It was cold, she decided—thankfully not colder than it was in the Black Mountains. In fact, it was far colder there, and she wondered how her sister fared. They took her away that night without even a cloak to warm her. Doubtless their mother would not trouble herself to see to Rhiannon’s welfare. Why would she now when she never had before?
Rhiannon, she called again. And was not surprised when the aether remained silent.
Are you there in that tower… like Creirwy?
Built on the edge of a steep cliff in the Bannau Brycheiniog—the Black Mountains of Wales, Blackwood’s tower was said to rise so high as to be able to glimpse the duchies of Deheubarth, Powys and Morgannwg altogether—so high, in fact, that betimes the Tower of the White Witch was dusted with snow, even whilst the ivy-tangled courtyard below was in full bloom. There was an old song about it. She hummed it softly, trying to remember the words…
Blackwood, Blackwood, there she stays,
Weaving a tale of Avalon drowned.
Dancing forlorn in a white-crowned tower,
Crooning to ghosts through the witching hour.
Blackwood, Blackwood, there she despairs
Fore'er mourning her paradise lost.
Keeping a vigil for ladies and lords,
For dragons on deep, and dread Saxon hordes.
Blackwood, Blackwood, there she remains,
All through the dark and the light of day.
Eyes o’ fire, and bright-silver mane.
Summer to winter and summer again.
There were more verses… but Seren couldn’t remember them all. Elspeth used to sing it now and again, though she couldn’t remember if Elspeth learned that song from their grandmamau, or the maid, Isolde, who’d cared for them for a while in Henry’s court. Her brows knit, because she had forgotten that lady. But for some reason her face re-emerged tonight from the depths of her memory.
Isolde… the very first woman to brush her hair… long before Elspeth was old enough to care for them. It was Isolde, in fact, who’d roused them from their beds on the night they’d learned their father’s fate, and it was Isolde who’d escorted them to Llanthony in Wales. But, for all that she’d claimed to love them, she’d handed them over to the priory, then stole away never to return. All lies, clearly.
For that matter, it was also through Isolde they’d learned about the Promised Land—the Summer Isle where dewinefolk lived free, without fear of persecution. It was now a drowned island, inhabited by lost souls. Perhaps all lies as well?
It could be, for it was also Isolde who told them the world was born in fire, and that it would end in fire. She’d also claimed herself a true maid of Avalon, and bade them to keep her secret. To this very day, so far as Seren knew, neither she, nor any of her sisters had ever betrayed her.
Curious how she’d blocked these memories… and curiouser yet that they’d returned to her as suddenly as had her affinity for the divine. She lay puzzling over that, when Wilhelm turned and whispered, “Art awake?”
The sound of his voice gave Seren a little shiver. “Aye,” she said.
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Mayhap, I am cold.”
And it was true, though it was only partly true. There was too much on her mind… and too much in her heart… and, in truth, she could just as easily cast herself a warming spell.
He turned onto his side, peering over at her across the glowing embers, and was silent a long while, then said, “You can use my blanket.”
“Oh, nay,” she protested. “’Tis cold, Wilhelm, and I would not leave you...”
“Seren. I am not so noble as that. You may come lay beside me and we will double them together.”
Seren’s heart skipped a beat—as much for the tender way he’d spoken her name as for this thing he’d proposed.
Share his blanket?
Whilst he lay beneath it?
“I will keep you warm,” he said huskily, and then slid an arm out from beneath the blanket, inviting her over, and Seren swallowed with great difficulty. She held her breath until it grew painful. This was not an invitation to mate, but she was no cretin. She understood well enough what happened betwixt men and women when they lay in close proximity… what was more… she found herself longing for such things to happen betwixt them. It was true. It didn’t matter that he was the bastard son of a lowly baron. Nor did it concern her at all that his brother was an executioner for the Church. If she lay beneath his blanket, she could not be held accountable for the mischief her hungry heart would rouse.
Uncertainty kept her still, but her heart urged her to get up and go to him. Sweet fates, she’d been confronted by men of all types, wanting this or that, but never in her life had any man wanted naught—and for that alone, she wanted Wilhelm all the more.
The fire between them burned lower, cooling with the long night, but the fire in her heart re-ignited.
“If you prefer, I can put more kindling on,” he said. “But I loathe to do that now that we are so close. It would be a travesty if your mother discovered us when we are so close.”
The night was black, with barely a star in the sky.
For days now there’d been no sign of her mother’s ravens. It was all too easy to believe they were alone in this world—no one about for miles and miles. No one to see her weakness…
But she was a Daughter of Avalon; no matter what came of this night, she had nothing to be ashamed of.
Whatever happened was meant to be.
Exhaling, Seren let go of doubts, rising from her pallet. “Thank you,” she said, and gathered up her blanket, then tiptoed over to where he lay.
With bated breath, Wilhelm watched her steal over to his side of the fire. He’d been lying for so long, trying in vain to sleep, acutely aware of every toss and turn she made, every huff, every sigh, and finally, when she began to hum so softly, so sweetly, his heart shattered.
Reveling in the thought of her lying close, he wasted no time peeling back the blanket, scooting over to allow her plenty of room. He’d folded his wool so that half lay on the bracken, the other half lay folded over him. Now, as he scooted over, shortening the half that covered him, he didn’t care. He would sleep with a scrap to cover him so long as Seren lay here beside him. Vowing to hold her, naught more, he would carve this memory into his heart—her scent, her warmth, the silky softness of her skin—and take it with him to his grave.
Settling beside him, she threw her own wool over them both, and said again, “Thank you.” And then she reached over to make certain his legs were covered before settling into the crook of his arm. The gesture was sweeter than he could bear. Not since his mother—god rest her soul—had any woman cared whether he would stay warm through the night. Wilhelm didn’t know what to say. His throat grew tight, and it felt as though someone had shoved a wad of cloth down his gullet, and there it remained.
He should give her more of the blanket, no doubt. That was the reason she’d come over in the first place, but, the feel of her lying beside him fed his starved soul like a thirsty man stumbling from a desert. He couldn’t think to respond. He couldn’t in all his life remember a moment so bitterly sweet… nor any woman whose body fit so neatly against his own.
His heart thumped painfully, and his blood simmered like molten fire through his veins. She turned her bottom just a bit, so that it snuggled against the heat of his loins, and God save his rotten soul, he daren’t move, nor speak—not even to warn her she was playing with fire… a fire that once ignited, would never again be put out.
It was more than he could bear. He put a hand plaintively to her hip, pushing her gently away. “Seren,” he said.
“Nay,” she protested, and then she turned to look him directly in the eyes, leaning so near to his mouth that, for a moment, they shared the same breath.
He could see her pale eyes shining through the darkness, brilliant and surreal.
“Seren?”
Whereas most girls dreamt of having a husband and babes,
Seren had always feared this would never be her destiny. She and her sisters each had dowries, but no advocates for their futures. They were subject to the whims of a king who bore them little love, and if aught at all, he was daunted by their blood—if not because of their father, then certainly because of their mother. Because of this, she had long feared that she and her sisters were destined to grow old together. Not for one instant had she had any affection from her father, nor any from her mother. Her grandmamau was long dead by the time she was born, her uncle Emrys, as well. Isolde had been kind to them, but despite that she was present when Seren was born, at this point, she was only a distant shadow from the past, a sweet old woman whose folk tales had kept them awake at night. As for Matilda and her sons, well, they shared a blood bond, no doubt, and clearly she had a hundred more kinsmen through her father alone. But Wilhelm was the first person aside from her sisters that she had ever felt close to.
Tomorrow their moment might be lost.
“Kiss me,” she begged.
“Nay,” he refused, but then he reached for her. “I dare not,” he confessed, even as he placed two trembling fingers to her temple, sweeping hair from her face.
Auras were so tricky to read; so often Seren could see them as they existed for others, but for the first time in her life, she could read her own, in the arc of their auras combined. It glowed as bright as a flame… natural born, golden-hued and genuine. In that moment, frozen in time, she had a sense of something timeless… something… lasting… something pure.
There were times between times… times when the world itself ceased to breathe… only waiting for a new time to unfold. These were tween times, when the veil between worlds was at its thinnest and the hud was at its strongest. These were the golden hours from whence were born all possibilities and came all promises.
Moved to do so, Seren lifted her hand to Wilhelm’s cheek, and even as she touched him, the trees sang, with leaves tinkling like bells. The cool wind kissed her warm skin, raising the small hairs of her flesh. It was, she believed, a whispered blessing from the Goddess.
“Kiss me,” she dared again, and Wilhelm brushed another curl from her face. The feel of his warm hands gave her a shiver. “Art lovely,” he whispered. “Too lovely for the likes of me… you were born for better things.”
Seren shook her head adamantly. “I am not.”
He smiled wistfully, his big fingers tentatively exploring her face. “You are beautiful,” he argued. “Body and soul. I am a beast. Look at me, Seren. I am scarred inside and out.”
“I see you,” she said, and she did. And she wished he could see what she saw… the beauty and goodness in his eyes.
She could feel his hand trembling in the length of her hair, and she knew he struggled with desire. She had seen that look far too oft in men’s eyes, but never before had she wondered how she could assuage it. She whispered, “You are beautiful to me, Wilhelm.” And she reached up to brush a finger over the scar at his brow, tracing it across his lid, then down to his cheek. To her utter amazement it vanished beneath her fingertips. Amazed by the transformation, she peered at her hand, golden against the firelight, and then, encouraged, she took his whiskered face in both hands, and moved to kiss his brow, taking it as another sign from the Goddess. She was born to love this man.
He was her savior, but she might be his as well, and she sensed he was as alone in the world as she was. Wilhelm needed her as much as she needed him.
Taking a deep, fortifying breath, she dared to slide her fingers down to his breast, exploring the tightness of his leathers, stretched thin by the breadth of his chest. His hand covered hers at once, preventing any further exploration. “Seren,” he said. “You must stop. I have naught to give you.”
Amalgamated their auras burned brighter, until Seren could feel the heat of her own yearning slide though her like liquid flame, calling to her pagan self. Inhaling a shuddering breath, she tilted her woman’s flower closer to the object of her desire, sensing instinctively that if he would only fill her, she could be complete. “Will you deny me?” she whispered breathlessly.
“As God is my witness, I would deny you naught I had the power to give it,” he said, and once again, he brushed a strand of hair from her face, so gently that it might have been naught but a breath, and Seren shivered again, only this time not because she was cold. Nor was she tired. She was wide-awake, heart pounding in her ears.
“You have as much to give me as I have to give you,” she argued, “and I willingly give all I have.”
“Seren,” he protested, only once more, but this time the certainty was gone from his voice. Seren felt his heart pounding so fiercely beneath her fingertips. After an audible swallow, he freed her hand, giving her leave to do as she pleased.
“My heart is mine to give,” she said. “But I have no need to give it to you, Wilhelm. You have already stolen it.”
His brows twitched with confusion, and Seren pressed instinctively closer, inhaling the intoxicating scent of his male flesh—a combination of leather, horse, sun, sweat… and something else… something that teased her in places she dared not confess.
Women were born with a certain intuition. She might not know precisely what should happen next, but she listened to the whisper in her heart… that voice from the Goddess that told her to tempt him a little more. “Speak no more,” she said, brushing a finger over his lips, pressing the pad of her thumb gently against the curve of his mouth.
Wilhelm rewarded her with a lap of his tongue over her thumb and a low, throaty growl, and her heart tripped a few beats. At long last, he bent to kiss her, slowly, tentatively, as though he feared she would flee, and Seren’s heart tumbled with joy as his tongue swept over her hot lips, tasting her, then dipping hungrily within to steal the nectar from her mouth. She moaned with desire, her body responding with a will not entirely her own. He answered in kind, and it was as though some baser instinct took over, their bodies entwining and writhing in a dance old as time. Unbidden words came to her… from where, she hadn’t any clue.
Freely choose, or choose to be free
“Yay,” she said, as he slid down her body to suckle at her breast even through the fabric of her gown.
“Yay,” she said again as the skimming of his lips and teeth nearly drove her to madness.
Eager for more, she reached down to lift up her gown. “I freely give myself to you,” she said him, and then she was lost, because he growled again, deep in the back of his throat, like an animal possessed. He shifted to unfasten his trews, his movements deft, never taking his lips from her body… down, down, he slid, until he could press his tongue against the flower of her womanhood. And then, gone was the sweet man she had come to know, replaced with the beast he claimed to be—ravenous and formidable. Shrugging free of his trews, he covered her, and Seren abandoned herself to the moment. Somewhere amidst the chiming and tinkling of the leaves, she heard that voice again, ancient as time:
Bound by destiny, to destiny bound,
Another to one, one to another.
Throwing her head back and crying out in pleasure, Seren wrapped her legs about his waist, drawing him closer.
This is what she was made for.
Come daylight, she might think differently, but here and now, there was no greater purpose in life than this… to love Wilhelm Fitz Richard.
28
A messenger arrived from Aldergh during the wee hours of the morn, shouting as he approached.
“The babe,” he screamed, leaping down from his mount and hurling himself at the iron-spiked oak, pounding furiously at the gate. “M’lady,” he shouted. “The babe! Admit me! M’lady, the babe!”
“Gods bones, man! What the devil are ye wailing over?” inquired a guard from the ramparts. Peering up, the messenger stumbled to his knees, clasping together his hands, beseeching.
“Please,” he begged. “I must see m’lady of Aldergh, please!” And then buried his face into his hand and wept inconsolably.
&
nbsp; The guard hadn’t the first inkling what the man was babbling over, but, clearly, he’d come a long way, looking worse for the wear, and sensing the exigency, he ordered the portcullis raised, and then sent a guard to wake the lady. Within moments, Lady Rosalynde emerged from her marquee in robes, along with her sister, and recognizing the man, the lady of Aldergh cried out in distress, and bolted into a run, falling to her knees beside the weeping man.
“Alwin,” she cried. “Please! Speak!”
“Forgive me, m’lady,” he said, tears shining in his eyes. “’Tis Broc,” he said. “We thought it was you.”
“Who?” Elspeth demanded. “Who! Please, tell me who!”
“You,” the man cried. “It was you, m’lady! It was you!”
A blackbird sang in the treetop.
A damselfly whizzed past her nose.
Not that Seren wasn’t already awake, or thrilled by the prospect of seeing her sister—perhaps even today—but she was loathed to end the moment. So far as she was concerned, the night should have lasted an eternity. Her lover’s breath was warm on her nape, and there was a delicious ache between her legs—not one for which she had a true complaint.
Sheltered within Wilhelm’s embrace, she daren’t even stretch, for fear of waking him. She leaned back against him, and smiled joyfully when he nuzzled her sleepily.
Nude from the waist down, he was still clad in his sherte, but his leather gambeson had found its way into a bush, along with his trews and his boots.
She herself, remained fully dressed, but his hand was cupping her left breast, and her hair, disheveled from the night’s pursuits, lay draped over her face, sticking to her lips.
Fire Song (Daughters of Avalon Book 4) Page 23
