A Winter’s Rose Page 11

  “My lord… tis daylight yet. Shouldn’t we press on?”

  Something in her tone gave him pause, and he turned to look at her, considering…

  * * *

  Rosalynde had caught a brief glimpse of herself in the perfectly polished rain guard of his sword. Her true countenance was returning, but he didn’t allow her any time to retrieve her philter, much less see to her spell.

  He stared now with narrowed black eyes, his dark gaze probing, and she felt his regard as surely as she felt the change coming over her.

  Already, her face felt woolly, and the sensation seemed to be spreading. Moreover, the splotches on her hands appeared to be shifting. Rubbing them vigorously, she hoped to delay the change by sheer will alone.

  Breathe, she commanded herself.

  Breathe, Rose.

  With every second that passed, she grew more acutely aware of the needle and philter in her hem and her immense desire to retrieve them.

  “We’ve pushed the horses enough for one day,” he said finally, returning his attention to his kindling—arranging it too meticulously, if you asked Rose.

  Sweet fates, had he noticed something awry?

  Nay, Rose, nay! Calm yourself. All is well, she reassured. Only think…

  Morwen didn’t appear to have to recast her glamour daily, therefore it mustn’t be necessary—unless… there was something Morwen was adding to her philter… something Rosalynde and her sisters had overlooked.

  Impressions of Darkwood assaulted her, and she shuddered to think what added ingredient her mother might have included. Forcing those memories out of her head, she watched as Giles struck his fire-steel to the damp wood—over and over again, until the sound of it grated on her nerves.

  He frowned then, and rose to search for more kindling, and meanwhile Rose tried to calm herself.

  Truly, there could be no true change. The glamour wasn’t even real. It was only a chimera, a spirit mask, a suggestion from the Goddess to deceive mortal eyes. Insofar as she knew, only blood magik could ever truly alter flesh—ergo perhaps the one who’d cast the glamour could always see beyond the countenance it revealed to others? Surely, if her face had changed so much, he would be demanding answers—and regardless, she was still wearing her wimple and veil.

  And yet, even if her glamour was still working, there was another problem she hadn’t foreseen: How was she going to ward the camp tonight? It simply wouldn’t be possible to do so with these men as her witnesses.

  Nay, she couldn’t stay here, waiting to be discovered. She had to go. Now. Before it was too late. She had a terrible, terrible sense of impending doom… like a storm cloud descending.

  “Well,” she said, when Giles returned. “I was desperately hoping to arrive at Neasham soon.”

  He turned to look at her again, then averted his eyes. Sweet Goddess every time he tore his gaze away, she expelled a breath she’d not realized she’d held. “And you will,” he said. “But not tonight. Even with strong coursers, we’re a week or more away.”

  One week!

  Rosalynde answered him with silence, though perhaps he could feel her disappointment hanging in the air, for he asked, without turning, “Art expected, Sister?”

  “Nay, oh, nay…” She slid a hand beneath her veil to touch her burning cheek. “Not precisely.”

  Already, everything was becoming impossible, and she was growing weary of the lies. For all she knew, this was how her mother’s malevolence had begun, with small lies at first, then big lies, until her entire life became a frightening deception.

  She lifted her hand from her cheek to her forehead, pressing it firmly across her very warm face, dismayed and confused, hoping the gesture might still the tempest in her head.

  Goddess please…

  Here she was, seated atop a stump, like a bloody toad on a pad, waiting to be devoured by… what? What sort of beast gobbled toads? It didn’t matter, and regardless, Rosalynde was quite certain the poor toad would have been seated as she was right now… feeling this crippling sense of doom, only too bewildered to move. After all, this was something all mortals shared in common—a keen sense of intuition, and a strong desire to deny it. She was beside herself with worry now, her thoughts spinning nightmarish yarns.

  And this man… would he run screaming if he learned who and what she was?

  Rosalynde cast a worried glance at her dubious savior. He was still kneeling by his unwilling fire, and so much as she didn’t wish him to succeed, the clicking of his fire-steel was grating on her delicate nerves.

  Finally, when she grew tired of watching and listening to him spark the fire-steel to the damp wood without success, she narrowed her gaze over the pile of tinder and summoned the essence of fire.

  Unseen ribbons gathered the sun’s waning light, focusing its heat into a small point of light.

  Rosalynde’s dewine eyes could see what he could not see—the twisting and turning of the aether as her flame leapt to life, even before he could strike his fire-steel to the tinder one more time.

  He froze, staring at his stack of wood with what appeared to be a mixture of surprise and confusion and Rosalynde regretted her impetuousness at once.

  “How resourceful you are,” she said, wincing, because at the instant, she was becoming her own worst enemy.

  She was only tired, she reassured herself, but huffed a sigh, without realizing how dramatic she sounded—until Giles turned to look at her again.

  “Is something troubling you, Sister?”

  “Oh, nay… I am but missing my sisters.” Thankfully, this was no lie. She missed her sisters more than words could say, particularly Arwyn. Her twin understood her better than anyone, and though they couldn’t be more different, Arwyn was everything she was not, and she was everything Arwyn was not. Together they were whole.

  “Your sisters… at Neasham?”

  “Aye,” said Rose, quickly, and Giles gave her another glance, though his gaze didn’t linger.

  “I rather had the impression you’d yet to join your sisters at Neasham, and that you were bringing your life’s fortune.”

  “Well, so I was.”

  He turned to assess her, again with narrowed eyes. “So, then, what is it you were doing in London?”

  For the sake of her soul, Rose attempted to compromise one last lie, pretending a calm she couldn’t possibly feel. “I was there to retrieve my inheritance.”

  “But then you lost it… to your guide?”

  She gave him a disapproving glance—not so different from what she’d imagine a mother might do to a wayward son. “Nay, my lord. So difficult as it might be for men to imagine, gold and silver are the least of my earthly treasures.” He narrowed his gaze on her book and Rosalynde picked it up and put it in her lap. “It belonged… to my grandmamau,” she said.

  He considered her another moment, before he asked, “Do I detect a bit of Welsh in your accent?”

  Rosalynde forced a smile. “You have a good ear, my lord. My mother was Welsh, my father… English. He’s dead now.”

  “And your mother?”

  “Dead, as well.” Or, she might as well be. In so many ways Elspeth had been more of a mother to her and her sisters than Morwen ever was. Morwen simply couldn’t be bothered with anyone who didn’t serve her immediate needs. Left to their own devices, she and her four sisters had been forced to look after one another.

  Of course, it was one thing to be born a legitimate heir to the crown, another to be a King’s bastard. She supposed she should be thankful that they’d been allowed to wander the palace, until such time as they were no longer welcome… Once she and Arwyn turned six—the year their father died—she and her sisters were roused from their beds in the middle of the night and ferreted away to Llanthony in Wales, to be hidden away like embarrassments—or at least that’s the way it seemed to Rosalynde.

  Morwen always claimed it was for their own good, and that she’d only meant to keep them safe from harm, but she’d spoken those words wi
th the tenor of a lie. In retrospect, she’d only pretended to fear Stephen’s wrath, and she’d claimed that he’d meant to dispose of Henry’s children—illegitimate or nay—but from where Rosalynde stood now, that never appeared to be the case. Rather, it seemed to Rosalynde that the only thing Morwen was ever afraid of was that her five little brats would get in her way. She was despicable, and her years of neglect had left Rosalynde with an emptiness in her heart that might never be assuaged.

  It was no wonder she was looking to Giles for… what?

  Now that his fire was burning stronger, he surprised her by coming over and sitting beside her.

  “It looks to be quite old. May I?” He lifted a hand as though to request Rosalynde’s book, and then, when she didn’t hand it over at once, he told her, “As I’ve said, I spent quite a few years in the seminary.”

  “It is old,” she said. But still, she pressed the tome closer to her breast, protecting it, even though she didn’t believe he could see what she saw. Regardless, she daren’t allow him to have it. It was far, far too precious and she didn’t wish to let out of her hands—not even for an instant. So long as she lived, no man, nor woman, would ever pry it out of her hands—and that was beginning to be the dilemma. The longer she remained in this… this… place, undefended and unprotected, the more probable it was that someone would do precisely that.

  Her mother.

  Morwen Pendragon.

  A fallen daughter of Avalon.

  His hand remained turned between them, beseeching…

  “I beg pardon, my lord… I would prefer not.”

  He gave her an odd glance, his hand lingering only an instant longer. Thankfully, Wilhelm saved her from denying him again. Returning with their supper in hand, he grinned broadly as he held up two fair-sized conies.

  “Hungry?” he asked.

  Chapter 16

  Sleep was not possible.

  Outside the door could be heard an occasional shuffling of feet—guards, probably, but little good ever came from wandering the halls by night. Only two nights ago, a woman had been murdered, her body left to be discovered by the palace guards. And yet, as dangerous as Westminster’s halls might be, by first light, with Mordecai still at large, both Seren and Arwyn were contemplating escape.

  It was impossible to say what could be keeping Morwen.

  Day by day, the King was growing over suspicious, believing everyone was out to subvert him, particularly now that the Archbishop of Canterbury had steadfastly refused to confirm his heir, leaving his succession in question, and reinforcing the illegitimacy of his reign. Rumors abounded that he had sent agents into his court to ferret out spies. Some were whispering lies to fill their purses. But, whatever the case—whatever had detained Morwen, there could be no doubt that when she returned, she would peel the skin from their bodies to attain what information she required. Both girls had recognized the look in her eyes as she’d walked out the door. It promised the worst of her hud du.

  Neither Seren nor Arwyn were experienced dewines, and until that night at Darkwood, neither had truly understood what depravity could be wrought by magik of any sort, nor why good folks should fear them. But that night, they’d learned. And it soon became apparent that their mother was not to be bargained with. She reveled in their tears.

  Resolved now—for what better chance would they have?— the girls moved swiftly through the chamber, gathering all the supplies they could carry. Every loose piece of silver and gold Morwen possessed—everything that was not locked away—they shoved into sacks. Then, they turned to more perishable items—anything they could find to sustain them.

  With a bit of good fortune, they might find themselves reunited with Elspeth or Rhiannon.

  Finally, when they were ready to walk out the door, Seren’s gaze fell upon the scrying stone that had once belonged to their grandmamau.

  It was too large to take in its current form. It would be impossible to travel with… and yet.

  Rosalynde had the Book of Secrets, and here sat Merlin’s Crystal. To leave it with Morwen was folly, because their mother would only use it to vanquish them—and more importantly, she would use it to find Rosalynde.

  Seren herself had never witnessed its use, but they knew it was precious and powerful, and in its current state, their mother could easily use it to ferret them out.

  Gently, Seren lifted up the scrying stone. The instant she touched it, the interior began to shift, the stone swirling and billowing through the marbled depths like a storm made of crystal. Helpless to do aught but watch, their eyes became affixed to the images forming…

  Passed down through the ages, the scrying stone was powerful, indeed. As the story went, even as the Witch Goddess Cerridwen had been sucked into the depths of her watery prison, her screams had formed bubbles that drifted to the surface. The instant her breath returned to the aether, it solidified into crystals, the largest being the crystal Seren held in her hands—Merlin’s Jewel. In the stone’s opaque, vaguely shimmering depths, she saw lithe figures arising from mist… a man … kneeling… and… Rosalynde, seated on a stump in her nun’s habit. Her glamour was gone, and she was watching some man kindle his fire.

  Arwyn gasped, sounding dismayed. “She has revealed herself,” she said.

  Seren tilted her head to continue watching. “Not necessarily… the crystal would naturally reveal her to us; it would never be fooled by her glamour.”

  “What should we do?”

  The sun was rising, sending tendrils of soft pink in through their windows. Soon the palace would wake, with a great swell of breath, like a stone beast arising from slumber.

  And soon… Morwen was bound to return.

  Some part of Seren longed to ask the crystal where she might be, but both she and her sister were still beguiled by the images the crystal had revealed to them—Rosalynde… in the company of… was he her champion?

  And then Seren looked closer… recognizing the man. “Sweet, merciful Goddess!”

  “What is it, Seren?”

  Seren’s hand flew to her lips in wonder. “That, my dearest Arwyn, is Giles de Vere.”

  Arwyn’s entire face screwed with confusion. “Your betrothed?”

  “So it seems.”

  The sisters lifted their gazes to peer into one another’s eyes, blinking in surprise. Why would Seren’s betrothed be Rosalynde’s champion? Could it be that he was acting in her mother’s behalf? What were they doing together?

  “Will she be alright?”

  Seren’s brows drew together and she shook her head, but she said, “He did not strike me as an evil man, but who can say, Arwyn. The Goddess works in mysterious ways.”

  “What should we do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Should we warn Rose?”

  Seren inhaled a fortifying breath, though she still could not wrest her gaze away from the crystal. “Nay,” she said. “We daren’t risk it… not now. Instead, we must pray he was sent to aid her.”

  The sounds of people stirring resounded from the hall, doors opening, whispers filtering in under the crack beneath their door. “If we mean to, we must go now,” urged Arwyn, peering nervously at the door.

  At last, Seren lifted her gaze from the crystal. “What about the scrying stone?”

  “We cannot leave it.”

  But it was too big to carry afoot. Morwen had a special leather pouch that hung over her pommel, but they would have no horse to carry it, and even now, it felt inordinately heavy in Seren’s hands, because within its hallowed depths, it bore all the possibilities of the aether—all things to come, all things past, and all things that lingered in twilight.

  For a long, long moment, the sisters stared at one another, their gazes shifting back and forth, one to another, and each to Merlin’s Jewel, where Rosalynde and her dubious champion remained visible.

  Giles de Vere had abandoned the woodpile, and moved to sit beside their sister, and Arwyn said softly, “Do it, Seren. The Goddess will forgive
you.”

  Ancient and irreplaceable, there was no other scrying stone of its worth in the entire World. There were certainly others with less power, but this was the only crystal borne of the breath of the dragon. Like the Book of Secrets, it was priceless. “Do it,” Arwyn said, urging her.

  Seren, gave her sister a nod of accord, and with one last glance at the door—lest Morwen enter and surprise them—and an inhale of breath for courage, she lifted her arms high and brought them crashing down, releasing the ancient stone to the floor. It shattered at their feet, exploding into a thousand shards, its vague sea-green glow at once diminished, like a flame extinguished.

  At once, both girls bent to grab a small piece—if only for posterity—and then, shoving the pieces of Merlin’s Jewel into their rucksacks, they left what remained on the floor, rushing to the door.

  Chapter 17

  It was only as she inhaled her supper that Rosalynde realized how very famished she was and how long she’d gone without supping—not since yesterday morn, long hours before leaving London. Goddess forgive her, but never had she enjoyed the consumption of cooked flesh with such abandon. She had relished every small bite, including the charred skin. Consequently, as her mouth was moving without any true purpose of speaking, she learned a number of things.

  First, the power of mind over body was fascinating. She had been too preoccupied to allow herself to feel any hunger, and now that she had essentially acknowledged it, she was like a wild beast, snarling over her food, and eating with all the eagerness of a London beggar.

  Secondly, Wilhelm of Warkworth was conflicted. She recognized his love and his concern, even as she acknowledged his anger. It was there in his eyes and his voice when he spoke to his lord brother. Whether it was because of Lady Ayleth, or some other grievance, she hadn’t any clue, but it wasn’t really her concern.