A Winter’s Rose Page 14

  “And your mother?”

  “Whatever Morwen may be, her heart lies far from the principles of our tenets, which dictate we do good, harm none.” She looked warily between the brothers, trying to gauge their thoughts, but there was no help for it. Here and now, she would propose treason, and they might as well know it. She held Giles’s gaze, ignoring Wilhelm, realizing that Giles now held her future in his hands. She said, pointedly, “My mother is an enemy of the realm, so much as Stephen may not realize… so, too, is his son.”

  To this, Giles merely nodded, and without a word, he stood, unsheathing the golden blade from his scabbard. He laid it down on the blanket beside her, flicking a glance at his brother. “Do you see that sword?” he asked. “Do you know what it is?”

  “Tis a sword,” said Wilhelm, confused.

  Rosalynde shook her head.

  “Look closer,” he bade her, and with Wilhelm peeking over her shoulder, she dared to look closer to read the inscription etched in Latin.

  “Mea est ultio, et ego retribuam,” she said, and even as she read, the golden serpents in the sword’s hilt seemed to slither and the words themselves lifted from the blue steel, doubling in size and igniting before her eyes—magik.

  Vengeance Is Mine, I Will Repay.

  She blinked, recognizing the passage from her days in the priory. If your enemy be hungry, feed him; if he be thirsty, give him drink; for in so doing you will heap coals upon his head. Never avenge yourselves… but… She finished the passage aloud, with sudden revelation, “Leave it to the wrath of God,” she whispered, and Giles gave her a nod.

  His brother sat utterly still, listening, and Giles finished the passage for Rosalynde, lifting a golden brow. “For it is written that, ‘Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord.”

  Rosalynde peered up, into Giles’s face—into his dark knowing eyes, alight with something not entirely holy.

  He gave her another short nod, realizing she understood, and then a bow. “I am and ever shall be the wrath of God on Earth, a humble servant of the Palatine Guard.”

  Chapter 21

  Giles was a Paladin—as formidable a commission as the King’s Rex Militum, save that he served the Holy Roman Empire, not the English crown. And yet, he wasn’t a priest; he was a man, with all a man’s faults, and his body trembled at the sight of the woman peering up at him so haplessly, her expression something akin to horror.

  But he knew why she was looking at him that way, and he sensed she understood precisely who—and what—he was.

  Her own grandmother had been subject to the laws of the Church, and she’d suffered a heretic’s death, burned at the stake by the edict of the Empress’s first husband. As it was with the Rex Militum, the Palatine Guardsmen were executioners for the realms, and it was their company who’d been assigned to carry out justice for Morgan Pendragon. After all, it was their task to dispatch enemies of the Church, whether they be heretics… or witches. And yet, his post was a bit of a contradiction, because it was the Prophet Merlin—a Pendragon himself—who’d given them their rites of passage. It was a fact that kept them relegated to the shadows—a stain on the sanctity of the Church.

  “You’re a huntsman,” she said quietly, though it wasn’t a question.

  Giles shrugged dispassionately, despite there wasn’t a single muscle in his entire body that didn’t feel tense, and there was naught apathetic about his thoughts.

  “That’s perhaps one word for it,” he said.

  Rosalynde blinked again, and he swallowed now as he studied her face—the same face he’d first spied when he’d encountered her sleeping… and it was that face he’d envisioned in his dreams. To look upon it now left him breathless. And, not even the fact that she was Morwen Pendragon’s daughter had any tempering effect upon his ardor. It was as though, in truth, as he stood gazing down upon this Daughter of Avalon… all meaning to his life became clear. He was meant to be here… this moment… with her, and not even his true mission in England held the same verity. Somehow, he was meant to be Rosalynde Pendragon’s champion, and she was meant… for what?

  What role had she to play in her mother’s demise?

  He flicked a glance at her book; understanding dawned.

  Avoiding Rosalynde’s gaze, he bent to pick up his longsword and then re-sheathed it—another legacy of Merlin’s. As it must be for all the men in the Palatine Guard, the sword had been chosen specifically for him, but there remained twelve such swords, all forged from blooms of steel, and containing a special consecrated alloy that glowed faintly in the presence of evil.

  This girl was not evil. The sword’s golden halo had vanished the instant he’d dispatched the Shadow Beast, and not for an instant during their travels had he felt the low thrum of the finely-honed metal at his hip.

  As for Morwen Pendragon… she was another matter entirely. Morwen herself was a demon, and the Church had dispatched Giles—not only to reclaim a valuable seat in his father’s name, but to pave the way for the Empress’s son to take his rightful place on England’s throne.

  Now, more than before, he understood that the Church must not confirm the Count of Mortain. Stephen must not be allowed to install his son on the throne. Morwen Pendragon must be stopped at all cost, and Eustace was no more than her poppet. If the King managed to hand the realm to his miscreant son, England would be lost.

  And yet, so much as the barons had sworn their fealties to the Empress, neither was Matilda destined to be their savior. She was a woman, and so much as a woman could destroy it, no woman could unite England’s barons. It must be Duke Henry, and they must continue to weaken the King’s hold and strengthen the resolve of the Church.

  Giles had but needed his dispensation to give the illusion he was Stephen’s loyal man—to keep those bastards off his lands. Even now, there were ships due to arrive at his port with men enough and supplies enough to begin reconstruction—all save for the stone he must procure, and perhaps that dilemma might be solved now by speaking to the very man whose aid Rosalynde was seeking—the lord of Aldergh. The ex-king’s man had access to a sizable quarry, and it was for that reason alone he had managed to construct and maintain such a monstrosity as Aldergh. If the Earl of Wallingford could hold back a siege for a year, Aldergh could do it for three.

  He realized Rosalynde was still staring at him, perhaps waiting for confirmation. “Aye,” he said.

  His brother, as always, was clueless. “What is she talking about, Giles?”

  He turned to Wilhelm now, gauging how much he could say without betraying his oaths, and then said in jest, “I mustn’t be so dreadful with a blade, after all.” And he gave his brother a lopsided grin.

  Wilhelm tilted him a look of confusion, bemused, perhaps as he should be. More than once Giles had tried to tell him that he was not the man he believed, although if the dispatching of the Shadow Beast wasn’t proof enough, there wasn’t much more he could say—or do. And nevertheless, he could say this much: “I am sworn to protect the Holy Church from its enemies, no matter what form they take.”

  Wilhelm pointed into the woods. “What was that?”

  Giles shrugged, again. “That… I don’t know, brother, but this lady might enlighten us…” He returned his gaze to Rosalynde Pendragon, entreating her with a tilt of his head. “As you were saying, Lady Rosalynde… what, pray tell, is a Mordecai?”

  Rosy cheeked, Rosalynde averted her gaze. “He’s my mother’s… manservant, but… I did not know…” She shook her head, and if she meant to say anything more, her words seemed disinclined to come.

  Unwittingly, Giles’s attention fell upon the rip in her dress, exposing her middle to his brother’s eyes—and for the first time in his life he understood Wilhelm’s jealousy over Lady Ayleth. He didn’t wish for any man to see Rosalynde this way—not even his staid and loyal brother.

  Swallowing hard, Giles walked away, returning a moment later with the cloak Rosalynde had placed in his satchel. He tossed it down beside her, and she
pushed it away. “That is my mother’s,” she said. “I would not wear it lest I were dying!” And with a bit more ardor, she added, “Tis catskin!”

  Dear God. Cat fur.

  Giles grimaced in disgust.

  God’s truth, the more he knew of the dispossessed lady of Blackwood, the more thoroughly he disliked her.

  Removing his own cloak, he handed it down to Rosalynde, pleading wordlessly for her to cover herself, and wondering what was wrong with him that he had not offered his own cloak long before now. Was he so poor in spirit that he would only respond to a lovely face?

  Thoroughly displeased with himself as much as he was with the entire situation, he turned away, commanding Wilhelm to disband their camp. “We’ll be leaving at once,” he said. And then he sighed. “This time, we’ll keep to the woodlands, out of sight of those bloody birds.”

  Wilhelm nodded, and, for once, without any complaint, he rushed to do Giles’s bidding.

  In the meantime, Giles returned to Rosalynde, reaching out his hand. “Would you trust me with your book, Rosalynde? I will keep it safe.” And he would. Now that he understood who and what she was, he suspected he understood why she had safeguarded the tome so jealously. “I will put it in my satchel and guard it with my life.”

  * * *

  The book he was requesting was lying beside her. For all that he was still in possession of that weapon, he might simply have taken it, simply by bending to retrieve it. After the feats Rosalynde witnessed in that glade, she would never have challenged him… But… he was asking. Nicely. And more… there seemed to be a new accord between them… a thread of familiarity… perhaps only natural after having endured such a harrowing experience.

  Nodding, she reached over and lifted up the grimoire, handing it over to him, even as her actions confused her.

  How willingly she was now proffering the one thing she’d vowed to die for.

  With a nod, Giles took the book, then offered Rosalynde a hand. Alas, if she expected nothing more to come after their previous ordeal, she would have been wrong. A sudden jolt passed from his fingers as their fingers met, and yet, startled though she was, she did not pull away. Once the initial shock passed, it left her with an infusion of warmth that traveled from the tips of her fingers, to the very center of her being, right down to the tips of her toes. She curled them reflexively, because the sensation was so… so… evocative.

  Bards crooned about love at first sight… of lords and ladies whose hearts burned as one… and this must be how they felt.

  Somehow, she sensed that he, too, must have felt it… at least so it seemed by his blink of surprise.

  Bound by destiny, to destiny bound,

  Another to one, and one to another...

  Dizzied by the sensation, Rose wavered on her feet, until Giles caught her and steadied her. Tears sprang to her eyes, because the feeling was so intensely powerful. And nevertheless, oblivious to what was transpiring between them, Wilhelm rushed around, dutifully picking up their belongings and putting out their fire.

  Only by now there was another fire burning in Rosalynde’s heart… simmering to the very depths of her soul… its heat coloring her skin until every part of her flushed.

  Freely choose, or choose to be free

  As you will it, so mote it be.

  Rosalynde blinked. Quite literally, she saw stars bursting before her eyes, and even as the soft, silken voice breezed through her mind, she realized what it was… She’d heard the voice only once before in her life… back in the glade… whilst the Shadow Beast held her in its talons. It was, she realized with awe, the voice of the goddess.

  If only she wished to refuse her gift—if Giles wished to—she was free to do so. All she had to do was release his hand… let go, turn away. Confused though he seemed to be as well, he held her hand firmly, and, sweet fates, even knowing that he was betrothed to her sister, Rosalynde entwined her fingers about his, holding him fast, even as she felt a strange thread weave its way through her belly. Terrified to look away now, she peered straight into his dark, soulful eyes, only begging him to confess the things he was hearing and feeling…

  The essence of nature seemed to fold and unfold itself, circling around them, like ribbons of fae dust. And still, Rosalynde dared not release his hand…

  And… neither did he release hers, though she realized that, though he must surely feel what she felt, he probably couldn’t hear what she heard nor see what she saw.

  At long last, Rosalynde took a shuddering breath, withdrawing her hand.

  “We are ready to ride at your command,” announced Wilhelm. And when he received no response, he said, “Giles?”

  Giles blinked twice, then shook his head, as though shaking off his stupor, turning to address his brother, looking as confused as Rosalynde felt.

  “Aye,” he said. “Let’s go.” And he turned to Rosalynde again, blinking once more.

  Chapter 22

  Precisely as Giles had predicted, Neasham proved to be a solid week’s journey, and yet, so much as Rosalynde feared another meeting with her mother’s disciples, she secretly reveled in every passing moment she spent warmed by Giles’s embrace. Unlike that first day they’d traveled together—before her glamour spell faded—he held her jealously, and if no one spoke about what happened in the woodlot, everything between them had changed. She felt it in the way he dared to embrace her—every small gesture, like the hand he rested upon her waist, and the fingers he splayed across her belly. Sweet fates. Whenever he dared to touch her that way, she felt a stirring down so deep it stole away her breath.

  She was not unlike a poppet, responding to every touch. And it was almost as though he pulled at invisible strings, not out there, in the aether, but inside her body, and every tug evoked incredible sensations, from her heart to her womb.

  And now she understood what the bards meant by lovesick. It was a malady in every sense of the word. She felt fevered, achy, and all week long, her mouth remained parched. Her tongue felt too large for her mouth. And no amount of satiating her thirst made any of these symptoms go away. Moreover, her hands perspired, and she had to remember to unclench them every so oft to let them breathe. To her dismay, even despite the cold, she felt hot and bothered, and the feeling put her nerves on edge, until she felt as though she were one immense ball of emotion, unraveling into the aether, like yarn into a weaver’s loom, spinning impossible dreams... dreams that revealed the two of them as consorts… and more.

  And yet, if he made her body come alive, with scarcely his breath on her nape, he seemed completely unaffected.

  So much as they’d slept arm in arm on his pallet, he never once offered Rosalynde more than his warmth. Only since that moment in the woods, he’d treated her with the utmost respect, put her on and off his horse with care, bundling her beneath his cloak, and refusing to allow her out of his sight, save for those moments when he must. And even then, he remained close, sword in hand, and Rosalynde daren’t complain again, not after coming so close to death.

  For his part, Wilhelm seemed confused by their sudden affinity, casting odd glances. But if he thought Rosalynde wanton for clinging so intimately to his lord brother, she couldn’t bring herself to care. Giles made her feel safe, even despite the circumstances. And whether it was because of those feats he’d performed in the glade, or merely the solicitous manner in which he cared for her, it didn’t matter. It was an unanticipated pleasure to be coddled, and the feel of his arms awakened something she’d never experienced in her life… desire... but desire for what?

  Closeness? Companionship? Something more?

  Confused and uncertain of her own desires, Rosalynde knew only one thing for sure: Only now that Giles was holding her so covetously did she have any sense of how famished she had been for affection. And nay, it wasn’t the same as a chaste hug from her sisters. Somehow, Giles’s arms felt so right, and if, in fact, it was wrong, she didn’t want to know. For the first time in her life, she felt—perhaps not cherished, nor
loved; it was too soon for such devotion—but very intimately connected to another human being not her blood.

  As similar as it was to the bond she shared with her twin, it was nevertheless as different as night and day. Certainly, she missed Arwyn, though she had never once longed to be held by her sister—not like this.

  Nor did her sister’s nearness make her breath catch.

  And even so, for all that she was experiencing this extraordinary awakening, the mood itself turned grim.

  For the most part, little was said between the trio. They rode expediently, rested sparingly, and kept to the woodlands, taking care not to attract undue attention, or take unnecessary risks.

  Without further ado, Giles seemed to appreciate the import of Rosalynde’s mission, and he shared her resolve to see the grimoire to safety.

  For his part, Wilhelm remained quiet and brooding, and Rosalynde had the sense that he, like she, couldn’t quite banish the image of the Shadow Beast from his head. So long as she lived, she would never forget that face… the way it had metamorphosed before her eyes… even now, the memory gave her a shiver, and she suspected that such a being was only conceivable through blood magik.

  Only now, she understood the tales of those days before the fall of Avalon in a whole new light—of that boy the Witch Goddess pursued, first in the form of a greyhound, then as an otter, then a hawk, and finally, a hen. Even understanding what she did about her dewine heritage, she had always considered those tales to be fanciful versions of the truth, meant to be interpreted. But whatever Mordecai had been in that glade, it was not human, and only sacrificial magik could have produced such a creature.

  Now she wondered: Perhaps in truth, the distant land of her kinsmen was swallowed by the sea… and perhaps the mists of Wales gave ingress to the Nether Realm.