Oh, yes, she knew there was a price to be paid, and she accepted the Law of Three as truth. Still, anger was her constant companion…
However, if, for example, one had summoned a brume in order to aid one’s sister’s escape… perhaps five years of imprisonment would be one’s just reward.
And mayhap, rather than blame Cael for all her troubles, she should blame herself…
Closing her fist, she snuffed out the flame.
“Do you smell that?” asked Jack.
“What?”
“Smoke.”
“Nay,” said Marcella, although she turned to peer over her shoulder at Rhiannon, narrowing her shrewd green eyes.
Rhiannon smiled innocently, and shrugged.
17
The days blurred one into another…
Ride, eat, sleep, wake, listen to Marcella crow, ride, eat, sleep, wake, listen to Marcella crow…
Whatever her true allegiance, her opinion was clear as Waldglas: Marcella wasn’t impressed by the English, nor their usurper king. However, what wasn’t precisely evident was where her loyalties lay—not with the Germans, neither with the French or the Normans, even despite that she’d spent so much of her adult life in Germany and then Normandy with Matilda.
At heart, she was perhaps a Welsh patriot, but that was not entirely evident either. She defended Matilda as well as the Church, and marveled that the marcher lords hadn’t found a way to depose all the shambolic Welsh kings.
She was, in truth, a bit of a riddle…
“Pride is their sin,” she said now, expounding on Stephen’s barons and specifically their choice of war mounts. “If you ask me, they are too concerned with appearances, not enough with practicality,” she said. “Destriers are a menace on the battlefield. Meanwhile, our coursers might not put the fear of God into a man, but neither will they madden over the scent of blood. That is why he fell,” she said, speaking of King Stephen. “Not because he is ill-favored by God—that, and because he’s old and weak. Try putting a bit of horseflesh between your legs as an old man, and see if you don’t find yourself with a gob full of muck as well.”
Apparently, the King had taken a tumble from his horse very recently—a few, in fact. The last time, he went face-first into the mire, causing a bevy of tongues to wag. He was “cursed,” so they’d said—abandoned by his God.
But really, how could he possibly win against the anointed son of a Holy Roman Empress! Duke Henry was the rightful heir, and furthermore, how was Stephen ever supposed to keep a discontented nation when he couldn’t even control his own son?
“I am only repeating what I heard,” said Jack, conversationally. “Though, in truth—at least to me—he seems ill-favored as any man can be.”
Marcella’s bark of laughter was acerbic. “Please!” she scoffed. “He stole his uncle’s throne, quite literally—stole England’s treasury, as well, and then forsook an oath to Matilda. Even so, that man kept his throne for nearly a full score years. If that is not good fortune, my young friend, I cannot say what is.”
Like her eldest sister, Elspeth, Marcella was clearly a loyalist for the Empress—prepared to defend the haughty woman at a moment’s notice. Sadly, Rhiannon hadn’t any love for the Would-be Queen. Half-sisters though they might be, in all their living years, Matilda had never once shown any of them any affection—not even Ellie.
Oh, yes, perhaps, in truth, she’d been kinder to Elspeth, once upon a day. But that was so long ago that Rhiannon doubted Elspeth would even remember what Matilda looked like at this very late date. Truly, that woman could be standing before them, grizzle-haired and full of chin hairs, and neither would recognize the other.
So far as Rhiannon was concerned, it didn’t matter to her who sat upon England’s throne, so long as they weren’t a poppet to Morwen—which, in fact, Stephen was.
True: He might be rethinking his alliances these days, but so long as Morwen kept his son’s ear, and so long as Eustace was still the heir apparent, her mother would rule through him. Rhiannon didn’t know Eustace well at all, but she knew enough about him to know that he was as weak of mind as he was of heart. And nevertheless, she was bored of politiks, and she wasn’t moved to speak throughout their entire discourse. Kings, queens, emperors, empresses—they all shat exactly the same, so far as Rhiannon was concerned. She wasn’t impressed with any overlord, no matter their affiliations.
In truth, she couldn’t bring herself to believe that, when push came to shove, their champions wouldn’t abandon them, as well. It was what Cael had done, after all.
Hadn’t he?
I’ve loved you from the moment you opened your mouth, Rhiannon Pendragon…
Lies!
If he did, he would be here with her, right now, defending her, as a champion should.
Moreover, if Cael truly loved her, he wouldn’t keep so many damnable secrets… secrets he’d clearly shared with his know-it-all cousin.
Scowling at Marcella’s back, loathing her more and more with every word she uttered, Rhiannon found the woman to be insufferable, and yet, regrettably there was little she ever found to actually disagree with.
That was annoying.
More today than yesterday, tensions were tight, but so long as Rhiannon abstained from the conversation, Marcella and Jack maintained a fine fellowship, even if they disagreed about everything. It was evident that Jack admired the lady, but not so much that he was afraid to speak his mind. They argued good-naturedly, about politiks, swords, armor, horseshoes, horseflesh, gold, salt, cheese, vin, cats, birds, dental paste, and leather. No topic was invulnerable to their debate, and, so it appeared, the one thing everyone agreed upon was a shared loathing for Rhiannon’s mother.
Listening quietly, Rhiannon practiced her repetitions, minding her own affairs, allowing the two to agree to disagree as they would, time and again, with Marcella always, always having the last word. One would think they were in attendance at court, with barons postulating over Henry’s Forest Laws. But at least they managed to divert her attention… for a while.
Flexing her hand, Rhiannon slid from the saddle. Her hand ached from so many repetitions. But it was only when she pulled up her sleeve to rub at the soreness that she noted the greenish-black stains marring her wrists—left by the bracelets?
Only now she wondered if the discoloration was why she was having trouble restoring the full scope of her abilities, even after three days of practicing as they traveled.
Tired and bleary-eyed, she longed to fall face-first into a hump of leaves, may the midge flies bite what they pleased. But at least they were still free, with no sign of Morwen in pursuit. How in the name of the Goddess they’d managed to evade that woman, Rhiannon couldn’t begin to fathom, but in retrospect, it was entirely possible the hounds they’d heard weren’t from Blackwood at all.
And still, though she knew it was improbable, she hoped Cael would follow.
Alas, she was too tired to think of that or anything else right now. She longed for a good night’s rest, and a belly full of victuals—not necessarily in that order.
There was a brook nearby. She could hear the tinkling of water over stones. Mayhap in the morn, she would go wash her face and endeavor to remove these stains from her wrists. The last thing they needed right now was for her to retain any of the inspired metal, especially if it could silence her magik. As it turned out, it was fortuitous that Marcella was carrying the bracelets—so long as she didn’t intend to return them to Rhiannon’s wrists. Somehow, the woman seemed determined to nettle her unto death. And, naturally, she would choose a thicket tangled with brambles. Though it was all well and good. There was more than enough space to shelter the three of them, along with their horses. Hidden amidst a spinney of trees, the thicket was perfectly positioned to cast some sort of protection spell and, finally, after multiple failures, she was excited to try again.
Anticipating the rush through her veins, Rhiannon located a stick to draw with and made ready to cast her spell.
As she had the past two nights, the paladin produced another set of her mysterious vials, then proceeded to open one and sprinkle her potion in a wide arc, in much the same way Rhiannon meant to do with her pentacle.
Annoyed, Rhiannon eyed Marcella’s vial with a lifted brow. “How will that protect us?”
Clearly taking offense to her dubious tone, Marcella snapped, “You are not yet strong enough to cast any spells. If you try again and fail, and she is near, you’ll risk us all—not that I will not die to defend you, Lady Blackwood. But if you should risk Jacques, I’ll kill you myself.”
Stunned by her vehemence, Rhiannon rocked back on her heels, as though buffeted.
Sweet fates. She didn’t wish to argue any longer—not when they were supposed to be fighting for the same just cause. By now, it seemed to Rhiannon that she’d been fighting for too many years, especially with Cael—a thing she sorely regretted now that it seemed entirely possible she might never see him again.
She couldn’t comprehend why Marcella was filled with so much animus toward her, but it was time for it to cease and desist. Someone must make the first concession, and Rhiannon supposed that someone should be her. After all, she did owe the paladin a debt of gratitude.
“You must know I’d not risk any of you,” Rhiannon said in her most conciliatory tone, tossing away her stick. “I am truly grateful for your help, Marcella. Tell me what to do and I will do whatever you deem best.”
“Meek words for a high and mighty witch?” Marcella mused aloud, and nevertheless, she seemed to deflate before Rhiannon’s eyes. She said nothing at all for a moment, and then, perhaps realizing, as Rhiannon had, how pointless it was to argue amidst themselves, she relented, “You know, it was Jacques who advocated for you?”
Rhiannon’s brows knit. “He did?”
Marcella nodded, handing Rhiannon a vial of her own to dispense. “Aye,” she said. “When Lord Blackwood came to address the Council, he was the first to testify in your behalf.” She arched a brow. “He claimed your freedom was vital to England’s salvation.”
Already, in the short time since Rhiannon had known the young man, she could easily envision him doing such a thing. He was perhaps young, but nevertheless quite capable of arguing his cause. She’d seen more than enough evidence of that. And yet, before they’d met here recently, he hadn’t known Rhiannon at all, so why would he bother to argue in her defense? “I suppose he did it for Seren?”
“Perhaps,” Marcella said, then shrugged. “Perhaps so. He tends to be easily inspired, and your sister is quite beautiful.”
In fact, Seren’s beauty was celebrated. There were no doubt a number of barons whose hearts she’d broken when she married Wilhelm.
Eyeing Rhiannon circumspectly, Marcella continued to sprinkle the contents of her vial, as she added, “I must confess I argued against him. I truly believed he was mistaken.”
“I see,” said Rhiannon, very carefully.
“Nay, you do not. Despite your many talents, Lady Blackwood, there is so much you do not understand.” Her expression was sober, though without enmity. “In fact, perhaps there is much your visions have revealed to you, but so much remains veiled.”
There was a note of sadness in the paladin’s tone.
“You are, indeed, quite strong,” she said matter-of-factly. “But you are arrogant and all the weaker for it, else you’d have realized long, long ago that your sister was Regnant. Consequently, you would have placed her life before yours, as did your sister Arwyn… as I do for you…”
Rhiannon swallowed. So much as she longed to object, there was a note of truth in her words, and truth was indisputable, no matter how much she wished to deny it. She had, in fact, believed herself to be the Regnant and she had placed her own life above that of her sisters’ on so many occasions.
Marcella shook her head. “The boy’s heart is as big as his mouth, I fear. And yes, I do believe he was enamored of Seren. Alas, after seeing how his affiliation with your sister changed Giles, I very much suspected Jack’s motives. There is something about you Pendragons,” she said, with measured wariness. “Something that naturally beguiles…”
Rhiannon opened her mouth to disagree, because if that were, in fact, true, she shouldn’t have spent five long years in confinement at Blackwood; still Marcella continued.
“For Rosalynde, Giles turned his back on his brethren. He was our superior, and thusly entrusted with the Sword of Ages. But then he gave the sword to your sister.”
Marcella’s eyes shone. “But you knew that, didn’t you?”
Rhiannon nodded; she did. Her visions had revealed as much.
“Then you should also understand why I mistrusted you, particularly when, despite that I pleaded for Cael to put aside his alliance with Morwen, it was only after meeting you that he changed his mind.”
“And yet he didn’t,” Rhiannon argued, overlooking the paladin’s use of her husband’s given name. “If, indeed, he had, wouldn’t he be here with us instead of there, with her?”
There was an unmistakable note of bitterness in Rhiannon’s voice, and Marcella rolled her eyes. “Mon Dieu, there is so much you do not know,” she said, gesturing toward the vial she held. “Go on. It doesn’t matter who dispenses it, but please try to scatter it evenly. Last night you tossed it all into one spot.”
Eager to put dissent behind them, Rhiannon nodded, and said, “I am sorry.”
Marcella gave her a tentative smile, and turned to do her work, but Rhiannon needed to know. “Marcella… I was wondering… the way you speak his name… I must suppose the two of you are not cousins, after all?”
There was no need to say to whom she was referring.
“Nay,” Marcella confessed, without looking at her. “We are not.”
“What, then?”
She peered up then, casting a glance over her shoulder. “Cousins so far as the world should know.”
“Otherwise?”
She stopped dispensing her potion, and turned to face Rhiannon directly. “What we were is lost to me now, Lady Blackwood. What he is now is your lord husband. This is not something I will ever disrespect… nor will Cael ever forsake a vow of honor. And yet, this is the rub: If you believe he would, you do not know the man at all, and I pity you this more than I pity your circumstances.”
We are not aligned, Rhiannon heard Cael say, again.
So then, as Marcella had just confirmed, he would not forsake his vows to her mother, and thus, she was bound to be his enemy no less than she was his wife.
A wave of sadness enveloped her—particularly so, since it was clear to her now that the woman standing before her knew more about her husband than Rhiannon was ever bound to learn. “He made a vow to me,” Rhiannon said plaintively.
“And yet… I did not see him kneel before you and pledge his sword.”
Rhiannon’s gaze shot up. “You were there?”
Marcella smiled sadly. “For an instant. I watched from the shadows to satisfy my own curiosity. Sad, is it not? That I would pledge him—and you—my life, even as he forsakes me for another.”
“I… am… sorry,” said Rhiannon, but she wasn’t, not entirely. Some small part of her reveled in the fact that she and Cael were man and wife—even if the truth was that neither she nor Marcella could have him and he was lost to them both.
“He does love you,” Marcella said quietly.
“Did he love you?”
She seemed to think about it a moment, and then shook her head. “Nay,” she said. “I think not, although we were… affianced… for a short while.”
“You were?”
“Aye, we were,” said the paladin with a nod.
“What happened?”
Marcella lifted a brow. “Well… you could say…” She tilted her head as though to consider how best to say it. “He became… a different man.”
“He chan
ged?”
Marcella nodded. “Oh, I’d say so. Very much.”
Rhiannon frowned, peering down at the vial in her hand, her throat suddenly too thick to speak.
Goddess only knew, she loved Cael so desperately, although apparently this meant something different to each of them—or did it? If their roles were reversed, would she, indeed, give up all that mattered to her… for Cael?
The answer was “nay.”
She would not.
Some things were bigger than both of them.
Rhiannon would no more sacrifice another of her sisters for Cael than he would give up whatever it was that Morwen promised him.
Only now, she considered that mayhap, it was not greed that drove him…
Perhaps he, too, fought for something greater—something for which he’d been willing to betray Morwen and perhaps even make an appeal to the Papal Guard.
“What is this?” Rhiannon inquired of the vial in her hand.
The witch-paladin smiled faintly. “Amaranth, with a bit of asafetida to drive away demons. Also, a pinch of bryony to amplify the strength of my brew.”
For many years, Rhiannon had encouraged Arwyn to pursue alchemy because her magik was so sorely lacking. Her sweet sister never took the art to heart. In fact, although alchemy wasn’t so powerful as the manipulation of the aether, it did have its merits. “Interesting,” she said, curiously, and lifted the vial to her nostrils, then said, “Pew!”
Marcella laughed.
“Do I also scent metals as well?”
“You have a good nose,” said Marcella, with approval, as she continued to administer the contents of her own vial. “’Tis brewed with a little copper dust, agate, malachite and amber—all to summon a guardian angel.”
“Angels?” Rhiannon asked, with surprise, as she began to move in the opposite direction as Marcella, carefully sprinkling the contents of her own vial.
Her sister Elspeth had oft claimed that wherever magik dwelt, angels did not—only why that should be so, Rhiannon didn’t know, because there was nothing particularly sinister or unnatural about the hud, lest it be dark.
Lord of Shadows (Daughters of Avalon Book 5) Page 14
