She eyed their travel-stained appearance. “But what befell thee, these two years and more past? How do thou come to be so far north, when...”
“When you left your charge far to the south, near London,” Beltran said grimly. He’d sheathed Excalibur in its crimson scabbard. The sword stood propped against the wall within easy grasp, the covert object of all attention. “You’re late-come, man, to ensure Rhiannon’s welfare.”
Ansgar shot a look toward Linnet, who colored deeply and busied herself about the table. “That tale’s long in the telling. Suffice it to say I sought Rhiannon high and low, in this realm and the other. Another lady required my aid.”
“We rode like blazes for Wythe as soon as we learned ye’d come,” Linnet said gently, smoothing the way for all. “Leaving safely at home a certain white cat ye might recall from court, as well as yer gray mare.”
“Astolat! And the kitten too. Oh, I can’t wait to see them.” Smiling, Rhiannon set bowls of stew before her guests. “The Lady sent thee to collect the sword, didn’t she, Ansgar?”
Ansgar had the grace to look chagrined. “Even in his dreaming state, Arthur yearns for Excalibur. He’s going to want it back, Rhiannon.”
“And he shall have it.” Beltran’s eyes flashed. “I’m no thief, and I can find another easily enough—though none such as this, I’ll warrant. Arthur’s sword has served its purpose.”
While the others spoke, Young John lingered on the threshold, squirming and hopping from foot to foot, his gamin face screwed into a tortured expression. Catching sight of him, Rhiannon smiled gently.
“What ails thee, dear heart?”
Thus freed, he sprang forward. “It’s the bells, milady! Ye sent me to hear the news, didn’t ye?”
“Mercy, I’d almost forgotten.”
“They brung it, them two.” The boy gestured toward the newcomers. “I found ’em at the church.”
“We had the news from a rider on the road.” Lowering her eyes, Linnet crossed herself. Ansgar shuddered and looked away from the holy gesture. “Queen Mary Tudor has laid down her sorrows, poor lady, and passed from this life.”
Beltran cursed softly and signed himself. Rhiannon could only stare, numb with shock.
She’d known the Tudor queen was ailing, and had been for months. Indeed, she had Mary’s grave condition to thank for Bloody Bonner’s absence from Smithfield, and Reginald Pole’s preoccupation when she’d seen him. But she hadn’t realized Mary was so grievous ill as that.
A dazed sense of reprieve crept through her, made unexpectedly poignant by the sharp stab of grief. Now that the danger was past—to her and all of England—she chose not to recall the bitter, hateful old woman who’d spewed such malice toward heretics, even her own flesh and blood. She remembered instead the grief-stricken wife, abandoned and barren, who’d bravely soldiered through heartbreak and humiliation with her poor, pain-wracked body.
Gradually, the implications came crowding in on her. With Mary Tudor dead, what became of her mirror beyond the Veil, Queene Maeve of the Faeries? Now while their two lands lay so close, with Maeve herself hovering near death, the Faerie Queene could survive only so long as the Tudor queenship thrived. Was snow flying even now in the Summer Lands, white drifts covering the golden orchards of Avalon? Grief twisted her heart at the prospect.
Beltran’s suntanned hand gripped her shoulder and squeezed. Blindly she turned toward the refuge he offered.
“What does this mean for England?” she whispered.
Linnet lifted her tear-drowned eyes, and Rhiannon recalled that the Norwoods were an old Catholic family. The girl herself was convent-raised and devout. Mary Tudor’s passing could bring only ill fortune for them.
“It means,” Linnet said softly, “that our bonnie Elizabeth is now Queen, aye? A Protestant Queen set against the English Catholics and Spanish Philip. Aye, and let’s not forget the wee Catholic lass who sits the throne of Scotland.”
“God assoil her soul, the Queen is dead,” Beltran said gruffly. “God save Queen Elizabeth and guide her hand to rule wisely.”
Images of Elizabeth Tudor filled Rhiannon’s head—her blazing courage, the wit and cunning bright as her flame-red hair. A Tudor Queen with Faerie blood. What might that mean for the two realms?
Whatever it meant, she found fresh hope in it.
Rhiannon shook off her confusion and stepped away from Beltran’s sheltering arms. All around her, attentive faces turned toward her for direction.
“We must return to the Queen’s court, as soon as we might,” she announced. “Or at least, Beltran and I must return there. We’ve nothing to fear from the Catholics with Elizabeth on the throne.”
“And me with ye, milady!” Young John declared, his eyes shining.
“I’d best come as well,” Linnet murmured. “A great deal has befallen my family while I idled about in Faerie...and where I went after. My place now is at the Tudor court, if the Protestant Queen will accept a Papist lass among her ladies.”
Ansgar stirred restlessly, his eyes narrowed on the sacred sword that stood gleaming against the wall. “If Lord Beltran will escort and guard thee both—”
“With my life, never doubt it,” Beltran told him.
“Then my road leads to Avalon, with Excalibur. Arthur has always rested easier with that blade within reach.”
When her foster-father had gone with Linnet to make arrangements for their horses and lodging, Young John scampering out to attend them, Rhiannon returned to Beltran’s arms with a smile.
“For curiosity’s sake, Lord Beltran,” she asked lightly, shooting him a mischievous look, “were thou planning to marry me when we reach London? I’m told that’s a mortal custom.”
“I’ll marry you before that, if it suits you.” A smile twitched his lips as he stole a teasing kiss.
“It seems a dreadful rush, to be wedded hugger-mugger,” she teased back. When he growled and deepened the kiss, she laughed breathlessly. “But how can I resist such ardent wooing?”
He laughed too. But his eyes were thoughtful as he studied the door where the others had vanished.
“Your foster-father, Lord Ansgar,” he mused. “You told me once his name means, what, divine spear?”
“I did.” She rubbed her face into his warm raspy throat, his familiar scent filling her senses.
“He speaks as though he knew your father firsthand. Who is he, really?”
“He is who he is.” She nuzzled his throat and smiled. “But if thou wish to learn what he’s called among mortals, he’s known by another name—Lancelot.”
“Why am I not surprised?” Shaking his head, Beltran bent to scoop her into his arms.
Feet dangling, she squealed and wrapped trusting arms around his neck. “Thou ought not to handle a princess so familiar, sir! Thou art making a shocking habit of it.”
“Get used to it,” he said gruffly. A grin quirked his lips as he strode to the door with Rhiannon snuggled happily against his chest. One handed, he levered the bolt into place.
“Where art thou taking me, brigand?” With feigned indignation, she offered a token struggle.
“Be good,” he growled softly, blue flames kindling in his gaze as he surveyed her upturned face. “I’m taking you where you belong, princess—to my bed. Together we’ll find our own Heaven, on this day and forever.”
* * * * *
Afterword
I hope you’ve enjoyed this fanciful retelling of three legend
s that have influenced and moved me profoundly as both writer and reader: the time-blurred mystery of Arthurian legend, the colorful and often violent history of the Tudors, and the dark, alluring glitter of fallen angel lore.
I’d like to acknowledge my debt of gratitude to the author who inspired this work most directly: the late Marion Zimmer Bradley. Her epic novel The Mists of Avalon is an imaginative retelling of the Arthurian legend, grounded firmly in the history of the Dark Ages, as told by the women in Arthur’s life. This magical and moving tale has fascinated and inspired me for more than twenty years.
Magick by Moonrise was a long time coming. I hope you’ve found it worth the wait.
About the Author
In her other life, Laura Navarre is a diplomat who’s lived in Russia and works on weapons of mass destruction issues. In the line of duty, she’s been trapped in an elevator in a nuclear power plant and has stalked the corridors of facilities churning out nerve agent and other apocalyptic weapons. In this capacity, she meets many of the world’s most dangerous men.
Inspired by the sinister realities of her real life, Laura writes dark medieval and Renaissance romance spiked with political intrigue. A member of Romance Writers of America and a former Golden Heart Award finalist, she’s won the Emily Award for Excellence, the Georgia Romance Writers Maggie Award, Hearts Through History’s Romance Through the Ages, and many others. Although Laura is a multipublished historical author, Magick by Moonrise is her first historical paranormal romance. Magick won the Pacific Northwest Writers Association award for romance in 2012.
Laura holds an MFA in Writing Popular Fiction from the University of Southern Maine, an MA in National Security Policy from The George Washington University and a BA in International Relations from Michigan State. Living in Seattle with her screenwriter husband and two Siberian cats, she divides her time between her writing career and other adventures for U.S. government clients.
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ISBN: 978-14268-9519-7
Copyright © 2013 by Laura Navarre
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