intended, not hers. And yet… here they were… together… and Seren was nowhere to be found. It couldn’t be a mere coincidence that out of all the horses in London, she had stolen the very one belonging to Giles de Vere, and here he was… without his given bride.
At any rate, it wasn’t as though Seren could possibly love the man. Until yesterday, her sister had never even met him, and, regardless, Rose knew Seren well enough to know her heart. It could be that Seren herself had willed Giles to her rescue. Surely, far less fanciful tales had inspired bards’ songs.
And yet, very clearly, her dubious savior did not share her fancy—not at the moment. All the while they rode, it seemed to Rose that he must be performing acrobatic
s to avoid her. Somehow, he’d managed to place his long arms about her, only bowed to such a degree that he wouldn’t be forced to touch her. Sweet fates. If she only dared, she might have laughed.
On the other hand, her reaction to him was hardly amusing. It was… confusing…
With his arms embracing her and leaning so close, she caught scents of warm leather, sunshine and a heady muskiness that called to her woman’s senses in a way she couldn’t ignore. Trying to make sense of it all, she sat quietly, her back straight, her precious Book pressed to her breast, until, much to her dismay, they found the King’s Road, abandoning the sanctuary of the woodlands, and the sight of the long, dusty lane, cleared of trees, gave her heart a flitter.
Once on the road, the canopy of green disappeared, the sky was clear for miles… the view entirely unobstructed to little black, beady eyes…
Rosalynde peered back over her shoulder. “My lord… do you not fear brigands might be watching the road?”
“Watching,” he said with little concern. “But we have naught so much of value for the trouble it would cost them to take it.”
And so, he might believe, but, in truth, they had something far, far more valuable than either of these men could ever imagine.
Rosalynde swallowed hard, despite the reassuring glimmer of the sword in his scabbard, and she made herself small, burrowing deeper into space between his arms, biting her tongue.
Anyone who looked upon the Book of Secrets might see only a well-used book of scripture, but the knowledge writ herein was old as time itself. And despite that there were many, many grimoires held across the realm, this was the only one penned by Taliesin, the father of their coven. On its face were marks that were no longer legible in their time, magik runes lost evermore, save by virtue of this one precious book.
Wilhelm suddenly gave his mare a gentle heel and moved ahead, saying, “I’d like to see any man attempt to relieve me of my valuables.”
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