A Winter’s Rose Page 2

  Adulterine castle.

  How those words galled.

  They had far more right to their adulterine castle than Stephen did over the chair he occupied. Henry himself had awarded those lands to his sire. He hadn’t taken the seat per force, only to live his life anticipating betrayal at every turn—and rightly so perhaps. The King’s own brother—the same fool who’d awarded Stephen the keys to the trove—was now rumored to be courting the Empress Matilda behind his back.

  Greedy, feckless liars, all of them.

  And, even so… Giles had no stones to throw, because he, himself, was going into the King’s hall with every intention of defying Stephen in the end—and God have mercy on his soul.

  God have mercy on Eustace if Giles ever faced him.

  The atrocities the King’s son had committed—not only to Warkworth, but across the realm—were unspeakable, and it was one thing to slay one’s rival in combat, yet another to lay waste to an entire donjon full of innocents.

  The suffering his poor sisters must have endured was enough to make Giles rage against the heavens and put a fist to the ground in defiance of all he’d been taught. Their sweet faces haunted him ruthlessly, and despite that he hadn’t been there to witness their end, he saw it all through his brother’s eyes. Even five months later, Wilhelm’s fury burned hotter than the embers he must have picked through the night of the fire. Sixty good souls were lost that day, and it was impossible to forget to grieve whilst they were still cleaning up debris.

  Perhaps equally as much to bolster himself as to remind Wilhelm of their purpose, Giles halted before the palace door. He turned to face his brother, reaching out to put a calming hand on Wilhelm’s shoulder.

  Giles, himself, was a good stature—six-foot-one and fourteen stone—but his bother towered over him still. “Will you, please, try to control yourself?”

  Wilhelm frowned, clearly piqued over the fact that Giles would endeavor to instruct him at all. Lord or nay, Giles was the younger son, the one less fit. He was the boy their father never even once considered as his heir, and for all intents and purposes, Wilhelm was far more suited to the position.

  “Dunna worry. I’ll keep my gob shut,” Wilhelm promised, and Giles lifted a blond brow.

  “And your dirk?”

  Traces of a smile tugged at his brother’s lips, but he nodded nonetheless. “Aye… the dagger stays where it is… lest there be an apple to peel.”

  Giles coughed to conceal his laughter, and he looked at his brother sternly. “You must trust me,” he entreated again.

  “Tisna you I’m worried over, Giles.”

  And yet, it was, and if Giles weren’t in such a rush to be done with the entire affair, he would have argued, because, after a fashion, Wilhelm must not trust him at all.

  There had been enough words spoken between them for Giles to know that Wilhelm did not feel Giles measured up to the task ahead. And nevertheless, he recognized fear in his brother’s countenance, and guessed the truth: Wilhelm wasn’t so much angry; he was afraid—for Giles. Because this was the first time since the burning that they would be forced to stand and face their tormentors. Wilhelm must fear he had been summoned to his death. And, after all, who could say it wasn’t so? If, indeed, Stephen had a mind to, he could take Giles’ head, or imprison him, and give Warkworth to any man of his choosing. It was well within his bounds to do so, even if it might not be fair. But, the one thing they had going in their favor was, of all things, the very devastation Eustace had wrought upon their lands. There weren’t many barons who would think it a boon to be offered a ruined estate, just a stone’s throw from unruly Scots. And yet, to allow Warkworth to slip to the enemy would be the gravest of mistakes. Despite that it lay less than thirty miles from Bamburgh, it was not destined to be another gem in Scotland’s crown. Warkworth’s location was crucial to England. The bulwark would give Stephen a much-needed foothold in the north and a significant port of entry. Without Warkworth, there would be no allies to man the northern shores. But it would take gold to rebuild—gold other barons might not spare, but gold Giles had aplenty.

  So, this was the carrot Giles had put before the ass: Give us the dispensation to rebuild, not of wood, but stone, and Warkworth will serve God’s anointed sovereign. So it was agreed. Although, in addition to his fealty, Giles also promised to take a wife of Stephen’s choosing—and this was the bee buzzing up his brother’s bum: The daughter of Morwen Pendragon, the witch who’d burned their home, and murdered their kin.

  Alas, there was so much he wished to say to his brother, and so much he could not. And barring that, he smiled, clapping Wilhelm on the shoulder. “Should we walk into a trap, I give you leave to take as many heads as you like.”

  “For Warkworth,” whispered Wilhelm, another smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

  Giles nodded. “For Warkworth,” he returned, and between them, the whispered words were as much a call to arms as any they might have uttered on a battlefield.

  Very somberly, the brothers turned to walk into Westminster Palace, where Giles de Vere was prepared to bend his knee to the Usurper…

  For Warkworth.

  Chapter 2

  Rap. Rap. Rap.

  The knock on the door was tentative, perhaps even diffident, but if there was one thing the Ewyas sisters had learned since arriving at court, it was that the King’s household lived in fear of Morwen Pendragon. Such as it was, there was a note of dread in the voice that called to them from behind the door. “My ladies?”

  Seren, Arwyn and Rosalynde each exchanged nervous glances, for this was the moment they’d been anticipating. Downstairs, Morwen was in attendance with Stephen, interrogating their sister’s intended.

  Would he insist upon taking Seren with him?

  Regardless, it could be the last time the sisters would be all together. Of the five, Rosalynde and Arwyn were the youngest of their brood—twins born minutes apart. Seren was the middle child, and Elspeth and Rhiannon were the elder, with two good years between them. Rhiannon was still in Wales, imprisoned, or dead, so they feared. Elspeth was far, far to the north, wed to an enemy of the crown, and from what little gossip they had gleaned, she was being held against her will, forced to wed the mendacious traitor Malcom Scott. Of course, Rosalynde suspected there was more to the story and she believed Elspeth had embraced her magik in her darkest hour.

  “Lady, Seren,” the woman called again. “Please, please hurry…”

  As luck would have it, this would be the first time since arriving in London that Morwen’s manservant had left them unattended. Certain that her daughters knew better than to defy her, Morwen had sent Mordecai out to run some errand—no doubt she had sent him to murder some unsuspecting soul.

  As Seren plucked her cloak from a chair, Arwyn opened the door to reveal a pinched face matron behind it. The woman peered into the room, searching for Seren, and then seeing her, said with a note of relief in her voice, “The king beckons, Lady Seren. You must hurry.”

  “I am ready,” she told the woman, gesturing for Arwyn to open the door a little wider. Then, whilst the woman waited, she went to each of her sisters, kissing them in turn—Rosalynde first, as she was closest. They put their heads together, and Seren whispered. “I love you, dearest sister. Remember this always.” And then, whispering lower, she said, “Get the Book as far away from here as possible. I shall delay her as long as I can.”

  Rosalynde swallowed the lump that rose in her throat. “Take good care,” she said. “And please, please take heart: Even if he insists you go with him, we are committed to this endeavor—all of us. It must be done. She will be weaker without the grimoire.”

  “My lady,” the woman urged from the hall. “Your betrothed awaits, and… your mother… she’ll be angry.”

  “I am coming,” said Seren patiently, realizing the maidservant was not to be blamed. She was merely doing the King’s bidding, nothing more, nothing less.

  With trembling knees, Rosalynde stood wat
ching as her sister moved to kiss Arwyn next, and as her sisters embraced for the last time, she plucked up the small tallow candle on the dresser, preparing herself for the task to come.

  By the door, Seren affected an excited tone for the sake of the maid. “Worry not, my sweet sisters. I am pleased with my match, and I pray you, too, will soon find your own champions.” She smiled, but her eyes shone with tears as she met Rosalynde’s gaze across the room, and Rosalynde found her own eyes dampening as Seren blew her a kiss good-bye. The sisters shared one last meaningful glance, and then Rose tore her gaze away.

  Arwyn’s voice was tender, but raw with her grief. “Go with our love, Seren. Know that wherever you find yourself, we, too, shall be beneath the same bold stars, loving you from afar.”

  Without another word, Seren hurried away, and once she was gone, Rosalynde wanted naught more than to throw herself on the bed and weep, though considering what little time they had remaining before Morwen returned, there wasn’t time for tears, or doubt.

  Arwyn shut the door and went after their mother’s spell book while Rosalynde went after the nun’s garb she’d stolen two weeks past. In her pocket, there was enough of her mother’s philter to cast one glamour spell, and the rest was hidden in the hem of her gown. Hurrying, she donned the nun’s habit, and Arwyn laid the grimoire down on the bed to help her affix the wimple and veil. When they were done, she left the wimple hanging by a pin, and returned to the grimoire on the bed, withdrawing a small blade from the pocket of her surcoat. “Hurry,” she told Rosalynde, and in the meantime, Rosalynde retrieved her candle, igniting the wick with a fire song and held it over the ancient tome.

  By the light of the candle, the face of the spell book appeared strangely human, with transforming expressions. Embossed upon its surface were endless, ever-changing symbols—naught the human eye could easily perceive, but before a dewine’s eyes, the symbols rippled and reshaped, emerging and receding into the aged black leather, like hills and dales rising and reforming to a journeyman’s gaze. Much as they’d anticipated, the book laid pliantly before them, like a joyous bride, awaiting her lover.

  Over the course of these past months, Rosalynde and her sisters had visited every wondrous page, and poured over the rites. The recipes were ancient, but knowable only to those who bore dewine blood. Unlike the grimoire they’d begun to make at Llanthony, this one was bound by blood magik, and if anyone were to open the book without right, it would appear to be no more than a ruined book of prayer, faded by age and stained with watermarks. But to a dewine, its pages came alive, speaking to their minds and hearts.

  And now, without hesitation, Arwyn sliced the blade across the tip of a finger, squeezing a few drops of her life’s blood onto the leather-bound volume.

  One. Two. Three.

  One by one, the glistening droplets sank into the dark vellum, as though the book itself lay thirsting for the life-giving elixir. And then, she whispered.

  A drop of my blood to open or close,

  Speak now the song of ancient prose.

  Shadows be gone, words reveal

  The mysteries of life my book conceals.

  Like a woman in the throes of pleasure, the book trembled. But, after a moment, a burst of smoke blew from its pages, as though it were expiring the dust of ages. Then, as soon as it allowed, Arwyn opened the Book of Secrets, turning the pages until she found the proper spell.

  Ready for her part, Rosalynde lifted the candle as Arwyn shoved the grimoire in her direction.

  “Art certain, Rose?’

  “As certain as I shall ever be.”

  Arwyn nodded sadly. “I will miss you.”

  “Not for long,” Rosalynde promised. Because the very instant she could, she would return for her dear, sweet twin. In the meantime, she knew in her heart of hearts that this was the best recourse. “Do everything she says,” Rosalynde directed. “Everything she says! You must reassure her that you tried to prevent me from leaving and that you knew naught of my plans.”

  Arwyn nodded, her violet blue eyes full of fear, because it would seem an impossible task. Of all their siblings, the twins were closest of all. There was hardly a thing that one knew that the other did not… and yet…

  “You must convince Morwen of your fury! Be her one devoted daughter. Curse my name, if you must.”

  “Don’t worry. I will,” Arwyn promised, and knowing that time was growing short, Rosalynde peered down at the sacred words on the vellum—words she had by now memorized and held the candle aloft, setting one hand atop the spell book as she stared into the flame.

  “Ready?” she asked.

  “Ready,” Arwyn said, and Rosalynde spoke the words.

  Blessed flame, shining bright,

  Aid me well in my flight

  Unveil to all another self,

  Change the book I touch, itself.

  * * *

  Power of three, let them see, let them see, let them see.

  Power of three, let them see, let them see, let them see.

  Power of three, let them…

  Arwyn gasped. “Oh, my!” she said, and Rosalynde at once plucked the small mirror from the pocket of her gown, gasping as well.

  Her face… it was, indeed changed.

  According to the grimoire, a glamour spell worked best—and for longer—if it didn’t have to work so hard to conceal one’s true nature; therefore, she’d only used a bit of the philter.

  Evidently, it was enough. The smooth skin of her face had given way, not so much to the leathery lines of an old hag’s, but certainly to a woman’s whose features had been subjected to much abuse—a broken nose, too much sun. Instead of golden-red, her hair was dark as sable. Her smattering of freckles gone, and her skin pale as parchment, though splotched, her nose too big for her face, her eyes no longer blue. They were green as a forest glade, but now they resembled her sister Rhiannon’s. Alas, even on her lovely sister, those wandering eyes had the uncanny effect of compelling men to cross themselves at a glance.

  So now it was time to go.

  She was ready.

  Tears pooled in Rosalynde’s eyes, but before she could allow her emotions to run amok and turn her from her task, she laid down the mirror and scooped up the grimoire.

  Resolved, she gave Arwyn a kiss goodbye, and said, “May the Goddess love and keep you.”

  Arwyn’s voice broke. “And you, Rosalynde.” She thrust their mother’s heavy cloak into Rosalynde’s arms, and Rosalynde nearly thrust it back. “Take it. You will need it. Go now, and don’t look back.”

  Already, Seren had been gone from their apartments more than twenty minutes. Fearing for a moment that it might be the last time she ever saw her twin, she lingered, giving Arwyn one last kiss and hug.

  Arwyn shook her gently. “Go!” she demanded, and Rosalynde found her strength, wrenching herself away, tossing her mother’s cloak over her shoulders. With her heart hammering in fear, she opened the door to their chamber, inclining her head to the floor as she slid into the hall, holding the grimoire close to her breast.

  Chapter 3

  The Queen Consort of England sat beside her husband on the dais, tapping her freshly scrubbed fingernails on the queen’s throne. All her life she’d been forced to share everything she’d held dear—including her name with a cousin she despised. Even her husband now referred to her as Maude—Maude, what a hideous appellation… like the grime she’d picked from beneath her nails.

  Maude, Maude, Maude—she rolled her eyes with disgust.

  Well, at least Morwen did not fill her belly with Stephen’s brats as she had Henry’s. And nevertheless, the lady was a deceitful witch whose council the king held dearer than he did her own. Of late, the wretched woman came and went as she pleased, rising to the dais, even without a by-your-leave. Now, she stood between her king and queen as though she believed she had a right to.

  How it galled.

  And yet, for all her annoyances, Morwen Pendragon was a necessary evil. If Maude ever hoped
to see her son crowned in place of Duke Henry, she must endure all those smug smiles every time Morwen slid past to whisper into the King’s ear. Affecting an air of serenity and grace, as befitted her station, she sat patiently, studying the exchange between king and courtesan.

  Something was amiss… she could feel it… like a crackling in the air. She flicked a bored glance at the pair standing below the dais, waiting so patiently whilst Morwen and Stephen conferred in full view of the court.

  The dispossessed lady of Blackwood bit her words with barely contained fury. “I. Do. Not. Trust. Him,” she said, if not loudly enough to be overheard by the men standing below the dais, certainly loudly enough to be heard by Maude. But, of course, no pretense was ever made to keep their conversations private, and she supposed that if her pride was to be a casualty of this damnable alliance, so be it—for the sake of her son. Eustace was by far his own worst enemy, and he needed all the help he could get.

  Her husband remained firm. “I need that castle.”

  “Aye, Your Grace… but you do have other wards to give him. My daughter…” Morwen cast a sideways glance at Maude, never hesitant to rub this truth into her already wounded pride. “Seren is blood to a King, and when she comes into her own, she would serve you well. Of all my daughters she is the most pliant. Only if you send her to wed this… this… petty lord… before she is ready, you may lose another Pendragon.”

  Of course, she was referring to the loss of Elspeth, the pretty little termagant who’d wed the ingrate, Malcom Scott. All these years Maude had held that man in such high esteem, and he’d returned her favor by renouncing his oath to her husband and giving his fealty to her treacherous uncle.