Early this past January, Duke Henry returned to England with a modest army, taking the king’s castle at Malmesbury.
In retribution, Stephen intensified his long-running siege of Wallingford, Now, even as Rosalynde, Seren and Elspeth sat conversing in Warkworth’s solar, Stephen’s own brother, Henry of Blois and the Archbishop of Canterbury were aligning forces to broker a treaty for peace. Giles himself rode south to help with the negotiations and Malcom rode west with David to quell unrest in his northern shires.
Fortunately, the castle at Warkworth was complete and fully girded—so much so that Malcom had brought his wife and three children to await his return.
At any rate, they gathered at Warkworth every year on this precise date to hold a memorial for Arwyn. The timing was perfect, and Wilhelm, for all that he was bastard-born, was now Warkworth’s warden, with a place at his brother’s side. Dressed as befitted a lord, he came sauntering into the solar, stopped to give Elspeth’s twins a tip for swordplay, then went straight for his wife, with the sole purpose of offering his lady a kiss—on the lips, no less. Shockingly crude, with little decorum, but everybody already knew he was bastard-born. He left again without a word, though not before casting the sisters a backward glance, and a wink.
“That man is besotted,” said Rosalynde, smiling, resting a hand on her increasing belly.
“Entirely,” said Elspeth. “I wager he’ll return within the hour for another.”
The sisters all laughed, and Rosalynde said, “Alas, Elspeth, it seems we two are widows and Seren is the only one with a living husband.”
Seren smiled. “Malcom and Giles will return soon,” she consoled her sisters. And yet, she knew well enough that “soon” would never be “soon enough” for her sisters. Certainly, if the case were reversed, it would not be soon enough for her. She was eternally grateful Wilhelm’s duties kept him at home.
“Broc!” rebuked Elspeth. “Do not strike your brother!”
“Mother, please! We are learning to be proper warriors,” said Broc, who was too young, at five, to handle his wooden sword. And nevertheless, he tried. The make-do weapon swayed as he held it aloft, and his brother held a curled fist upside his own head. “Uncle Wilhelm said we should practice,” Broc explained, his pale brows colliding. “See, he’s already recovered.”
Chin stiff, and brows furrowed, Lachlan nodded in support of his elder, twin brother and rose.
“Of course, you must practice,” agreed Elspeth. “But must you be so violent? And please, do not play here in the solar,” she demanded. “You will wake your sister.”
The boys shared a meaningful glance, then darted from the room together; only Broc stopped to peer back at them as the wee babe threw up her hands in fright and began to wail. Broc grinned then, and vanished into the hall.
“What a terror!” said Seren. “Defiant to his soul!”
Rosalynde asked, “Did he wake her apurpose?”
Elspeth shrugged, wearied by her son’s antics. “Who knows? He reminds me so much of Rhiannon,” she said. “Draw a line in the sand and forbid him to cross it, and he’ll wait until you’re watching to do it—with a grin, no less.” She sighed. “Alas, everything reminds me of Rhiannon.”
Elspeth settled her babe, rocking the small, wooden cradle that had been gifted to Rosalynde for the coming babe. “I long to know how she fares. Surely, someone somewhere must know…”
Seren’s sisters were both blessed with new babes, though Rosalynde’s was yet unborn. Lachlan and Broc had welcomed their little sister with gleeful smiles, and despite that Broc seemed to like to harry his mother, he adored young Arwyn more than words could say. His admiration was in his eyes for all to see.
Seren, on the other hand, had yet to conceive, but not for lack of trying. She knew in her heart it must be because the Goddess had something more in store for her… what this could be, she didn’t know. But… it was a feeling she had.
Frowning, her thoughts returning to Rhiannon, she turned to look out the window, and started at the sight of a lone black bird sitting on the sill—a plain old crow, not a raven, but, before she could remark on it, a knock sounded upon the solar door. “My lady,” said a handmaid. “There’s an auld woman here to see you.”
Seren blinked, peering back at the window to find the bird gone.
“Says her name is Isolde.”
“Isolde!”
All three sisters spoke at once, but Seren was up before Elspeth could snatch her child from the cradle. Dropping her needlework, she rushed for the door, trusting that Rosalynde and Elspeth would follow.
Neither she nor her sisters had seen that woman in a score of years, and the last time Seren so much as thought of her was the night before Wilhelm asked her to marry him.
They found her seated alone at one of the lower tables in the great hall, kicking her toes against the rushes. She rose to greet them when they approached and sat again without being asked to, almost as though she couldn’t find purchase on her tired old feet. Seren peered down to find her legs spindly and twisted, not unlike that of a bird’s.
“Isolde,” she said warmly, leaning to embrace the woman where she sat. It didn’t matter that they hadn’t seen her in so many years; Seren remembered her kindness. As her sisters greeted her as well, then chatted, she ordered sustenance for their guest, and as they waited, Isolde apprised them of the reason for her visit. She’d come to advise them, somehow knowing they would all be in residence at Warkworth.
“Gird your loins,” she warned, crooking a finger at Seren. “The time has come! Even now, the king’s son has begun the end-time prophecy. She will return, and only Caledfwlch will stop her.” She leaned forward now, looking Seren straight in the eyes, emphasizing with great meaning. “Only you can imbue that sword.”
Seren’s hand lifted to her breast in confusion.
The old woman nodded. “Sweet Seren… by now you must realize your sister is not the Promised One.”
Seren felt herself grow dizzy over the woman’s words.
“When you were a babe,” Isolde explained. “Not more than two, I knew what you would become, and I bound and glamoured you.”
Seren peered up at Elspeth, standing close with the child on her hip, brow furrowed.
“A trick of the eyes,” the old woman continued, brushing a hand through the air as though to remove a veil.
Elspeth’s mouth gaped open. So, too, did Rosalynde’s, for in the wake of Isolde’s hand flourish, Seren was changed.
“Sweet fates!” Rosalynde said, with as much confusion as Seren felt. “Your eyes… they are…” The woman waved her hand again, and her eyes were again blue.
“How is that possible?” demanded Elspeth of the crone. “Rhiannon is the one whose magik was strongest. I don’t understand.”
“Indeed, Rhiannon’s magik is powerful,” agreed Isolde. “Though not because she is Goddess-blessed. Rather, she is blessed by your grandmamau with the hud powerful enough for two.” She held up two bony fingers. “I knew your mother would keep the Promised One close, only to kill her if she manifested the power of the divine, so I glamoured Rhiannon’s eyes as well.”
Rosalynde narrowed her eyes. “So what you’re saying is that you endangered my sister’s life by altering the color of her eyes, only to keep my mother from knowing who the true Regnant should be?”
The old woman sighed. “Alas, ’tis true.” She straightened her back. “And what would you have had me do? Allow her to murder the one-true Regnant? Do you believe I am the only one to have contrived such sacrifices?” she asked, and then answered her own question. “But nay.” She addressed each of the sisters in turn. “Rhiannon, too, contrived, so did Arwyn.”
“The fire,” Seren whispered, somehow understanding what the old woman was saying.
“Aye,” the lady confessed, turning again to Seren, spearing her with ice-blue eyes. “She had a visit that morning, and your sister sacrificed herself so you could remain free. You will be the Regnant, Seren
.”
Gasps of surprise followed her announcement, but neither Seren nor her sisters could form questions, so shocking was the proclamation.
“You were aptly named,” said Isolde. “In our tongue, as you must know, Seren means star, and little did your mother realize that the “star” she gave birth to was the Regnant she should fear—you and only you, and if not you, then no other in this day and age. But now you must earn your laurels.”
Somehow, though the old woman’s words offered more questions than answers, Seren understood… Everything she already knew confirmed it; everything she didn’t know came rushing forth, like a torrent.
Since that day at the Widow’s Tower, she and Rose and Elspeth had many times pored over her newfound abilities. Neither of them could find any reason to explain them.
It was her witchwater that put out the witchfire at the Widow’s Tower, and no other means could have doused it.
“I don’t understand,” said Elspeth.
The old woman ignored her two sisters, speaking only to Seren now. “You must find your true self, Seren. Only then will you have answers. Find yourself, then imbue Caledfwlch with the power of the divine.”
Her gaze moved to Rosalynde, and she said, pointing a finger quite vehemently. “That sword is no longer yours to wield. Give it to your sister. When the time arrives, only she will know who to give it to.”
The old woman then smiled cannily, peering up at Elspeth, and said, “There are mysteries in life we are not meant to know, Elspeth Pendragon.” She wagged a finger. “You Guard your boys. ’Tis not over, and it will not be over until the Queen of Avalon is restored to her throne. But the sea will not keep her.”
“You speak in riddles!” Elspeth said, annoyed. “What—”
“Hush, Elspeth. Remember the sigil on the livery of Morwen’s soldiers?” Elspeth nodded, and Seren said, “Let the woman talk.”
The old woman gave Seren a grateful nod, and then continued, “I was her student before she understood she was my teacher. Only now you must realize… she is no daughter to Morgan. She is the witch Goddess who sought the prophet’s doom. It was your own mother, the child, who summoned the Lady from the Lake, and your uncle Emrys who opened the door.”
“How?” asked Rose.
“Blood magik,” the woman hissed, and she placed a finger to her lips. “Blood magik so hideous I dare not speak it. But the how of it you must not long to know. Only know this, Daughters of Avalon; once she realizes her mistake, she will return for that child. He is her doom.”
The woman then narrowed her ice-blue eyes on Elspeth. “He’ll not be the one to close her eyes, but once she is vanquished, it is he who holds the key to keep her from the realms of men.”
“My son?” asked Elspeth.
“The fair one,” Isolde said with a nod. “He is the Merlin reborn, and if you doubt me, see for yourself; he bears the birthmark at his—”
“Nape,” said Elspeth. The woman nodded. The birthmark had been covered since he grew his first wisps of hair.
“The divine symbol of life, the mark of the quintessence, which binds all elements before it.”
“My son?” Elspeth whispered again, but this time her voice held a note of wonder. “You must call him Emrys here forth, for by naming him by his true name, you imbue him with the legacy he is born to fulfill.”
“Emrys,” whispered Elspeth.
“It means immortal,” explained the old woman.
“And is he?” Elspeth asked.
The old woman smiled. “Alas, my dear, there are mysteries in life we are not meant to know…”
Outside, in the courtyard, the boys could be heard shouting, “To me! To me!” —a call to arms.
To this day, Seren could not hear those words without some trepidation. But boys were meant to be boys, and no one could stay the hand of fate.
“Gird your loins,” the old woman said again, with fervor, and then came a five-year-old’s wail. Seren, Rosalynde and Elspeth all ran into the courtyard to see what had happened, leaving the old woman seated at their table.
“Broc!” said Elspeth. Lachlan was kneeling before his twin brother, who was now the one seated on his rump, red-faced and pouting, a black and blue knot the size of a buckle on his forehead.
“He told me to do it,” said Lachlan, looking ashamed. He held his toy sword aloft, showing his mother the true culprit. Elspeth seized both wooden swords from her sons—first Broc, then Lachlan—and the boys looked perfectly contrite. She commanded both to apologize before everything erupted into chaos. A horn sounded—heralding a rider’s approach. Leaving the boys where they sat, the sisters all ran to see who it might be.
It was Malcom Scott who rode in through the open gate, accompanied by his father and two men. He sought his wife’s gaze at once, sliding down from his horse, taking his steps as leaps until he held Elspeth in his arms. “God’s bones! I’ve missed you,” she said. He kissed Elspeth soundly, embracing her still.
“Papa, papa,” screamed the boys, and Malcom released his wife only to scoop up both children into his arms.
“You are early,” said Elspeth, her cheeks aflame, and her eyes filled with warmth at the sight of her husband holding his sons.
He grinned. “Or late, depending on the state of one’s belly. Mine demands supper.”
“My boy was always a hungry beast,” said Malcom’s father, and Seren laughed, along with her sisters, taking the MacKinnon by the arm.
“Wilhelm will be so pleased to see you, and you have arrived just in time to meet our guest—a woman who raised us since birth. You can prod her to your heart’s content for all our secrets,” Seren said, and Elspeth shook her head.
“I fear he hasn’t the heart to hear more,” Elspeth jested. And nevertheless, Seren proceeded to tell him all about Isolde—all that she could remember, at any rate, and everything the old woman had told them. Unfortunately, by the time they returned to the hall, she was gone.
No one saw her leave. No one knew where she’d gone to. Apparently, she’d never said a word to anyone. Nor did she exit through the front gates, or she would have passed right by them. She was simply there one instant; the next she was gone. Only Seren could still feel her presence…
She peered up into the rafters, spying a blackbird perched up high. The bird cocked its black head, peering down at them, and Seren smiled.
“Where is she?” asked Elspeth.
“Gone,” said Seren. “But something tells me she’ll be about.”
She winked at her sister, finally understanding what she must do. After all, what else was there to do in the presence of hungry men, except feed them? Tomorrow would bring more strife, but the moment was sweet enough for a feast. She reached for the chatelaine’s keys at her belt, leaving her sisters to chatter with the men whilst she considered the contents of their larder… and as she walked into the courtyard, the blackbird flittered to her shoulder… whispering into her ear.
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Next in the Daughters of Avalon series…
Rhiannon
Coming 2020
Connected Series
Series Bibliography
Have you also read the Highland Brides and the Guardians of the Stone? While it’s not necessary to read these series to enjoy the Daughters of Avalon, all three series are related with shared characters.
These books are Also available as Audiobooks
The Highland Brides
The MacKinnon’s Bride
Lyon’s Gift
On Bended Knee
Lion Heart
Highland Song
MacKinnon’s Hope
Guardians of the Stone
Once Upon a Highland Legend
Highland Fire
Highland Steel
Highland Storm
Maiden of the Mist
Also connected…
Angel of Fire
Once Upon a Kiss
Daughters of Avalon
The King’s Favorite
The Holly & the Ivy
A Winter’s Rose
Fire Song
Rhiannon
Fire Song Page 28
