“Rosalynde?” she asked, and when he nodded, she narrowed her gaze. “How much has she told you?”
“About what?”
She thrust her hands against her hips, eyes red-rimmed—hardly as serene as he remembered her from their first encounter in London, and yet… even in her anger and grief she was far lovelier than he remembered. Wilhelm held her bright silver gaze. “Everything,” he confessed. And then he repeated, lest she mistake him. “Everything.”
She lifted her chin, clearly doubting him. “And?”
“And what?”
She lifted her hands, turning up her palms. “For example?”
“Aye, well…” He peered into the treetops. “I know enough to know that sudden change in weather was no act of God.”
Clearly it was the wrong thing to say, because once again, she sought refuge in anger. “Not your god, perhaps,” she said.
“M’lady,” he argued, trying desperately to reason with her. “The king’s guards are still seeking you. Wouldst you have me leave you to walk straight into their arms? Wouldst you not be better off with my brother and your sister?”
No doubt his question annoyed her; he could tell by her vexed expression. She peered down at the ground, tears brimming at the corners of her eyes, and he felt a swell of pity for her. Then and there, he resigned himself to rise above whatever stones she might throw his way. Whatever Seren needed to get through this, he would allow it—except for that boy. He was firm in that decision, until she began to cry. “I… I c-can’t leave him,” she said despondently. “He has no one. Please, Wilhelm, please!”
6
It was all Seren could do not to collapse into a puddle and weep over his boots. Arwyn, she thought, tears scalding her eyes. Oh, Arwyn!
“He’s old enough to find his own way,” her dubious champion contended, arms akimbo. “If the truth be known, he’s like to have more friends than you and certainly more than me.” He spoke matter-of-factly, not cruelly, and nevertheless, it gave Seren a fit of rancor.
But, of course, it would be true; he was a sour-faced lout and Jack’s father had friends in high places—namely, her sister Matilda—but Jack was still just a boy, and his father was dead. The lack of sympathy in this man’s tone was no less than infuriating. Along with her sweet sister, that boy’s father had perished aboard the Whitshed, and this behemoth expected her to sit idly by and allow a young man to fend for himself in the face of this tragedy? “You expect me to do nothing?”
“I expect you to live to see another day. That is not nothing.”
Seren lifted her chin, curling her fingers into fists, only daring him to deny her. Perhaps there was naught she could do for Arwyn, but Jack was alive, and he needed help.
“I’ll not leave this city without that boy,” she said stubbornly. “And if you’ll not return to help him, I will.”
She narrowed her eyes in warning, tipping her chin skyward to remind him of the witchwind she’d conjured. It didn’t matter that she didn’t know how to use it, she would summon it if need be, along with the wrath of the Goddess herself. “If, in truth, you know who I am, you know what I am capable of, and I will do my worst if you stand in my way.”
For the most part it was a bluff. How could he—or anyone else—know what she was capable of if Seren didn’t even know herself? And yet if Morwen’s sorcery was any indication, she had a very good sense there was quite a lot she and her sisters had yet to learn. And, regardless, Wilhelm already knew what her mother could do; let him wonder if she could do the same.
And still, he wasn’t afraid, judging by the look on his face. But he was certainly flummoxed, and once again, he scratched the back of his head, perhaps considering what more to say. Seren longed to weep. She was already worn to bits, emotionally and physically, and this was only the beginning.
“M’lady,” he argued. “You mustn’t believe I would leave you undefended? And neither can you return to the harbor.” His voice held a note of compassion coupled with frustration. “What you ask is untenable.”
Glaring at him, she found a wellspring of stubbornness she hadn’t previously realized she possessed. “I’ll not go without Jack,” she maintained. “He has no one in England, and I will see him returned to his mother in Calais.”
“Warkworth is not Calais,” he argued. “Calais lies in the opposite direction.”
“And how will he get there without money?”
“How do you know he has no money?”
“How do you know he does?”
Seren placed her hands akimbo as he had, stubbornly refusing to give up. If naught else, his refusal would provide her a good reason to resent him, and sweet fates, she needed her anger as a balm. If she couldn’t help her sister, at least she should endeavor to help Jack.
They stood, at odds, both frowning at each other, and, at long last, he cast his hands up, and said, “Bloody hell! You cannot go, you cannot stay; what makes you believe that eegit will trust my word? Do I look like a man to be taken in confidence?”
“He’s no eegit,” Seren said. “He’s well learned and even knows how to read.” Forcing herself to meet his gaze, she studied her would-be champion.
In truth, he did not appear very amiable, and certainly not while in that confrontational stance. To make matters worse, that hideous scar across his brow put her in mind to a demon.
So, this was where they were? She must travel north, perforce, with a man she scarcely knew while her sister’s ashes drifted on the wind and a young lad starved on the streets in Dover? An overwhelming surge of emotion choked her again, and she said softly, swallowing a knot of grief. “Arwyn…”
“God’s bones! Putting yourself at risk will not bring your sister back,” he said, and Seren’s gaze snapped up to meet his. It struck her once more how tall he was.
“I know this, you dolt.”
She needed time to think… if only he would leave her be for a while… she could consider her best course of action—if, indeed, she did not seek a quiet place in the woods to hide beneath a pile of bracken and sleep for a hundred years.
For all she knew Rosalynde was at Aldergh, not Warkworth, and perhaps he was only telling her what she wished to hear in order to ensure her compliance. It could be that he intended to return her to his brother by hook or by crook—and then what? As conniving as it might seem, her best course might be to insist he go after Jack, then steal away while he was gone.
By all rights she should be petrified of this man and concerned for her own safety. But, in fact, Seren was too grief-stricken to care what happened to her. And anyway, even if she did slip away, could she possibly make it all the way to Aldergh, alone—without Arwyn?
The very thought made her eyes swim, because, in truth, she wouldn’t be so constrained. Her sister’s lack of ability had left them both disadvantaged.
Even so, Aldergh was a long way away, and, at the instant, she had no silver or gold. She wasn’t even sure poor Jack had a copper to his name. Whatever coins she herself had possessed were lost with her sister, and young as the boy was, she was certain his father wouldn’t have given his son bait for thieves. There had been no reason to believe that ship wouldn’t be there, awaiting their return… except that it wasn’t. And, for certes, Seren would be as horrid a person as her mother if she abandoned Jack to the city without a coin to his name. She’d heard terrible stories of what happened to young boys on their own. His voice might be breaking now, but he was by no means a man.
“You leave me no choice,” Wilhelm said. “If I abandon you here… alone… you’ll be as vulnerable as your sister. We know how that turned out?”
There was genuine frustration in the man’s tone, but he was far too plainspoken, and his proclamation was ill-timed. Seren glared up at him. “Need you remind me?” she rebuked, thinking him daft. Clearly, he knew naught of subtleties or manners, blurting whatever came first to his tongue. Fresh as it was, she was hardly in danger of forgetting her sister was dead.
Go
ddess lend me strength.
Thankfully, he had the good graces to blush, but then, he stood silent, mulling over the options, much as Seren was doing, and she was grateful for the silence—even if she knew he was bound to be forming another argument.
Indecision tormented her; truly, even if he relented and went after poor Jack, she couldn’t abandon that boy to this man’s keeping. Wilhelm would dispense of him the instant he could. And neither did she sense he would allow her to leave in peace. He’d come all this way, searching for her, and it wasn’t likely he would leave now that he’d found her.
And still… if she accompanied this man to Warkworth and all his lovely assurances proved false… or if Rosalynde wasn’t there waiting for her… and if somehow Giles was allied with her mother… what if he forced her into wedlock? Then what? Her best opportunity to escape was… here and now.
What should I do, Rhiannon? she inquired of the aether.
Her sister didn’t respond—or perhaps couldn’t. So far as anyone knew, mindspeaking was not possible outside proximity, and it must be true, because if anyone could do it, Rhiannon could. The situation seemed hopeless. Not in all her days had Seren felt so utterly bereft. She was nearly twenty-two now, and not a single day during the course of her life had she not had at least one of her sisters by her side. Till very recently, she’d been blessed to have them all.
Sometimes, she wished she could turn back time, return to a bright, sunny day in their garden at Llanthony… back, before Morwen remembered she had five daughters…
And now there were four.
Once again, the pain of Arwyn’s loss made her long to prostrate herself and weep, but tears wouldn’t come. The heat of her anger diminished them before they could form. By all that was sacred, if it was the last thing she did before closing her eyes, she would see that Morwen paid for her crimes.
If ever Seren had believed her mother could be redeemed, she now knew that wasn’t true. Morwen was a fiend of the worse degree—she was a monster willing to murder her own kin. There was no other explanation for that fire. Seren knew it wasn’t natural. That pure-blue flame could only have been conjured by witchfire—something she now understood to be real, for if witchwind existed, so too did witchfire and witchwater. But if only Rhiannon could advise her…
His voice was gruff, filled with torment. “Lady Seren?”
Seren longed to send him away.
Ambivalence ruled her emotions. After all, she did need his help, and she must believe he was Goddess-sent. His presence here must not be a coincidence, and yet, if she believed in fate, she must also consider that Arwyn was meant to die, and this was simply detestable. How could the Goddess forsake her sister that way?
How could the most innocent of lives be squashed like a fly?
“Have you…” Again, Wilhelm Fitz Richard scratched at his head. Seren was coming to realize this was a nervous habit. “Perchance you know… some… spell?”
He fluttered his fingers at her, and Seren’s heart skipped a beat. “Spell?”
He rolled his hand in the air. “Aye. What is you call that… a glamour?”
Seren blinked.
He knew about glamours?
“Your sister… when we met… she was wearing some mask, or so she claimed—can you cast this spell?”
Sweet fates! Was he truly asking her this so openly? Dare she answer? Could she trust this man?
Inexplicably, despite that his presence disturbed her, she did long to trust him.
“Aye,” she said, with no small measure of trepidation.
Never in her life had she spoken so freely of the Craft to anyone but her sisters. And yet, he clearly understood a bit of what a glamour was already. It was a chimera, like maquillage, only drawn by the aether. Rosalynde must have enlightened him.
“I could do it, but I have no philter,” she lamented. “The little I had was in a pouch aboard the Whitshed.”
Tears pricking her eyes again, she reached into her pocket to dig out a few oddments—not nearly enough for a spell, and still she saved what remained, dropping the fragments back into her pocket. She knew better than to discard even the smallest seed.
He blew out a sigh, sounding resigned. “I’ve no idea what that means, but never mind.” He turned and went for his saddlebag, lifting up the flap, dipping his hand inside, and fishing out a thin, black woolen cloak of the sort that her mother’s minions sometimes wore. Returning to Seren, he offered the garment to her. “Wear it,” he said, and it was a command.
Mother’s mercy! He was contrite and ready to serve one minute, arrogant as a king the next. What must she make of this man? Aggrieved as she was, she accepted his cloak. “Does this mean you intend to take me with you?”
“Aye,” he said crossly, then muttered something unintelligible beneath his breath.
“What did you say?”
“Naught, damn it all! If you’ll not leave without that boy, and I cannot truss you up like a goat ready for slaughter, so it seems you must accompany me back into the city, after all.”
Trussed like a goat for slaughter?
The image incensed Seren, but she suspected he might be needling her, and so she tossed his cloak over her shoulders and said, drolly, “How good of you, my lord.”
He didn’t bother to turn to speak to her. “I have already said, I am no lord, though if you mean to mock me, enjoy it, m’lady.”
Seren blushed, because, in truth, she had forgotten. Despite all his poor-mouthing, it was simply impossible to think of him as aught less than a man of authority, dressed as he was in those sigil-embossed leathers. He wore them only too well, she noted, with shoulders high and straight, and his bearing more attuned to that of a king or a duke. His aura and presence were undeniable. The entire woodlands seemed filled by him. Sweet Goddess have mercy, even his trews were dwarfed by his size, and to the contrary, the cloak he’d lent her swallowed her whole. When she lifted up the hood to conceal her plaited hair, she couldn’t even see beyond its folds. And so it was that when she neared his horse, he swept her up without warning—yet again—only this time putting her neatly in the saddle.
She yelped in surprise. But he didn’t give her time to protest. He mounted behind her, putting his spurs to the horse.
It never occurred to her until they were well away that she hadn’t even considered balking. Every thought of escape had vanished the very instant he’d said she could accompany him. And now, it was all she could do not to turn and sob against his shoulder as his arms enfolded her.
He is not comforting you, pea brain, she reminded herself. He is performing a duty to his lord, keeping you safe until you may stand before your betrothed.
And nevertheless, the urge to unburden herself was unbearable. She caught her sob before it formed, and stiffened when he touched her, drawing away from him and making herself as small as she could in the cage of his arms.
7
No friend ever served me,
no enemy ever wronged me,
whom I have not repaid in full.
—Sulla
* * *
I have been called many names:
The Dark Goddess, the Shadow Crone, the Shapeshifter of Legend. I am the Mother of Avalon, Keeper of the Cauldron, Defender of the Grail. I am, and ever shall be, the most gifted dewine to walk the realms of men. But for love of a man, I found myself in a watery grave…
Pity me not.
Pity yourself.
My heart is basalt, forged by the fires of vengeance and rage.
Today I will be released from my shackles, and whatever traitor has betrayed my weakness to this metal, I will repay him in kind.
Biding my time, I brush a finger across the inscription so delicately etched into the silver-infused metal—hallowed words imbued, but not by the hud or hud du, only by holy writ. The rough edges catch the light like tiny diamonds. Untrained eyes might see glitter against the light, but I do not need light to read these words; I know what they say:
Hic est Draco,
Ex undis,
Tenetur in argenteas
A capite ad calcem, tace, et sile
Only one woman I know could have prescribed these words, and she suffered the consequences only to spite me… my mortal mother, Morgan Pendragon, she who birthed my body, but not my soul, and if aught remains of her inside me, I will suffocate her until she turns blue.
Here be the dragon,
From the waves of the sea,
Bound in silver,
From head to toe, silent and still
Silent and still.
Upon the high window, seven of my ravens sit, peering within, eyes black and shining.
There are no bars mounted here, for the window is too high and only winged creatures may come and go.
I could go, too… but for these shackles.
Soon, I think. Soon.
Resting my head back on the wooden chair… I wait… silent and still… like a fat bellied spider… remembering the moment of my mother’s demise.
Little more than twenty years ago, they burned that bitch on a stake while she wore these very shackles—bindings she conspired to create. And perhaps she breathed her last on that pyre, hoping that someday I, too, would don them as she did. I offered her up as a sacrifice, and in the end, it was she who was destroyed… and all because she forgot a woman’s most seductive glamour: I spread my legs for a king, whelped him a litter of bastards, and so of course, who was he to believe? But for that look upon her face, it was worth the loss of my most precious possession…
Blackwood, Blackwood… there she remains…
Oh, but I cherish that day… her flesh shriveled on brittle bones, the scent of death wafting on the breeze like a rancid perfume. Vivid as the memory remains, I inhale deeply, ignoring the dankness of the donjon, for even now my mother’s burnt flesh is a bouquet I long to inspire...
Fire Song Page 6
