“What is it?”
“We have a visitor,” he said darkly.
“Did you bid them enter? Should we dare?”
He shook his head. “Nay, m’lady. I did not believe you would wish it.”
“Who is it?” she asked, but even as she did, tendrils of fear rippled down her spine.
Edmund swallowed visibly, lifting his brows. “He calls himself Mordecai. He said you would know him.”
Rosalynde’s eyes widened. “Mordecai?” she asked. But nay, nay, they slew him back in the woods. Mordecai was her mother’s Shadow Beast. “Art certain, Edmund?”
“Quite,” he said, and then he handed her a slip of parchment. On it, lay scribbled eight terrifying words:
My Book for the child. Or he dies.
The parchment was unsigned, but it was not by Mordecai’s hand the note was scribed. She knew her mother’s script well enough to recognize it. The letters were etched so deeply into the parchment that it bespoke her fury. She wanted the Book, now, or she would kill the child. Rosalynde knew her mother well enough to know the consequences of defying her. But, deep in her heart of hearts she knew they needed the grimoire to defeat Morwen. And yet, if they kept the Book of Secrets, they would condemn the child. The babe would suffer the consequences. On the other hand, if they conceded the grimoire, Morwen would have one more powerful weapon at her disposal.
All hope of defeating her might be lost…
It was Edmund who gave voice to her deepest fear. “Even if you return the book, there’s no guarantee she will return the child unharmed.”
Neither was Rosalynde certain anyone who faced Morwen would live to speak of it.
And still, there was no doubt in her mind: She could not live with herself if her decision brought about the death of her nephew. Nor would her sister ever agree to abandon her child. Rosalynde would not defy a mother’s wish. So, it seemed they had no choice. No choice at all. Together, they must face that demon, come what may.
“Where is she?” Rosalynde asked.
“The Widow’s Tower. In Holystone Wood, west of the nunnery. Even if you leave now, m’lady, you’ll not arrive till the sun rises on the morrow.”
Rosalynde nodded, her eyes stinging with unshed tears.
Mordecai.
White-hot fury coursed through her. “If that beast so much as attempts to enter my demesne, loose your arrows!”
“He is gone,” said her steward.
Gone? Was he so certain they would concede the Book?
But of course, he was. They were dealing with Morwen, and Mordecai knew what they knew… she would kill that boy if they refused her. He was her mother’s servant in every way, canny as she was.
“Gather a retinue,” she demanded. “Find my sister a good set of leathers and a worthy sword. We ride at once.” She turned on her heels to go inside to inform her sister.
“Lady Rosalynde,” pleaded her steward. “You must wait until m’lord returns!”
“Nay, I’ll not,” she advised the man. And then she said it again, more to bolster her own resolve. “I will not!”
She was a dewine. A child of the Goddess. A daughter of Avalon. She would take the sword Giles gave her and put it to good use, and she would ride as the Queen of the Iceni once rode—with fury in her heart and vengeance in her soul.
* * *
Seren had gone willingly into his arms, only because she’d believed Wilhelm held some measure of affection for her. How could she have been so wrong?
But nay, she was not wrong. He was a stubborn fool, because it wasn’t possible to feign what she’d spied in his eyes and felt by his touch. She had gone her entire life without falling prey to such temptation—not even when that handsome Thomas Becket came to visit with an endowment for their priory. She’d caught his eye, no doubt. But Seren had never even considered being alone with the man. He was pretty enough, and as most pretty young lords did, he’d coveted her body, but when the time came to speak from his heart, he hadn’t had a word to say. What was more, he hadn’t actually wished to hear a word from her, expounding endlessly about how a good woman should mind her father and her Church and tongue. She’d only wished she could turn him into a worm, not unlike what she wished to do to Wilhelm right now. Only, in her fury, she decided to take an example from her sister Rosalynde and speak her mind.
“Did I not please you?”
He didn’t answer, and Seren insisted he address her. “Wilhelm!”
His cheeks bloomed—perhaps as brightly as hers—and he suddenly seemed to have great difficulty looking her in the face. In her anger, she gave her horse a heel and urged it forward, forcing Wilhelm to fully acknowledge her.
“You did please me,” he said finally, scarcely looking at her. “More than you can imagine.” But he spoke through his teeth, and she could see the knob rise in his throat.
Seren’s eyes stung with unshed tears. Goddess save her; she could feel the same stirring in the aether that called to witchwater—but nay, she would not give Wilhelm the satisfaction of knowing how much he’d upset her.
“Seren,” he said, shaking his head—but why? To deny her?
Already today, they’d come a long way without speaking. Only a good hour ago he’d confessed how near they were to Warkworth. Soon she would see her sister, and tomorrow he would scurry away, like a puppy with his tail between his legs. And then, her heart would bleed even more than it was bleeding already. What did he believe he was doing? Saving her from him? Or him from her?
Seren was desperate for him to address the issue.
“Why would you ruin everything? Do you regret what passed between us, because I do not. You’re a foul-tempered man betimes, and you’re a crude bore. You eat as though you’ll never see another day, but I do not regret giving myself to you, Wilhelm Fitz Richard!”
He reined in his horse, looking at her with a tilt of his head and furrowed brows. Then, without a word, he slid down and came to her side, peering up at her with an intensity that unnerved her.
“Say it again,” he demanded.
Seren winced. She had a terrible feeling that she’d pushed him to his limit and if she repeated her imputations, he might drag her off her mount and put her over his knee to spank her… and still, she dared—only softer this time, with a bit less anger. “You’re a foul-tempered man, a crude bore, and you eat as though you’ll never see another day—’tis all true, Wilhelm, but I don’t care.”
“Not that,” he said with a frown. “All the rest.”
“What rest?”
“Will you make me say it again myself, because if I do, it won’t mean so much, Seren.”
Suddenly, a smile tugged at Seren’s mouth, realizing what it was that he wished for her to repeat, and for all that he was glaring at her so ferociously, she recognized the flare of hope in his warm, dark eyes. She lifted her chin, repeating, “I said… I do not regret giving myself to you.”
“And have you? Because ’tis not your body I truly desire, delectable though it may be.”
Lifting her chin, Seren answered his question with a question of her own. “Do you think me a wanton? Because I am not,” she apprised him. “And if you dare imply ’tis so, I will box your ears.”
He grinned, then tugging her down from the horse, pulling her into his arms. “I must advise you; I am no man to be trifled with. Nor do I relinquish my belongings once they are given, few enough that I possess.”
He was holding her so jealously now that she could feel the length of his manhood stabbing her in the belly. The very feel of it stole her breath.
“I am no man’s chattel,” she apprised, though without heat. Because in truth, she feared she belonged to him as thoroughly as she could belong to any.
Shocking her, he reached down to lift up her dress in broad daylight, then slid a finger into her most private region and Seren startled over the warmth of it, shuddering with delight. Only this time, there was no tenderness in his touch, and he groaned deep back in the back of h
is throat when he found her damp. His eyes grew heavy-lidded and he walked her slowly backward to a nearby tree, gently putting her back against it, and looking her straight in the face.
Wilhelm had had enough.
He’d let her blister his ears all morning long, calling him this name and that name, never truly understanding why he’d abandoned their discourse this morning.
He was in a quandary, because he had nothing to give her—naught that belonged to him. He only wished to save her from a fate she couldn’t yet see. And still, she would prefer to accuse him of usury than to see what it was he was trying to do—spare her from a life with a man who could give naught but his heart.
Once again, with meaning, he reached down to lift up her gown—only let her think him crude; he didn’t care. Simply because he’d bedded her would not constrain her to a fate she didn’t want. If she denied him once they returned to Warkworth, he would fully support her and take their secret to the grave, but she should know once and for all that it was not some gentle lord she would tempt.
He desperately craved the taste of her on his lips, and the instant he found the bud of her woman’s flower, he felt her knees buckle and caught her.
Undaunted, Wilhelm thrust a finger between her woman’s lips, then lifted it to his mouth. His tongue lapped the taste of her from his fingers, and he groaned again, deep in his throat, savoring the delicious tang of his beautiful flower.
Watching him, Seren gasped aloud, her look akin to horror, and he narrowed his eyes, his lips curving wolfishly.
“This is what you court if you continue. I am not a courteous man, Seren. Nor am I gentle-born like Giles. I haven’t the manners of a pretty lord, nor can I bestow upon you gold, or gowns. I am a crude bore, as you say.” And only to drive home his point, he slid his finger back into his mouth and lapped it with relish, like a dog with a juicy bone, all the while never releasing her startled gaze. And when he was done, he asked, “Has any man ever tasted you this way? Ever?”
Wide eyed, Seren shook her head. She opened her mouth to speak, but he silenced her once again, dropping his hand down and lifting her skirt again, so his fingers could seek her soft curls. There, he drove his fingers into her mons, tugging gently. “I do not share,” he said, with meaning, but there was no threat to his gesture. Rather he wanted her to remember everything he had done to her last night… all the liberties he’d taken, and he would do it all again, right now, in plain sight of God and anyone else who might wander by. Holding her firmly against the tree, he dropped to one knee, bowing beneath her gown, and then with relish, he lifted his tongue to press against her flower bud, as he’d longed to do from the instant he awoke with the taste of her upon his lips and her arse snuggled so intimately against his cock… and every second of every minute thereafter.
Seren whimpered with pleasure, her eyes glistening with unshed tears—not because she was sad, but because she longed to hold him this way forever.
Everything he was saying, everything he was doing… it was utterly shocking. Certainly, this was not the way a lord treated his lady, and yet, it was… so… so… very… delightful… and he was telling her true. He was not gentle born. She reveled in that fact, somehow knowing instinctively that no pretty lord would dare what he was doing.
“I do not share,” he said again, the heat of his breath on her mons, as his tongue dove again into her body, suckling from her as a bee would the nectar from a flower. And then, she couldn’t stop herself; she tangled her hands into his hair, and said, “You’re a lout, Wilhelm.”
In answer, he chuckled darkly against her curls, and slid his callused hands about her bottom, pressing her closer for the onslaught of his tongue, lapping and suckling in turn, and finally, he lifted himself, and dared to kiss her—right on the mouth!—sharing the most shocking taste on his lips…
It was outrageous, appalling, intemperate, delicious, disquieting, bewildering, brutish, crude…
“Say you are mine,” he demanded.
Seren trembled. She could not find her voice to speak, but she nodded anyway, and he growled with satisfaction, somehow managing to unlace his trews and dropping them to the ground as she delighted in the finger that danced so boldly inside her body. And then, once again, he was bare from the waist down—without any shame—his trews tangled about his ankles. And, with a guttural moan, he angled his hips down, and up, impaling her where she stood, and Seren gasped with delight, drunk with pleasure as he filled her with soft, silky heat. Her head fell backward against the tree, and she let him have his way, lifting her beneath the knees, and guiding her legs about his waist. He held her firmly against the tree, stroking her body from within, and this time, there was naught gentle about their loving. It was hungry and greedy, and when Wilhelm was done, he looked at her with a grin on his face, and said, “I hope you enjoy gruel; that’s all I’ve got to feed you.”
It wasn’t true, Seren knew.
He was, indeed, a lout, because he’d already provided far more for her than she’d ever had in all her life. But what he hadn’t done this time was satisfy her completely. Even their loving last night had left her with a glimpse of something… something maddening… something that promised… more. She tilted her hips again to tease him and said dreamily, “I am still hungry,” and to that, his grin widened, and, inconceivably, he hardened. Again.
As Seren offered her neck to be ravaged, waiting to be fulfilled, the wind lifted, swirling leaves.
31
It was the worst possible turn of events.
Giles was gone. Wilhelm hadn’t been seen in months. Warkworth was vulnerable, and Rosalynde hadn’t any choice but to empty their garrison. Perforce, she would leave a few good men to defend the castle, but there was nothing more critical than the battle she faced right now, and she was ill prepared to wage it.
To make matters worse, somehow Mordecai had survived the ordeal in the woodlot, and she knew he would be there, fighting by her mother’s side. The very thought of facing that creature alone put a tremor in her belly.
So much depended on the outcome.
It had been months now since she’d last met her mother and so much had transpired since that day. She’d known very well that Morwen would never take the loss of her grimoire lightly, and that she would stop at naught to see it returned. Even so, she’d never once considered that her mother would endanger an innocent child.
Anticipating the battle to come, she dressed herself in the chainmail her husband had given her—hauberk, chausses, tunic and gauntlets. She offered Elspeth a suit of boiled leather, as well as a mail coif, knowing her own armor would never fit. Elspeth was shorter than she was, but the babes had put a bit of weight on her and the chainmail wouldn’t stretch. Alas, she would have preferred to see Elspeth better protected. She was a mother, after all, and had another babe at home to return to, but because she was a mother, there was no way Rosalynde could ever hope to keep a sword from her hand.
Besides, Elspeth was the eldest of her sisters. As such, there was little chance of telling her sister what to do. Elspeth was hard-headed. She was also furious, and at the instant, Rose pitied anyone who stepped in her sister’s way.
Once they were armored and well-armed, the sight of Elspeth left Rosalynde awed. With her red-gold hair, and her bright blue eyes glinting with vengeance, she reminded Rosalynde of their mother. Save for the color of their hair and eyes, Elspeth and Morwen shared the same features. She had never quite noticed the startling resemblance before now, and it was no wonder Elspeth’s servants had beckoned her inside. That’s the only way Morwen could have trespassed against Elspeth’s warding spell. She would have had to have been invited, and for that alone, though he didn’t fully understand, Alwin was despondent.
About an hour after Mordecai departed, they received a message via homing pigeon: Even now, David and his men were traveling south to York. Malcom was said to be among them, but Giles was not.
Considering the circumstances, communicating by pigeons was n
ot at all propitious, but there was so little time to waste. With all due haste, they’d dispatched yet another bird, with the intent of informing Malcom of their travails. As of yet, they’d received no response, but neither had they anticipated hearing before their departure, nor could they wait. Rosalynde only hoped that with fifty good men, they would have some small chance against Morwen. If luck be theirs today, Eustace would not be with her in Holystone Wood, and she would not have his army by her side. Alas, even if she did, there was no way to avoid the conflict.
My Book for the child. Or he dies.
The very sight of those words had left Rosalynde sick to her belly. Sensing how important the Book of Secrets was to her mother’s plans, she preferred not to hand it over, but again, they had no choice. Unfortunately, even if they managed to successfully negotiate for the return of the child, Morwen would still have won, because she was sure to use that grimoire to ensure their doom in the end. These were troubling times, and they could use all the help they could get. In light of this, while awaiting word from Edmund that the warriors were prepared to ride, she and Elspeth slipped into her marquee, joining hands in prayer.
“Mother Goddess hear our plea,” Rosalynde whispered. “Dark be the hour, but you hold the key.”
Elspeth joined her refrain. “Guide us now in your light, from darkness we flee. By all on high and law of three, What be your will, so mote it be.”
There was no more to be said.
Their fate was in the hands of the Goddess, and England itself would rise or fall according to the outcome.
Tears sprang to Elspeth’s blue eyes, and Rosalynde’s eyes stung. Even together, they were ill-equipped to face their mother. Where, for the love of night, was Rhiannon?
They rode out before dusk, a company clad in silver, led by the Pendragon sisters, armor winking against a waning sun. They had but thirty miles to go—twenty as crows flew, but they were not crows. They rode swiftly, but no matter how swift the pace, it was impossible—as Edmund predicted—to arrive at the Widow’s Tower before sunrise.
Fire Song Page 25
