Lord of Shadows (Daughters of Avalon Book 5)

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Two of her sisters were dead because of Morwen, and there was nothing anyone could do to remedy that fact, nor bring Morien or Arwyn back, though she could leave here at once and make certain her living sisters remained safe.

  She blinked down at the key.

  Aye, it was true. She could take off the shackles… here and now. Be free of this cruel binding. But Cael had asked her to bide her time…

  Dare she trust him?

  Aye… she did.

  The lord of Blackwood might be many, many things—a villain, perhaps, no less than her mother—but Rhiannon had never once witnessed him to be a liar.

  And nevertheless, what if she refused his dictate and walked away—down those stairs, out the door—would he prevent her?

  There was only one way to find out, but the longer she stood gaping at the unguarded doorway, the more ambivalent she was.

  Her mother had arrived.

  To see her wed?

  If so, what would be the impetus for Cael to release her now? Did he so much loathe the thought of wedding her?

  Perhaps so, but she realized that merely wedding her would never assure him the stewardship of Blackwood. Cael must realize this as well. And if not, he was deaf, because she had told him so at least a thousand times. Blackwood was always meant to go to King Henry’s favorite, Elspeth. Certainly, King Stephen might be inclined to ignore his uncle’s decree, but Rhiannon was neither the eldest Pendragon, nor was she herself of any royal blood—leastways not English.

  And nevertheless, she had no doubt about Cael’s ambitions. He coveted Wales, and Stephen had already promised the duchy to him, so long as he maintained Blackwood in good standing. Whether Rhiannon was elder born or nay, she was Welsh by blood, and with the strength of their alliance, he might, indeed, continue to keep the Welsh rebels at bay.

  The last thing Stephen needed was to bleed his coffers dry putting down unnecessary rebellions, and the last thing anyone needed was for the Welsh to resume their hostilities. As it was, her mother kept them appeased with her promises.

  Thus said, Cael shouldn’t be so quick to release his best claim to Blackwood, a daughter of the Pendragon line. After all, Blackwood belonged to her family, and if Cael couldn’t manage to secure the eldest Pendragon as a bride, Rhiannon would be the next best thing.

  So, then… was it a trap?

  A show for her mother?

  Or perhaps a ruse to convince Rhiannon to speak those loathsome vows, and then afterward he meant to lock her away in that tower. Only, what would that gain him that he didn’t already possess?

  Naught, she realized; it would gain him naught.

  Nor did she like to think that everything they had shared was meaningless…

  At any given point during these past years, Cael might easily have marched her back up to the tower and locked her away, but he had not. To the contrary, he’d moved her into this suite intended for the lady of the castle, and he’d showered her with gifts that were all fit for a beloved wife—perhaps yet another ruse to soften her resolve?

  And regardless, he didn’t need to cajole her. He could very easily have forced her to wed. By Welsh law, Rhiannon couldn’t be forced to marry against her will; but Cael d’Lucy was not beholden to Welsh law. He answered to England’s king. Although Stephen had his troubles with the Papacy, they would never take Rhiannon’s side—a known Welsh witch, a daughter of their mortal foe. If Cael should happen to bring her before an ambassador of the Church, her protests would fall upon deaf ears.

  Utterly confused now, she closed her fist about the small key and stared into the darkening hall…

  Had he left her door unguarded only to prove a point to her mother—that what?

  That he’d finally won Rhiannon’s heart?

  That guarding her was unnecessary because she was so pliant?

  So he could give her the freedom she would need later to escape…

  The notion accosted her as swiftly and fiercely as did the certitude that Cael d’Lucy was assured little through his marriage to her, but far, far less if he set her free.

  So, then… why… why would he help her escape in the final hour, when doing so would only earn him her mother’s wrath?

  Never once had he given her any cause to believe he might waver in his allegiance. In fact, he’d always made his intentions very, very clear: He was aligned with Morwen.

  His goals—whatever their extent—were bound to hers as well.

  So, then… dare she believe that he’d made this decision with his heart, not his head?

  It was the look in his eyes before he’d left that convinced her it must be true. For all these years, she had so desperately longed for some proof that his soul was not so black as it seemed. Was this the evidence she’d sought?

  Her embittered heart could not believe it!

  And perhaps with good reason, because, in truth, releasing her might not be entirely altruistic.

  If Rhiannon abandoned Blackwood, he would have one less obstacle in his way.

  And, if by chance she were slain during her escape… well, then, he could wash his hands of the entire affair, and call himself blameless. For all intents and purposes, he would have done precisely what her mother expected of him—marry Rhiannon for better or worse.

  There is only one woman I have ever loved, and she is not you…

  Clasping her fist to her heart, with the key nestled in her palm, Rhiannon sank down on her bed, reminding herself that all things in life bore consequences: Stay or go… she would pay a price…

  Tears brimmed in her eyes as she remembered a night so long ago in their cottage at Llanthony—that night she’d convinced her sisters to summon a brume to help Elspeth escape the priory. She’d known then that she would be destined to trade places with Elspeth as Blackwood’s bride. She’d known it with all her heart.

  Effectively, her sisters had agreed to the bargain only because no one ever supposed that Rhiannon, with her afflicted eyes, could make an agreeable choice for the great lord of Blackwood. After all, he had bargained for Elspeth, whose pale violet eyes were soft and gentle and whose birthright could provide him Blackwood without contest.

  And yet… knowing what she knew about fate, Rhiannon had never doubted her vision. She had known then that this day would arrive, even despite that for all these years it had been all too easy to deny Cael.

  For so long they’d played a game of cat and mouse, neither entirely committed to catching a prize. But here they were… precisely as her vision foretold. In scant few hours, she would be wed to the lord of Blackwood—a loveless match, with a single purpose: To bind him to Blackwood.

  But Rhiannon had never anticipated precisely this—not this.

  If she did as Cael asked, she would become a fugitive, if not from the law, then most certes from her mother. And knowing her mother as she did, Morwen would never stop searching until she found Rhiannon.

  Arwyn learned the truth of that the hard way, and so, too, would Rhiannon, if Morwen ever caught her.

  Their mother hadn’t a single bone of compassion in her body, and the blood they shared only gave her more cause for enmity.

  No matter… how could she not seize this opportunity to escape? Even now, with scant hope of seeing her sisters again, she felt a quickening joy.

  What was more: Her heart leapt with anticipation over the return of her magik.

  Oh! What glee to feel it coursing through her veins!

  Oh! How she missed the tingle beneath her flesh.

  The inspiration of power in her breast!

  Bide your time, Cael had said.

  Bide your time.

  And so she must, despite that she suddenly longed for freedom even more than she did her next breath—oh, what a cruel, cruel jest it would be if he’d purposely given her the wrong key!

  Fighting a nearly overwhelming urge to slide it into her shackles and test the lock—because if she removed the shackles, she would never put them back on—she slipped the key into a hid
den pocket of her dress.

  As children, she and her sisters had learned the value of sewing hidden compartments into the seams of their gowns. All the while living at court, they’d used them to hide foodstuffs from the kitchen—a bit of bread from the table when no one was looking… a grape or two from the King’s plate. A bite of cheese, or length of salted meat. And they had done so without remorse, because even then, they’d been forced to fend for themselves. After all, who should have cared for Morwen’s brats?

  It didn’t matter that they were Henry’s daughters as well. And perhaps Henry had honored them well enough by giving them a home in his palace, but behind his back there was no one who would willingly share a morsel with the Welsh witch’s eldritch brats. Her mother was as despised then as she was now, and no matter; that woman lost no sleep. She certainly never once let a thought of hungry bellies stop her from doing her worst, and if they dared complain, she would remind them of their blood, and bade them to figure it out. And so they had. All together they had “figured it out.”

  To this day, no matter that Rhiannon hadn’t Seren’s skill with a needle or thread, she fashioned a pocket into every new gown. Although her stitches left much to be desired, the pockets were nearly indistinguishable from her seam—three small threads to keep the material from gaping. The tiny key slid easily between the folds.

  Come what may, she would make the decision to trust Lord Blackwood, and not once would she dare peek out of her room, no matter if her guards did not return—mostly because she was afraid that if she went to the door, she might keep going and never return.

  But neither did she dare gather her belongings. In the event that her mother should appear in her doorway, she didn’t intend to be caught packing. Therefore, she realized… when she left this place, she would be departing with nothing but the clothes on her back… that and her magik.

  Come to think of it, maybe not even that.

  She worried whatever magik had been cast upon these shackles, it had depleted her, like darkness banishing light.

  Fortunately, the one blessing of these shackles was this: Whilst it allowed no magik to leave her person… neither should it allow any within—at least that’s what Rhiannon presumed, and soon she would put it to the test, because if her mother suspected treachery, she would unleash the worst of her hud du, and not even Cael would manage to survive it. She prayed to the Goddess that he knew what he was doing, and then resigned herself to wait…

  It wasn’t long before she was summoned belowstairs.

  To her surprise—and to her dismay—along with the summons arrived an unexpected gift: a gown unlike any she’d ever beheld. It was a silvered surcoat, dyed purpure, with a snow-white chainse to wear beneath. Only, no matter how desperately she searched the folds, there was no place to hide a key, and no time to sew a pocket into the dress.

  “My lord sent me to help you dress,” explained the girl who brought it—a maidservant Rhiannon hadn’t met before now.

  Perhaps noting her confused expression, the girl added, “He said he needed Aelwyd in the kitchen and sent me instead.”

  Aelwyd was the only maid who’d ever served Rhiannon, though even Aelwyd had not been altogether companionable. She did her lord’s bidding, and kept her distance, perhaps frightened of what and who Rhiannon was.

  “Oh,” said Rhiannon. “Well… no matter. I’ll dress myself.”

  “Oh, nay, meistres! What of these?” asked the girl, showing her a fistful of ribbons. “I am bidden to weave them through your hair.”

  There were no fewer than twenty ribbons, Rhiannon noted, and she winced over the time it would take to braid them—time she desperately needed to prepare.

  “Very well,” she relented, smiling, but her eyes scanned the room, alighting upon an empty ewer. “Oh, but, please… I am thirsty. Might I trouble you for a bit of mead?” And then she lifted her hand to show how it trembled. “Nerves, I suppose.”

  Eager enough to please, the maid curtsied at once. “Of course, meistres. I’ll go fetch a cup.” And then, smiling still, she rushed out of the room, tossing her ribbons upon a table, leaving Rhiannon alone for the moment.

  The very instant she was gone, Rhiannon rushed over to pluck up one of the silver ribbons, lacing it through the eye of her key. She then tied the key firmly to her ribbon, and when that was done, she rushed back to the bed, shoving the ribbon, along with the key, beneath her pillow, scarcely in time to turn and greet the maid, who’d returned too soon with a sheepish smile.

  “Owen says I’m not to leave you. He’ll go fetch it.”

  Rhiannon frowned, realizing belatedly that her guards must be watching belowstairs. So much for Cael trusting her to do the right thing. And, aye, indeed, so much for believing she could leave if she chose. Although she should have anticipated as much, the revelation disheartened her. Perhaps because it dispelled any notion that she had been given a choice in the matter. And, aye, she would wed Cael d’Lucy, because he demanded it, and she knew that if he set her free, he would do so at his own discretion.

  Rotten, misbegotten cur.

  Mistaking her downcast expression, the maid tilted Rhiannon a look of compassion. “Oh, please, meistres, don’t worry, you’ll be lovely,” she said. “I’ll see to it myself, and ye’ll make your mam proud.”

  Rhiannon winced.

  The thought was unthinkable.

  Retrieving the ribbons, the maid brought them over and tossed the entire lot onto the bed, lifting one, then catching a thick lock of Rhiannon’s hair.

  “Used to be I lived here when I was a little girl,” said the maid conversationally. “We went away when King Henry took the castle, but your sweet mam brought us back. She cured me and my mam of leprosy.”

  Leprosy? Rhiannon’s eyes were drawn to the hands the maid moved so deftly—hands that were devoid of scars. “My mother cured you?” she said with surprise.

  The maid smiled warmly. “Aye, meistres. She did. I swear, no matter how terribly they speak o’ her, I know what I know, and I will ever be grateful.”

  “Oh,” Rhiannon said, because it explained so much—most notably why Cael had never allowed this girl to serve her before. Only he knew who to trust in this wretched pile of stones. And if he’d sent her here, he must have needed the aid of a servant he trusted. That lifted Rhiannon’s hopes.

  She didn’t bother to tell the poor girl that Morwen never did anything for selfless reasons. If she had cured the woman and her mother, she would only have done so in order to enthrall them. Morwen cultivated sycophants—by whatever means she could, be it hud du, or lies. Therefore, she kept her mouth shut and allowed the maid to plait her hair, taking comfort in the fact that if all went well this eve, she would be long gone from this place by the cock’s first crow.

  5

  Somewhere near Bury St. Edmunds

  Newly returned from negotiations, Giles de Vere was home long enough to see his newborn son, wash, sleep, fill his belly, and then get himself an earful from his wife and his sister by law, then he was back in the saddle, with his brother at his side.

  Evidently, the King’s son had desecrated the abbey at Bury St. Edmunds, pillaging the Church coffers and destroying holy relics. Giles was commanded to locate the fool and return him to London to treat with his father, although Giles half hoped someone would put an arrow through the dastard’s heart and save everyone the trouble.

  Eustace was a menace to the realm. By now, the King’s son had abused his state in more ways than anyone could count. Not only had he burned Warkworth to the ground, merely to appease his puerile sense of importance, but he injuriously taxed his counties until they complained to the bishops. It was no wonder the Church steadfastly refused to consecrate him, and now that his bear of a mother was dead, he hadn’t many allies remaining, not even his father.

  However, the winds of change were blowing in one final tempest and his warrior’s heart anticipated the worst…

  All it would take to change the course of history
was the death of two very, very mortal men. If Stephen and Duke Henry should happen to find themselves murdered, and if Eustace remained the last man standing, with that witch by his side, the kingdom would come undone.

  By now, Giles had come to understand this was not truly the tale of a usurper, nor the uncle betrayed, nor even a grandson so eager to reclaim his birthright.

  Rather, it was a story about queens.

  Three, to be precise.

  First, the Empress Matilda, whose mother kicked up her toes when she was only sixteen, and whose father left her with an uncertain legacy.

  The Queen Consort, whose husband was a usurper, and who, no matter how hard she tried, never outran her cousin’s shadow, even in death.

  And lastly, the Witch Queen, who, spurned by a young maiden who’d resented her father’s paramours, grew spiteful and treacherous.

  But so, it seemed, if politiks were akin to a game of Queen’s Chess, for the time being, the queens were no longer in play on the board: one defeated, one deceased, one now missing.

  A few years ago, on threat of excommunication, the Empress Matilda abandoned Devizes Castle and returned to her court in Rouen, leaving her son to assume her battles in England.

  Last year, consumed by fever, the Queen Consort died, leaving her sovereign husband to rule without his greatest ally.

  Alas, sadly for England, the last queen standing was the most treacherous of all… older by far than Wales, more elusive than a will-o’-the-wisp, more deadly than a fork-tongued adder, Morwen was out there… somewhere, though she’d yet to resurface after Maude’s death—not because she was aggrieved, Giles suspected. Those two were enemies more than allies, despite that the Queen enabled Morwen as much as her husband did. After all, it was the Queen’s indefatigable desire to see her son consecrated that had kept the Welsh witch by her husband’s side, whispering like a viper into his ear. Mercifully, the one thing Morwen no longer had was Stephen’s ear. Nor was his son the heir apparent.