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 babies 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 form, 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 mainly 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.”
Rosalynde 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 ann
ounce 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?”
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, 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 1148
“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 tent 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 castle 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—it’s 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 she 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, int
ending 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 tie 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.”
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