The King's Favorite (Daughters of Avalon Book 1)
The King’s Favorite
Book 1 Daughters of Avalon
Tanya Anne Crosby
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PUBLISHER'S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Published by Oliver-Heber Books
The King’s Favorite Copyright © 2018 Tanya Anne Crosby
Cover art Gene Mollica Studios
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Contents
Series Bibliography
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Connected Series
Also by Tanya Anne Crosby
About the Author
Series Bibliography
A brand-new series
Daughters of Avalon
The King’s Favorite
A Winter’s Rose
Rhiannon
Praise for Tanya Anne Crosby
“Crosby’s characters keep readers engaged...”
Publishers Weekly
“Tanya Anne Crosby sets out to show us a good time and accomplishes that with humor, a fast-paced story and just the right amount of romance.”
The Oakland Press
“Romance filled with charm, passion and intrigue...”
Affaire de Coeur
“Ms. Crosby mixes just the right amount of humor... Fantastic, tantalizing!”
Rendezvous
“Tanya Anne Crosby pens a tale that touches your soul and lives forever in your heart.”
Sherrilyn Kenyon #1 NYT Bestselling Author
Map of Medieval England & Wales
“Watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you… the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don't believe in magic will never find it.”
Roald Dahl
Prologue
Aldergh Castle, Northern England 1137
Two long years Malcom had prepared for this day, all the while kings and queens battled over a dimpled crown. Henry of England was two-years dead, leaving his Empress daughter to succeed him and even as the breath left the old king’s body, those who would not follow a woman had turned their eyes toward Stephen of Blois. Now, Britain was at war—brother against brother, brother against sister, cousin against cousin. But, at long last, Aldergh was his, little thanks to the Scots King—little thanks to anyone, save his lady mother and the sweat from his own brow.
He’d learned the hard way how fickle kings could be. Shortly upon hearing the news of Stephen’s usurpation, David of Scotia had swept down into the border lands, laying claim to all he could seize, promising Aldergh to Malcom, only to rescind that promise. Face to face with Stephen, the Scot’s king returned much of what he’d taken in a treatise at Durham, keeping Carlisle and Newcastle for himself and relinquishing Aldergh to Stephen, thereby forcing Malcom to bend the knee to England for the return of his lands. And so he had, much to his father’s dismay.
At long last, he had the legal right to call himself Aldergh’s lord. Come what may, he was prepared to fight for what should be his. He might not be flesh and blood to FitzSimon, but his step-mother was the dead lord’s only living heir and Malcom was her son by law.
Besides, if he didn’t accept her behest, these lands would return to the English crown, unclaimed, and there was no one else to hold them in her father’s name—never a woman, obvious by the way the barons received Matilda, and certainly not her Scots husband, the infamous chieftain of a Highland clan. He sidled his mount closer to his mother, giving her a glance, acutely aware of the elder man at her side, and settled his gaze on the prize.
A ghost from his past looming large, Aldergh appeared much as he recalled it—a sprawling monstrosity, with soaring corner towers and a twenty-foot thick curtain wall, built with old Roman ingenuity and stone. Sizable enough to house an entire village, it was designed to withstand a siege, but the castellan was no lord trained in the art of war. With a bit of luck, the man would yield the castle without a fight. Up on the ramparts, armed men scurried between machicolations, the silver in their armor winking defiantly. But, of course, that was to be expected with an army at the gates.
Eager to prove himself as a worthy commander, Malcom dispatched his messenger, handing the man a copy of the writ from Stephen, and then he himself rode to the front of the line, hoisting the flag with the dead-lord’s sigil—a two-headed falcon on a blood-red field, with one minor alteration: a silver-threaded thistle in one of the falcon’s beaks. It was a nod to his Scot’s brethren, and yet, absent, by design, were the colors of his father’s clan, the intent being, to send a clear message—that Malcom Ceann Ràs had not arrived here this day as a warden from the north, wearing his father’s cloak, but as the new and rightful lord of Aldergh, unfettered by obligations to his kin. He was ready, willing and able to serve a new sovereign… if that’s what it took to keep his lands.
Careful to remain outside missile range, but moving close enough to read banners, he anticipated the castellan’s response, waiting until the suspense grew thick enough to cut with a blade. If tensions turned to hostilities, his father would rush his mother from the field. But so long as there was a chance for a peaceful transition, she’d insisted upon remaining.
Never daring a glance at his father, he thrust the standard higher, watching as the messenger spoke to the ramparts, tossing the weighted parchment over the wall.
The gates did not open at once, but neither did they fire upon the man, and after what seemed an eternity, the messenger turned and trotted back.
Even before he returned to the fold, a single, warbling horn-blast trumpeted across the landscape and the heavy portcullis began to rise, straining against ancient chains and groaning like a tired old man. The hairs on Malcom’s nape stood on end as the moment of truth arrived.
Now, at long last, he cast a
glance toward his brooding father… hoping for what?
Seated atop his warhorse, Iain MacKinnon cut a daunting figure, even at his advanced age. The silver in his hair glinted more fiercely than did the steel in his scabbard, and his displeasure was evident in the set of his shoulders and the lock of his jaw, but he said not a word as his wife proceeded to tug her father’s signet ring from her finger. Once removed, she placed the heirloom into the palm of her hand, offering it up for Malcom to take—and this was the one concession she’d made to his father: that Malcom must knowingly and wittingly accept all that came with her father’s legacy. “Put it on your small finger, Malcom. And remember… what happens from the moment you ride through those gates determines how they will receive you. You are Aldergh’s new lord now.”
Beside her, his father averted his gaze, his jaw clenching with barely suppressed fury. If it were up to him, he would have tossed FitzSimon’s ring into a bog as readily as he had embraced his Sassenach bride. Time and again, he had beseeched Malcom to stay and bide his time. But Malcom had refused, soured by the prospect of waiting for his father to die before beginning a new life. Far better to take what was offered now and pray his old man lived to raise more sons. But his father did not see the world through Malcom’s eyes, and while he lent his sword to this cause—for his wife—he would not lend his heart.
So be it.
Resolved, Malcom plucked up the sigil ring from his step-mother’s palm and slid the golden two-headed falcon onto his small finger, then hesitated but a moment, thinking about the last time he and his father had stood here together… on this field before FitzSimon’s castle… four and twenty years ago… a boy of six, unashamed to weep in his father’s arms.
His mother must have misunderstood his hesitation because she said, “You have the writ from King Stephen and my father’s ring. It will be enough.”
The gates were open now… waiting… still he lingered. In truth, the best of all scenarios had occurred, and still, somehow, inexplicably, he felt a surge of loss in his heart.
Had he hoped to fight today, if only to prove himself?
Had he wanted his father to say, ‘Good show, son’?
Perhaps, after all, he had but longed for a clap on the back, and a bit of reassurance that all was not lost?
By God, he was old enough to choose his own path. He didn’t need his father’s approval, and so it seemed he wasn’t going to get it…
“Art certain, mother? he asked—one last time. If she had a mind to, now would be the time to change her mind. Once he took possession of Aldergh, nothing would be the same.
“You are my son,” she reassured, mistaking his question.
With a steel glint in his eyes, his father said, “Let us be done.”
Malcom straightened his spine, raising his banner. “Aye,” he said. “Let us be done.” And then, without a word, he spurred his mount forward, hardening his heart.
Dressed in his grandfather’s cloak, and wearing a dead man’s sigil, he surged ahead of the troops, looking like a king in his own right and carrying with him all the fury of the north.
Chapter 1
Llanthony Priory, Wales, August 1148
Elspeth reread her mother’s letter, her breath catching painfully.
So, it seemed, for abetting a usurper, the prize should be an Earldom and King Henry’s favorite daughter… Elspeth.
“Married,” her sisters said in unison.
Elspeth nodded affirmation. “Married.” To the new lord of Blackwood. In her boundless greed, their mother had betrayed their grandmother, and in the process, forsook their rights to Blackwood. And for his prowess in battle, that legendary fortress now belonged to an assassin. The estate would return to their family by virtue of marriage, but though the marriage would grant Elspeth the title of lady, it was still her mother d’Lucy was bound to.
Sacred cauldron! It wasn’t enough that Morwen forsook them all these years past. Offered the chance to profit from her daughters, she meant to take it—and make no mistake, while she’d called it a wedding, Elspeth knew very well that she would be naught more than a prisoner changing hands from one gaoler to another.
How sorely she missed the ivy-tangled courtyard and the view of the sea from Blackwood’s tower window, but as much as she relished the notion of returning to the home she’d shared with her grandmamau, she could never bear the thought of lying beneath a vassal of the Usurper. The thought made her feel wretched and filthy.
“Lady of Blackwood,” said Arwyn with a note of wonder. “What I wouldn’t give to see our ancestral home, if only but once.”
Rhiannon’s amber eyes glinted by the firelight as she turned to address the eldest twin. “And would you put our sister at the mercy of an assassin only to appease your curiosity?”
“Of course not,” said Arwyn, defensively. “I was but saying—”
“I know what you were saying,” Rhiannon snapped. “Elspeth needs no more reason to accept this unholy alliance. I, too, would love to see Blackwood, but I will never step foot there if it means forsaking my flesh and blood.”
“Sisters, please! Let us not fight,” Seren pleaded. “We all knew this time would come. We must steel our hearts and minds.”
At twenty, Seren was the peacemaker. She was the middle child, possessed of their father’s rufous coloring, but with skin so pale and smooth it made the moon and stars weep with joy.
At Nineteen, Rosalynde was the youngest of the living twins, only minutes younger than Arwyn.
Rhiannon was the second eldest, only two years younger than Elspeth. Her amber eyes narrowed. “The granddaughter of a witch is still a witch, even if she has no knowledge of the Craft. Have you forgotten what they do to witches, Seren? Would you truly wish Elspeth in the hands of a man such as that?”
As always, Rose defended Arwyn and Seren. “There’s no reason for anyone to believe we are aught but good little servants of the realm. For all anyone knows, the sins of Avalon have passed away with our Grandmamau. Why would anyone accuse Elspeth?”
“Sins of Avalon?” Rhiannon asked, incensed. “Do not speak such rubbish to me again! And do you truly believe they do not suspect Morwen?”
“That is my point, precisely,” argued Seren. “Mother seems to have weathered suspicion well enough.” Elspeth understood that she was only trying to make the inevitable more palatable. “Elspeth,” she entreated, “For all we know, d’Lucy could be a gentle man. But you might never know it lest you give him a chance.”
“He’s an assassin, Seren!” Rhiannon exploded. “How gentle a man could he possibly be? You needn’t suffer this fate,” Rhiannon pleaded with Elspeth. “You can still leave. Tonight. We have the means and know the words.”
Understanding intuitively what Rhiannon was saying, the sisters all exchanged nervous glances, then peered at the door.
Tonight, as always, the guards had been called to vespers, but as soon as prayers were over, they would return, and in this day and age, when so many feared the Old Ways, the Craft must remain a closely guarded secret. Even the act of referring to sorcery put them all at risk.
Elspeth shook her head, refusing to consider it.
It wasn’t the first time Rhiannon had proposed such a plan. Last time, she’d tried to get them all to leave together, but words or nay, it wasn’t likely all five sisters together would ever succeed in slipping past the guards. And even should they manage to escape, with no one left to delay them, it wouldn’t be long before their presence was missed, and they wouldn’t get very far. Therefore, Rose had steadfastly refused, deathly afraid of what the chaplain would do to them if they were caught.
However, far more of a deterrent to Elspeth, was this: The “words” Rhiannon spoke of were rites of magik, never to be uttered lightly. While she would like to believe they could evoke them without consequence, it simply wasn’t true. Here, in the dominion of men, there was no leave to change the will of gods without altering the warp and woof of life. There could be no denying t
he Law of Three—which was to say, that any magik, good or bad, once unleashed into the world must return to the summoner threefold. And nevertheless, she deliberated, flicking a thumbnail across the frayed edge of the parchment, wishing things could be different.
If only Matilda could win herself the throne…
“Why should we care who wears father’s crown? It will never be Matilda.” Rhiannon said, clearly intruding on Elspeth’s thoughts. “You are too beguiled by our father and his politiks. Say what you will about Morwen. At least she knows who she is.”
“I know who we are,” countered Elspeth.
Rhiannon lifted her chin. “I know who we are as well, Elspeth. We are Daughters of Avalon, and if we but join together, we can do what no other woman can do—including Matilda, for all our sister’s bold, brave words. In truth, she has never given any of us a passing thought—not even you, despite that you seem to enjoy defending her.”
Elspeth overlooked Rhiannon’s bitter tone, realizing that her sister had just cause to feel aggrieved. “She’s had her hands full trying to unseat a usurper,” Elspeth reminded. “What wouldst you have an Empress do? Come have tea in our little hovel?”