Who are you Malcom?
Peering down at the ring on his finger—closer now that his hands were on the reins and no longer resting on her person, she wondered how and when he’d acquired his lands and title. Of course, she didn’t know his standard—or his name—so he must have ascended after her father’s death—and therefore, he must be one of Stephen’s new barons.
Men like Cael d’Lucy…
And once again, she sighed, and, for a moment, allowed herself to consider how things would have been had she stayed with her sisters…
She would have been carted away by now, and soon enough found herself wed to an Earl as well. She would have been sent back to Blackwood, where she could have ruled her own demesne, but at what cost?
But now… above and beyond the spell they’d cast, what cost would her sisters pay for Elspeth’s defiance? Surely, Morwen would never suffer this insult lightly, and there was no doubt she would fly at once to the priory. She would want to know precisely what her sisters knew. But did even Rhiannon know where she was going?
With every mile she traveled, Rhiannon’s voice grew fainter and fainter… and for better or worse, soon… very soon… not even she would be able to reach her.
Sweet fates. How will I bear it?
Look to your champion, Elspeth.
Champion? Elspeth dared again to peek over her shoulder and found Malcom’s gaze fixed upon the horizon. At the instant, he didn’t seem to sense her scrutiny, so she allowed her gaze to linger…
He had a strong jaw with a small cleft in his chin, and his eyes—blue-green—were veiled by thick, dark lashes. His skin was swarthy, as though he spent much of his time in the sun, but it was impossible to say what color his hair might be because it was covered by that coif.
Was it true? Could he be her champion?
Did you send him, Rhiannon?
Silence.
Elspeth’s heart wrenched.
Rhiannon, she called again, and again, her answer was silence.
Swallowing the lump that rose in her throat, Elspeth turned as far as she could in the saddle, craning her neck as tears pricked at her eyes.
She knew the instant she passed outside her sisters’ reach… because she suffered the void acutely… it was a great sweeping darkness… illumined only by the man riding at her back.
Elspeth peered up at him, tears swimming in her eyes, and prayed that, indeed, the Goddess had sent him to aid her. Without her sisters, she had no one else to trust.
“What is it, Elspeth?”
She turned, giving Malcom her back, and said, “Nothing.” And once again, more to convince herself. “All is well.”
Chapter Seven
One chair by the small hearth remained conspicuously empty, the seat as cold as the ashes beneath the cauldron. Silence, thick and dismal, became the Ewyas sisters’ fifth companion.
“She’s… gone,” said Rhiannon. No two words were ever spoken more woefully.
Swallowing the knot of grief that formed in her throat, Rhiannon rose from her seat to stand before the small cauldron, peering down into the kettle’s bottom to see what she could see…
Betimes, a bit of majik lingered there, in the last drops of beguiled liquid; but today there was none. The long night had rendered the contents powder dry, leaving only a trace of ash to reveal the herbs they had burned. Alas, she didn’t need a scrying stone or spells to know that, for better or worse, today was the day their lives began to diverge.
Holding tight to her emotions, keeping her back to her sisters, Rhiannon was afraid they would glimpse what she loathed to tell them. Life was so much like a spider’s web—so many threads flowing from its center, all leading to destinations unknown and the slightest deviation had the potential to place them at very wide berths.
But her sisters’ destinies were not hers, and as similar as they might be, having spent nearly every waking moment together, not a one of them had the same fire burning in their soul.
Rhiannon wanted nothing as much as she wanted revenge—for the grandmother she’d never known, and for the twin she’d mourned inside her mother’s womb. Elspeth carried a torch for justice. Seren wanted peace. Rose and Arwyn longed for things they might never see. But, at least this was still true: Wherever Elspeth was going now, her future would be her own to choose. The same could not be said for the rest of her siblings. Her careless spell had changed their fates.
And yet, had she known… if she had but suspected the outcome… she would have done it all the same all over again. Rhiannon was wise enough to know that Elspeth’s cause was the most noble of them all. Wales itself could be lost if she did not pursue her crusade for their sister Matilda.
Goddess save them if Stephen’s son took that throne. Darkness would descend upon this land… a darkness unlike even the one that had dimmed the grace of Avalon.
It was a long, long moment before Arwyn finally breached the silence, inquiring about Elspeth. “Do you know where she is going?”
Too easily, Rhiannon lied with a shake of her head, even as she loathed herself for doing it. By the cauldron, it was said that lies were like steps descending into darkness, and that even when they were well-intentioned, they had the ill effect of spreading gloom.
But this was also true: Of all her siblings—Elspeth included—Rhiannon was the only one who could hope to defeat Morwen. It was safer if her sisters did not know where Elspeth was going. Morwen would too easily read everything their tongues refused to speak. As lovely as her sisters might be, they were equally as guileless.
“Fear not,” she said, at last. “Our Goddess sent her a champion.”
“Hmm,” said Seren, furrowing her brow, but she said nothing more, perhaps guessing at the truth—that Rhiannon had summoned this man herself, not the Goddess, at least not without intervention. Alas, it was impossible to say what might come from wresting the lord of Aldergh away from his chosen path… or whether the effect of it would be good or bad.
Rose worried her hands. “Did you note the direction they were traveling? We’ll want to know so we can follow.”
“East,” lied Rhiannon, though it wasn’t entirely a lie, for whilst she did know which direction they were headed, and she also knew the name of the man who was bound to her, Elspeth’s true destination was unknown even to Rhiannon. So much now depended on the decisions her sister made. Free will was a gift of the one true God and even her own future was foreseeable only in glimpses. Any new path taken, or any new decision made—like that spider’s web—could steal her away to an entirely new destiny.
Yesterday, she’d a very good plan to get her sisters away from this priory. Today, that plan was no more viable than it had been for Elspeth to remain. And yet, Rhiannon had no regrets. This way, at least she knew her sister had a champion to defend her.
“I miss her already,” lamented Seren.
“Me too,” confessed Rhiannon, as she reached down to smooth her callused fingertips over the cold, hard rim of the kettle. She had a terrible feeling that she would miss all her sisters every day for the rest of her life…
“Does she know… what you did?”
“The sleep spell?” Rhiannon shrugged, and shook her head. “Not yet.” Though neither did her sisters realize the full scope of what she had done. All they knew was that Rhiannon had cast a wee spell to settle Elspeth’s nerves. But that spell was not the spell that changed their lives. By wresting one man from his chosen path, she had, in truth, changed her own fate entirely, because she had been wrong. The new lord of Blackwood didn’t care whatsoever who warmed his bed.
“You did the right thing,” reasoned Seren, mistaking Rhiannon’s distress.
Arwyn agreed. “It was for her own good, Rhiannon. She’s too prone to worry.”
“So now what?” asked Seren.
A tear slipped past Rhiannon’s lashes as she realized her sisters were looking to her for direction. But, of course they would… as they had once looked to Elspeth.
Alas, though El
speth’s skills were no match for Rhiannon’s, Elspeth had something else Rhiannon did not possess, a pure heart, and an unwavering sense of loyalty. That’s why, after all these years, her sister could not abandon her crusade for Matilda. Though it was also precisely why she would have been compelled to return. Even now Rhiannon felt a tempest turning inside her. And, Elspeth, her one true anchor, was moving further and further away with every clip-clop of that horse’s hooves. No matter that she could no longer hear Elspeth speaking to her, she could still hear that sound, like drums beating in her head.
Clip. Clop. Clip, clop. Clip, clop.
Putting her hands to her ears and glaring down at the long-spent embers below the kettle, she considered the hatred she felt for her lady mother and watched the white coals turn slowly red…
Morwen was a heartless demon, without an ounce of regret for all the horrors she had committed. Death. Terror. Fear. These were all the things her mother reveled in, and the worst of her sins were as yet unknown to her sisters. There was nothing of the Maiden or Mother left in Morwen; she was the Death Crone, and her darkness had begun to eat away at her from the inside out.
In order to keep her spell of glamour, she would continue to sacrifice innocents. She’d struck herself a bargain with the Crone, but she was, indeed, worse than Cerridwen ever was, and the fallout from her treachery would be far worse than the vanishing of an Island or its people. She would drag England itself into oblivion… along with Wales and Scotia, and any lands or persons that came under Stephen’s rule. And whilst their king might respect and even love his portly wife, few ever had the power to resist Morwen’s wiles. After all, it was Morwen who’d planted the seed of greed into Stephen’s silly little head. She had been using her Craft from the beginning. And once she’d realized Henry had learned to resist her wiles, she moved on to Stephen, turning Stephen’s heart against the uncle he’d loved so well, convincing him that he must betray his blood for honor and justice. But he was not lost… not yet… And yet, if Eustace ever rose to power, with Morwen by his side, England as they knew it would be lost… forever. Therefore, Elspeth must champion their sister. She must win her champion to her side, and she must find a way to return Matilda to the throne.
As for Rhiannon… she would destroy their mother.
Fueled by so much hatred, and despite the lack of proper kindling, the fire lit beneath the kettle, bursting up and around the course black belly.
Seren gasped, leaping up from her chair. She rushed to grab an armful of kindling. “Rhiannon, nay! You mustn’t do such things!”
Far too late… the storm inside her was already raging, dancing on a fateful wind, turning, whirling, gaining strength, like a maelstrom. Thankfully, none of this was notable to her sisters, because, at the instant it raged only inside Rhiannon.
“If anyone should ever see you do such things, not even the king’s mercy will stop them from condemning you! The only reason Ersinius puts up with us is because deep down he does not believe we are born to our grandmother’s sins.”
Merely because their grandmother had been withered by age and the sisters were too lovely to be evil—but hadn’t Morwen proven that to be a lie? In her youth, she had been far more beautiful than any of her daughters, but there was little doubt that she was the evilest witch to walk this earth than they had known in quite some time. “Only because he enjoys his gold,” Rhiannon said.
“If I had my guess, he would sooner see us burn,” argued Seren as she continued picking through the tinder, gathering the best pieces.
It was the wrong thing to say. Rhiannon’s fury grew hotter, and the fire below the cauldron burned brighter, hotter. Alas, they had not been allowed to leave since Elspeth was discovered missing, and nobody brought them anymore wood. If Rhiannon guessed correctly, this was not an oversight, for neither had they had anything to eat since early this morn. Once the envoy had arrived and Elspeth was summoned, chaos ensued and the four of them had been ushered into their prison hovel with permanent guards at their door.
With arms laden, Seren rushed back across the room to toss the kindling into the flames, at first piece by piece, and then she dumped them all at once as a knock sounded at the door. “Forsooth!” she exclaimed, peering over her shoulder and meeting Rhiannon’s gaze.
Rhiannon was not surprised.
“Who can it be?”
“Ersinius.”
Arwyn’s eyes widened. “Here?”
Rose asked, “Now?”
As long as they had ever known him, the chaplain had never once missed Vespers. His devotion to the church—at least as it could be measured by others—was unshakeable. Of course, after the envoy’s departure, a visit from him was inevitable, but her sisters had not expected to see him again this evening. Rhiannon lifted her hand, bidding Arwyn and Rose to remain seated as she moved to the door. In the meantime, Seren rushed to grab another armful of kindling to prop up the fire as best she could before Ersinius could see it was mostly bare.
Giving her sister time to put down her handful, Rhiannon unlocked the door, and no sooner had she removed the bar, when the door flew wide, revealing the florid face of their illustrious chaplain. “Father,” Rhiannon said quietly.
Undaunted—at least by Rhiannon, although he should have been petrified—Ersinius shoved open the door and marched into their meager home. “I have come to inform that your mother’s arrival is imminent.”
“But, of course,” Rhiannon said silkily. Her sisters might be cowed by the man’s temper, but she refused to be bullied.
Because she had such a pure heart, Elspeth always believed Ersinius crossed himself for fear of their bloodline; Rhiannon knew better. He crossed himself because he coveted them—all five sisters together. And he loathed himself for the weakness of his flesh. How he longed to punish them for the temptation they offered. And yet, it was his greatest displeasure to have to share his holy house with those less worthy. He despised the fact that he had served Henry’s pious wife, only to become no more than a warden to five profane little girls. Regardless of whether they were in fact born to their grandmother’s ‘evil ways,’ he would have preferred to hand them over to be dealt with by the Pope—and more significantly, he’d have preferred to win admiration for his tireless crusade for the church. The chaplain glared at Rhiannon, warning her without words, and she read every thought that crossed his oily brain. He was thinking how much he loathed them—merely because they had menses. And, furthermore, he was thinking how much he wished he’d caught them undressed… so that, later, he could pleasure himself to the image of them naked in a cluster, all writhing with their sweet, tender flesh over his fat, greasy body. For her sisters’ sakes, Rhiannon tried to be submissive, but failed miserably, smiling thinly.
“You will not find yourself quite so smug once you face her,” he warned Rhiannon. “And you have sorely disappointed your cousin.”
“He is not my cousin.”
Once again, all three sisters looked at Rhiannon, silently begging for her to calm her raging heart. But she was nothing like Elspeth. Filled with righteous fury, Rhiannon held her smile, and after an instant, the chaplain averted his gaze, uncomfortable with the affliction she’d been born with—her crossed eyes. “He is your father’s nephew, and therefore he is your cousin, despite that you seem so disinclined to offer him the respect due him.”
Rhiannon shrugged, and, for her sisters’ sakes, she declined to say that, in fact, Stephen was no kin to her at all, even if he was to her sisters. Her father was not Henry Beauclerc and she had known this for most of her life. But she held her tongue, because she knew it would never serve her to reveal the truth to anyone who held her fate in their hands—not even her sisters. Let them all think her father was the same man who’d fathered Elspeth, Seren, Arwyn and Rose.
The chaplain’s face was purple with rage. “From this moment on,” he continued, “until such time as your mother arrives, you will not be allowed to garden. In fact, you will not be allowed outside your cotta
ge at all. Ever. You will take your meals in this room. Ungrateful brats!”
Seren blinked. “So… you mean to keep us prisoners?” she asked.
Besides their companionship, the only one thing that had kept them sane throughout these long years was their ability to garden—and to be outdoors.
“We have always been prisoners,” Rhiannon argued, and the chaplain continued to address her sisters, ignoring Rhiannon as best he could.
“Your mother will determine what best to do with the lot of you, though I suspect your days at Llanthony are numbered—thank God!”
Yes, do thank God, said Rhiannon without speaking, and he turned his gaze partway to peer at her out of the corner of one eye. And then, with a shudder, he glanced away, casting his gaze at the hearth, and there he narrowed his gaze. He spun to examine the wood pile by the door, and, finally, as he must have longed to do from the instant he stepped into their hovel, he crossed himself, only this time, Rhiannon felt inordinately pleased for the startle he must have felt to find their fire burning strong, with so little wood. What skinny bits Seren had placed beneath the cauldron had already burned away to ash, and still the flames burned strong—as strong as Rhiannon’s rage.
Only, now, before they left his priory, she wanted Ersinius to know: Aye, she and her sisters bore the blood of the Great Goddess. And they were also descended of the fair-faced druids who’d settled the Sunken Isle, long before Wales was Wales or England was a thought in the minds of men.
At long last, Seren shook herself free of her stupor, rushing forward to settle a hand on the chaplain’s arm, placating him. “We are humbled by your presence, Holy Father, and we are sorry for any trouble we may have caused.”
“As you should be,” Ersinius berated her. He cast a glance at Rose and Arwyn, neither of which had yet to speak a word. “Alas, there’s little I can do for you now.”
“Of course,” said Seren. “We humbly await our just deserts.”
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