A Winter’s Rose Page 13

  “Only tell me what to do,” Wilhelm pleaded.

  Rosalynde lifted her hand, laying it upon his whiskered cheek, advising him from her heart, “Go to your brother, Will. Tell him all you have told me. Pledge him your obeisance, as it should be… as your father no doubt would have wished.”

  He shook his head adamantly, lifting a hand and pushing Rosalynde’s away. “Nay, you do not understand… I cannot turn my face and allow my brother to endanger himself, when I am the one who knows better. He is my lord, but he is my brother, and I would prostrate myself if I could, but for the sake of his life, and for the sake of Warkworth, I will not!”

  Rosalynde didn’t have any opportunity to disabuse him of his notions. Just then, a darkling shadow passed over their heads, like a bird of prey… circling…

  She realized only belatedly that they were standing in an open glade, ripe for the plucking. Her first thought was for Morwen’s ravens, but all at once, the woodlands grew cold and dark, and she longed for her mother’s cloak—that profane coat she could scarce bear to touch, much less wear, no matter how chilled she might be.

  The shadow captured Wilhelm’s attention as well, and he glanced up, his face contorting, and even as his chin tipped skyward, Rosalynde heard the sound of Rhiannon’s voice—so terrifying in its incarnation that it wasn’t possible to feel relieved. For eight long months she had longed to know if her sister lived, and if Rhi had broken her silence, it was only because there was danger.

  Run! she screamed.

  Only Rosalynde heard the warning, and for the briefest instant, she wasn’t certain that what she’d heard was real. Her instant of doubt was her undoing. She peered into the boughs and saw it—enormous and terrifying!

  Run! Rhiannon shouted again. Run, Rose, run!

  This time, Rosalynde bolted, but Wilhelm—a giant bulwark of a man, perhaps thinking himself invincible—stood fast, unsheathing his sword. The blade left its scabbard as the shadow—large as a flying horse—swooped into the glade, diving toward Rose.

  She tripped as Wilhelm stepped into the Shadow’s path, but he didn’t have any chance to raise the sword. He cried out in pain and surprise as the weapon flew from his hand.

  Rosalynde screamed.

  Chapter 19

  Run, Rose, run!

  What happened next happened so swiftly Rosalynde could scarce anticipate it. There was no place to hide. Nowhere to run. No time to think. Her immediate concern for the grimoire, she seized the book and scrambled to her feet, searching desperately for somewhere to hide, only to realize with a sinking heart that she couldn’t leave Wilhelm.

  Her heart pounding fearfully, she turned to find the Shadow Beast had pinned him to the ground, its black wings pummeling. The creature cast back an enormous deformed head, opening its bloody beak, to give a terrifying shriek, then returned to pecking at Wilhelm’s head, as he thrashed the air before him. Inexplicably, though the beast drew blood, Wilhelm’s fists could not find purchase, and in the end, he screamed piteously, lifting both hands to defend his face.

  Rosalynde swallowed her fear.

  Sweet, sweet Goddess. She had never witnessed anything of this sort—nor even dreamt about it in her night terrors. Neither did she remember any such beast from the drawings in the Book of Secrets—its ebony form pulsing, the edges of its body indistinct and billowy, like smoke. It was impossible to say what shape it held, because, like a murder of crows soaring altogether, its form swelled and ebbed, changing and reforming—first in the shape of a monstrous raven, then a man, then a serpent, curling around Wilhelm’s body and choking his breath, so he could no longer scream.

  Rosalynde stood frozen, uncertain what to do. But she couldn’t do nothing, and she couldn’t leave an innocent man to die only because he’d tried to protect her.

  Water.

  Desperate to help, she held out a trembling palm. Never taking her eyes off the twisting beast, she filled her palm with water, and, dropping the grimoire, she closed her other hand about her missile, forming a small clump of ice. She hurled it, hoping if naught else to get the beast’s attention. Ensorcelled the missile flew fast and sure, but to Rosalynde’s horror, it passed through the Shadow Beast, smacking Wilhelm on the temple and the thrashing warrior went frighteningly still.

  So did the beast.

  Its head spun unnaturally, its giant beady eyes fixing on Rosalynde. Slowly, deliberately, it released its prey, uncoiling itself from around Wilhelm’s body, and with another ungodly screech, it flew at Rose.

  Rose screamed, and to her horror, it was only belatedly that she remembered it wasn’t her the monster wanted. It was the grimoire, and rather than pursue her when she had already abandoned the Book, it fell upon the sacred volume, eddying about the Book of Secrets, like a tempest, lifting the tome from the ground with a long-speared tail.

  Finding her courage where only seconds ago she’d been as shivery as the Beast itself, she turned, and dove after the book—the only solid form in the midst of the shadow. Locking her arms about the book, she held on for dear life.

  She was vaguely aware that Wilhelm revived. With a ferocious growl, he reclaimed his sword, pouncing after them, the look on his face as fierce as a bear. Shouting obscenities, he swung wildly at the Shadow, narrowly missing Rosalynde’s shoulder, as the gleaming blade slid through the creature without purchase.

  It was going to take her grimoire! There was naught she could do to stop it. Sweet fates—Mother Goddess!

  Trying to shake her free, the beast whipped Rosalynde about like a sheet in the wind, howling as it raged, lifting both Rosalynde and the grimoire skyward, with scarcely any effort. It was only then she spied the necklace it wore, dangling like a carrot—a shining bauble bound to a chain, with a glowing crystal. Fear urged her not to release the grimoire, but something else, a voice ageless as time, compelled her else wise.

  Let go, Rose. Seize the reliquary.

  Nay. If she did so, she would lose the book forever—if she released it, the beast would fly away. She would fail. She would fail. The book would be gone. Morwen would win.

  No, no, no, no…

  Wilhelm continued to swing his sword, snarling furiously as the sword missed time and again. Tiring of his efforts, the Beast’s viper-like tail cut through the air, catching Wilhelm beneath the knees and spilling him again to the bracken.

  Sweet, sweet fates. Rosalynde felt the book slipping now, and she curled her fingers more tightly around the vellum, whispering rites to hold it fast.

  Let go.

  Nay, she thought… nay… nay… but so often intuition was a gift from the Goddess—a gift too many failed to heed.

  Let go.

  Now.

  Crying out, Rosalynde dragged herself up and swung closer to the bauble, dropping the book as her fingers caught the cold metal.

  Bind it, Rose.

  The reliquary and chain cut into her palm, searing her flesh as the Shadow Beast squealed in triumph, catching the grimoire with its mutating tail, curling around the book.

  Now, bind the Beast.

  Rosalynde didn’t know binding words—and nevertheless, even as she lamented the fact, strange words sprang to her lips.

  I call the fifth to me!

  Goddess hear my plea!

  Of smoke and mist you might be borne.

  Here I bind you now in mortal form.

  Right before her eyes, the Shadow Beast began to coalesce into a more solid form—into the shape of a man, still with enormous black wings. Once more, Wilhelm rushed forward to pierce the creature with his sword, but he ventured no closer than the breadth of the creature’s wings. Its leathery appendages smacked him away, as easily as though he were no more than a flea.

  Landing more than twenty feet away, his look dazed, Wilhelm sat, staring in horror as the creature put talons into Rosalynde’s waist, clutching her so brutally that she thought it must have broken her flesh. She cried out in pain and terror, and it was then Giles appeared, tearing through the woods atop h
is black courser, and what he did next took Rosalynde’s breath away…

  As her spell solidified the beast, Giles charged them, his every moment as darkly sinuous as that of the Shadow Beast’s, his movements as choreographed as a macabre dance—a dance of death. To her desperate eyes, it happened as though in slow motion. Once he cleared the boughs of low-lying trees, he rose up on the back of his courser, unsheathing a shimmering golden blade and wielding it so expertly it appeared to be an extension of his being—and he, an extension of the horse.

  That sword—it glowed unlike anything Rosalynde had ever seen before. Her eyes transfixed on the haloed metal, even as the creature cut its talons deeper into her flesh.

  She shouted the binding words again…

  I call the fifth to me!

  Goddess hear my plea!

  Of smoke and mist you might be borne.

  Here I bind you now in mortal form.

  Crying out, the creature thrust its black talons even deeper into her middle, and Rosalynde’s eyes teared with pain. But, then, just as the Beast hoisted her up, dropping her, only to catch her again more securely, preparing to fly away, Giles leapt off his mare, spinning through the air like a whirling blade. His shining sword caught the beast at its neck, severing the head.

  The Shadow Beast opened its claws, releasing Rosalynde and plummeted to the ground. She fell with a thud and a yelp of pain, and barely had time to roll out of the way before the creature came tumbling into the bracken.

  Stunned, Wilhelm remained seated on his bottom, staring with his mouth open.

  Rosalynde righted her dress, crawling over to seize the grimoire, and rose to her feet as Giles knelt beside the creature with his bloodstained sword still in his hand.

  With trembling limbs, she ventured over to join him. But when she looked down into the Shadow Beast’s face, she gasped in horror. “It’s Mordecai!”

  “What is a Mordecai?”

  Rosalynde shook her head, her face pale as parchment. “Not what, but whom… he’s—”

  Before their eyes, the creature writhed one final time, losing its wings and mutating into the shape of a man. His youth fell away, withering his flesh until it turned to dust, and without so much as a breeze, the dust rushed into the reliquary still tangled in Rosalynde’s hand—vanishing… as though it had been sucked into the reliquary. Swallowing convulsively, she peered at the bauble in her hand… and the cuts and burn in her palm, then tossed the reliquary away, thinking at once of her sisters…

  She’d had no idea such things were possible, and now, she feared she’d left Arwyn and Seren to their doom. “No,” she whispered.

  “Where the hell did you learn to do that?” demanded Wilhelm, his face bloodied and scarred.

  Giles turned to look at his brother, who was still seated on his rump. “In the seminary,” he said evenly, and Rose screwed her face, casting a questioning look at Wilhelm, wondering how that could possibly be true.

  At this point, her wimple and veil were gone—her glamour as well, judging by the way Wilhelm was looking at her—as though she had suddenly sprouted another head.

  “You knew him?” Giles asked, dismissing his brother, and turning to question Rosalynde, with one brow arched and his pupils darker than they had ever appeared before. They penetrated her to her very soul, probing her secrets and promising to reveal them.

  Alas, it was past time to confess.

  Come what may, she could not keep that grimoire from her mother without help—and clearly, this man had what it took to keep her safe. There was no doubt in her mind now: He was sent by the Goddess.

  “Aye,” Rosalynde said, clutching her side, grimacing with pain. “I knew him.”

  “And?”

  She winced, more over the pain of her confession than over the pain in her middle. “Alas, I have a confession to make,” she said, looking Giles’s straight in the face. “I am neither a nun, nor am I en route to Neasham.”

  He tilted her a knowing glance, his black eyes shining, his gaze betraying little surprise. “And is that all?”

  She might as well confess everything. “Nay…. I was the one who stole your horse…”

  Both his brows lifted now, and still he pressed her, “Something more?”

  Rosalynde shook her head sheepishly, realizing the words must be said. “My mother’s name is Morwen,” she said, tears forming in her eyes, and she then buckled to her knees, the edges of her vision blackening as pain shot through her side.

  Chapter 20

  In a motion equally as fluid as his effort on his horse, Giles re-sheathed his sword and swept Rosalynde into his arms, leaving Wilhelm and the horse to follow. “You’re injured,” he said, in a far gentler tone than she’d expected. And yet, even as Rosalynde clung to her Book, she was terrified.

  That was Mordecai—her mother’s disciple—but what in the name of the Goddess was he? A gargoyle?

  Her brain still could not reconcile what she’d witnessed.

  Wilhelm recovered himself far more quickly than she did, hurrying ahead, snatching a blanket from the back of his horse and shaking it out as Giles carried Rosalynde over and placed her gently atop it. He laid her down with such care that it made her throat tight.

  She peered up, clutching his tunic. “Thank you,” she said, groaning in pain as he released her.

  “I beg pardon, but…” His gaze fell to her waist, where her gown was soaked with her own blood, and Rosalynde blinked, glancing up again, meeting his gaze. “I would see what damage was done.”

  “It doesn’t hurt,” she lied, and tried to push him away. Even now, she didn’t wish to explain. If he would just leave her be, and go away, she would heal herself and be done. Already, the blood flow was ebbing. If he hadn’t already determined who Morwen was, she was beginning to doubt the wisdom in revealing herself.

  He caught her by the wrist and said, “I would see it with my own eyes… with your permission and your pardon.”

  Realizing he wouldn’t let it go, Rosalynde nodded dumbly, and let him push her gently back onto the blanket. He produced a knife from his boot and sliced the gown at her midriff, so he could see her wound, but still salvage some semblance of modesty.

  “There’s a lot of blood,” he told her, his face crestfallen, and Rosalynde peered into his dark eyes, her own eyes filling with telltale tears as she lifted her hand instinctively to heal herself. Not understanding her intent—perhaps thinking her too modest, he once again caught her hand, holding it firmly in his own. “I don’t know how deep it is,” he said. “You shouldn’t disturb it.”

  Rosalynde was afraid… though not about the wound. For the first time in her life, someone besides her sisters was looking at her… perhaps not with love, but concern, and it begged her to speak her truth. She lay exposed—literally—and trust was the only means to her salvation.

  Inhaling a fortifying breath, she shook free of his hand, holding his gaze, and pleading with her eyes for him to allow her to do what she must.

  Giles frowned, but didn’t resist, and she peered down to inspect her wound. Now that the shock was wearing off, it was beginning to ache, but not for long. She put a hand over the torn flesh and whispered the necessary words—not out loud. It wasn’t necessary, and she would be embarrassed for him to hear her. Slowly, her flesh began to close before his eyes. They couldn’t see her magik working, but they could witness the end result—healed flesh, only stained by blood as proof of what she had endured. Except the burn on her palm remained. Healed though it might be, the scar remained dark… and she glanced down, moving her dress to find that her puncture marks were black as well.

  Alas, there was no sense holding anything back now…

  These men, too, had suffered by her mother’s hand, and if anything, it gave her hope of convincing them to ally with her. She had no doubt any longer that Giles was her champion—hers, not Seren’s. No one could have done what he did, and she would be dead now without his help.

  Without being asked, Rosalyn
de proceeded to explain all that she dared to explain, beginning with the details of her glamour spell. It wasn’t much different than a lady with maquillage, she told them, only this face paint was not powder or cream, it was a mask woven of aether, a suggestion by the Goddess to give mortal eyes what she wished them to see.

  She went on to explain about the grimoire, as well—how important it was to deliver the Book to Elspeth. Alas, Aldergh was the only place she knew to take it. Her sister Rhiannon was being held at Blackwood by agents of her mother’s, and she had no hope of infiltrating that stronghold without help—nor could she ultimately be certain the grimoire alone would be enough to give Rhiannon the means to overcome her captors. After all, the only place she felt certain would receive her without sending her back to Stephen was Aldergh. Malcom Scott had once been a vassal of the Usurper’s, but he was no longer. Stephen had named him an enemy to the crown.

  “I know who he is,” said Giles.

  Of course, he did. There seemed to be very little of her story that surprised him. But, all through the telling, Wilhelm stared at her, his dark eyes wide with horror, his shredded and blood-stained face like the Shadow Beast, contorting with every word she spoke. Only now that she had revealed herself, she was entirely at their mercy and she was too far into her explication to pretend it was aught less than it was. “I am not a witch,” she explained. “I’m a dewine.” But, when both men furrowed their brows, she relented. “Very well, I am witch. But this is not what you suppose.”

  She didn’t like that word—witch—because of what it meant to others. She was a child of the Earth Mother, a Maiden pledged to the hud, but for all these men knew of the Craft of the Wise, witchery was as good as any word she might use. And nevertheless, she endeavored to explain that in their native tongue, they were known as dewines, not witches. Translated more precisely, they were enchantresses, but also healers, prophets, seers. As with any art, not everyone had the same skills, and certainly not all were dark.