A Winter’s Rose Page 4

  In fact, her mother’s glamour spell was so powerful that neither she nor her sisters had ever had the smallest glimpse of her mother’s true persona. For all anyone knew, Morwen Pendragon was as young and lovely as her daughters—a babe herself when she’d born them. Knowing she would outlive Henry by many, many years, she’d lied to him when she’d arrived at court, telling him she was but sixteen.

  Of course, it wasn’t true. So far as Rosalynde knew, Morwen was at least seventy years or more.

  She and Seren shared a look, and with a blink of recognition, Seren’s lips turned at one corner, then she lifted her chin and turned away. Thereafter, they veered in opposite directions, Seren toward the King’s hall and Rosalynde toward the palace doors.

  At long last, Rosalynde slipped past the guards, emerging into the yard. Holding her Book possessively, she thrilled over the prospect of seeing Elspeth again, even if it meant leaving pieces of her heart in London. She had no doubt the journey would be long and fraught with perils, but no danger could be greater than her own mother. But Morwen was as canny as she was treacherous. If Rosalynde didn’t find a mount soon and flee before Morwen chanced to discover their plot, everything would be lost.

  Hopefully, Seren would leave today with her betrothed, and Arwyn would endeavor to convince Morwen she’d had no hand in Rosalynde’s schemes. Luckily, her sister had a way of convincing folks everything she said was true; you might call it a glamour of words. No doubt Rosalynde would have preferred leaving all together, but if her sister had come along, it would have been impossible to evade Morwen. As charming as Arwyn could be, she was not very self-sufficient. Rosalynde needed to keep all her wits about her at all times in order to succeed, and Morwen would pluck out their hearts if they were caught.

  Nay, it was better for her mother to believe she still had three daughters to barter away, although it wasn’t likely she would ever forgive Rhiannon for her part in Elspeth’s escape.

  Realizing with a start that she’d forgotten to check the coins in her hem, she reached down to snatch up the heavy wool gown, not caring that she was showing all the world her ankles. She’d sewn in five gold marks, along with the philter, basting them in place with a bit of thread. She shook one coin free, hearing it jangle, but she wouldn’t rest reassured until she touched every one, and then the philter. Without the herbs, she wouldn’t be able to maintain her glamour. Counting coins, and then moving her fingers along the hemline until she felt the soft lump, she exhaled in relief and dropped her skirt. The gold marks settled with another jangle.

  All is well, Rose. Don’t fret.

  She and Arwyn had a deeper connection for having shared so much time in the womb. For them, it was easier to mindspeak, but they shouldn’t be taking chances—and this was precisely the reason Rosalynde couldn’t take her.

  Find a horse. Get out of the city.

  Please, shut your gob!

  It was late afternoon, near about the hour when many of the king’s guests should be departing or seeking beds for the evening. For obvious reasons, Rosalynde would prefer not to have to enter the King’s stables. Getting back out without getting caught might be problematic. Therefore, if possible, she planned to liberate one of the horses whose misfortune it was to be hobbled outside. There were too many visitors to expect that everyone should be able to stable their mounts as they pleased. And besides, the interior stables were expensive, and often, visitors preferred to pay a stable hand to keep an eye on their belongings. Searching for such a horse, whose groomsman was preoccupied, she walked along the stable’s perimeter.

  “Good day, sister.”

  “Good day, my son,” she said, feigning a look of perfect serenity, in hopes that it would bleed through her glamour.

  “Excuse me, sister,” said another man, as he bumped into her.

  Rosalynde tried not to scowl at the man, but it wasn’t easy, considering that she was blessed with more temper than any of her sister’s, save Rhiannon. “Good day to you,” she said, though she longed to smack him with her book for not watching where he was going.

  He apologized, Rose. Don’t engage every battle.

  Alas, Arwyn, you stole my share of good temper in the womb. But, please, do not fret, I know what my task is. I’ll not risk it by engaging in petty squabbles.

  Good, said Arwyn. Good. May the Goddess bless your travels.

  Do not worry. I’ll get the grimoire to Elspeth as quickly as I am able—unless your prattling gets me in trouble with mother.

  And still, her sister persisted. Do you really think she can keep it safe?

  Only pray she can, Rosalynde replied. If not, we are all doomed.

  Their mother must be stopped. If, in fact, she continued with her present scheme, England itself would find itself beneath her thumb, because Eustace was naught but a greedy little boy.

  Be safe, my sister.

  I will! Now, please! Stop talking to me!

  Rosalynde tried to close her mind, but distracted as she was, when another clumsy fool bumped into her—this one without a word of pardon—the grimoire flew out of her hands, landing in a pile of dung.

  Literally.

  See what you did, Arwyn!

  There was only meager comfort in the fact that Arwyn did not respond. Dismayed, Rosalynde gasped when she saw her dung-covered grimoire.

  “Nay!” she said, kneeling in the dirt to begin wiping it off—praying with all her heart that her mother would not somehow sense her betrayal and fly out of the palace to catch her on her knees—only then, it might be a propitious position from which to beg for her life.

  Goddess please!

  Grimacing with disgust, she attempted to dislodge the horse-dung with a finger, grateful it wasn’t fresh, but it was nevertheless disgusting. With a groan, she slid the book across the dirt… and that’s when she spotted the twin black horses hobbled side by side…

  Like shining gifts from the Goddess, there stood two lovely mares with glistening black coats. She needed only one. And… as luck would have it, there was no one near the horses, and the stableboy was busy arguing with another customer.

  Scooping up the grimoire, Rosalynde bounded to her feet. Not quite daring to place the book against her breast, she nevertheless held it close and made her way toward the horses. Mild mannered, neither protested her approach, and thankfully, both still wore their tack, though it was certain that neither of the saddlebags would contain anything of value. Stifling the urge to peek inside—because that might look suspicious, she pretended as though she knew what she was doing, untethering one of the horses, and apologizing to the other as she did so. Feeling a pang of regret when she led the animal away, she reassured herself that these were the gifts the Goddess had provided, and who was she to look a gift horse in the mouth?

  Quickly, she opened one of the satchels, slid her grimoire inside, patted the mare’s soft, black rump, and hurried away. When she was out of the line of sight of the stable hand, she tried to mount. It wasn’t so easy as she would have supposed…

  Cursing beneath her breath—because it wouldn’t serve her disguise to be running about spouting oaths—she tried twice before removing her mother’s cloak. Vexed with the garment simply for existing, she shoved the monstrosity into the saddlebag, not caring if it was ruined. At any rate, it was temperate for winter, and it would be easy enough to cast a warming spell—she knew plenty of those after so many years living in such mean quarters at Llanthony.

  Alas, until now, she had never stolen anything of value, but the Book of Secrets was more precious than any crown jewel, and in the wrong hands, more lethal than Stephen’s Rex Militum. So long as she had the Book in her possession, she must have faith and press on. No matter what… she must do all in her power to defend the Book of Secrets.

  Finally, she placed her foot in the stirrup and without daring to look back to see if anyone noticed, she settled her rump in the saddle, Prepared to risk life and limb to keep the Book safe, she snapped the reins and made for the city g
ates.

  It was a long, long journey north, and there was no time to lose…

  Chapter 5

  Squeezing past the hoard still waiting to air grievances to the king, Giles was more than ready to be shed of the palace.

  Quite certainly, it was possible that, in his day, Henry Beauclerc had had nearly as many plaintiffs, but Giles couldn’t imagine a single body more constrained by those walls. And to make matters worse, there were so many people in attendance that the air was spicy with scents, not a one of them recalling him to frankincense or myrrh.

  “It smells like a dirty twat,” groused Wilhelm behind him, his mood growing surlier by the instant.

  But despite his annoyance over his brother’s persistent rancor, Giles’s shoulders shook with mirth. It did, indeed, smell like a dirty twat.

  At last, they emerged into the palace yard—fresh air, at last. And yet, even then, Wilhelm’s face twisted with disgust and his shoulders remained taut enough to bounce a penny off. “It would seem you should be relieved,” Giles said. “You never relished the notion of bringing her home, anyway.”

  Nor had Giles, in truth, but that was neither here nor there.

  He had no need to explain who he was talking about, because she had been the topic of every waking conversation betwixt him and his brother for two solid months—ever since the King’s courier delivered the news.

  “Relieved?” said Wilhelm, casting a glance over his shoulder at Giles. “He made you Earl, Giles—Earl, for the love of Mary! For what reason, but to appease you so you might sooner kneel before him, and now you surely will.”

  Wilhelm rushed past him and Giles narrowed his dark gaze on his brother’s back, restraining his temper. Finally, at long last, they would arrive at the crux of Wilhelm’s rage. Giles had been back now for months, and his relationship with his half-brother was no less contentious than it was on the day he’d arrived. Though never publicly, Wilhelm questioned his every edict and Giles was at a loss as to how to address the matter, since he couldn’t glean its cause. But, until this instant, it hadn’t occurred to him that his loyalty might be in question. “So, you think the gift of a title is enough to make me forget his son murdered our entire family?”

  “Don’t forget Lady Ayleth.”

  Giles screwed his face. God’s save him, he loathed to confess that he’d been gone so long that he couldn’t even remember Lady Ayleth’s face. And despite this, he mourned her as he did all Warkworth’s wasted lives. He only wished Wilhelm would stop baiting him, as though her name were a battle cry meant to rile him against Stephen. They were already on the same side, even if he couldn’t share everything he knew.

  “Nothing has changed, brother. You may continue to sneer and despise our king at will, but I am compelled to look that man in the face and pretend an alliance I will never honor.”

  Wilhelm said nothing, and Giles continued. “In the end, I, too, will have forsaken my oaths—and worse, because at least Stephen must have believed his lies when he spoke them to Henry.”

  Put precisely so, there wasn’t much to argue over, and to his credit, Wilhelm remained silent, although Giles wasn’t yet through. “Simply because I was not there to cart out those bodies does not mean I cannot imagine the atrocities committed. I grieve for them as much as you.”

  If he did not openly weep, it simply wasn’t his way, though his losses were just as profound. In the space of a single night, with the sweep of a torch, both their lives changed—but, not the least for which, his once jovial brother was now as sour as cow’s milk left to rot beneath the heat of the sun.

  Wilhelm marched before him, quickening his pace, and Giles said in a moment of pique, “You may have known him longer, Will, but I am Warkworth’s rightful heir.”

  “Don’t I know it!”

  “By the saints!” Giles snapped. He lurched forward, reaching out to snatch his churlish brother by the sleeve of his tunic, yanking him back. “What in God’s name ails you, brother? Have I not done all you’ve asked and more? God’s teeth! Before this is done, I will have given up my soul for this cause.”

  And this was hardly an embellishment. If he told Wilhelm what price he’d paid to be released from his obligations, Wilhelm would shed blood tears.

  Wilhelm closed his eyes and thrust a trembling hand to his mouth, clearly overwhelmed, and Giles realized only belatedly that he must have been walking away so vigorously, not because he was furious, but because he was in danger of unmanning himself with tears.

  “I… I am… not… angry… not with you,” he said.

  Giles stared at him, confused. “What, then?”

  “’Tis that…” His brother swallowed visibly, his brows slanting. “I feel… less… a man… for having stood in that hall—in that woman’s presence!” He shook his head with despair.

  Giles furrowed his brow. “Lady Seren?”

  “Nay, Giles! Morwen Pendragon!” Clearly, whatever it was that had unsettled Wilhelm in the hall had shaken him to his bones. It took him a long moment before he could compose himself, and then he said, “I felt her, Giles. That day. Only I did not realize. I took it for my own rage, but I felt it again today—a presence black as night.”

  The lady of Blackwood was, indeed, formidable. Her gaze had never left them in the hall. “I understand,” Giles said.

  “Nay, brother, you do not!” Fear turned his pupils to pinpoints. “I cannot put a finger to it, but it was as though she were here…” He thumped a finger to his head, hard. “In my head. Laughing all the while.”

  Giles nodded, squeezing his brother’s arm, realizing only belatedly how much this ordeal must be weighing upon him. He cast a glance toward the stables, considering the holiday. Already, the crowd had thinned. “Come,” he said. “The horses can wait. Let me buy you an ale for the journey.”

  “Piss water,” complained Wilhelm, sliding a hand down, and squeezing the tendons at the back of his neck. “I would defy you to find one good alesman amidst the lot.”

  “I know a place,” said Giles, reaching out, pulling his brother in the direction of Castle Tavern. Finally, Wilhelm relented.

  From where they stood, it was but a short walk. Regrettably, the establishment was as much a rubbish heap as he’d remembered, but at least they served their clientele quickly, and being so close to Westminster, they had better ale than most. After a drink to settle Wilhelm’s nerves, he would remove his brother from this hell pot and the journey home was bound to be more pleasant.

  Twenty minutes later, they were seated at a table in the dimly lit common room, clinking tankards. “To father,” said Giles.

  Wilhelm gave a rueful nod. “To my… lord de Vere,” he said, “May God rest him in peace.” And then he raised his glass a little higher, offering a hint of a smile. “And,” he said, “to the newly appointed Earl of Warkworth.”

  Giles reached up, clinking his brother’s cup, meeting his gaze and holding it fast. “I give you my word, Will… I will avenge our dead.”

  “Aye,” his brother said, flicking his nose with a finger. “I know you will.” After a moment, he swiped the back of his sleeve across his suds-covered lips, and the two of them drank awkwardly.

  Their relationship had never been close, but over the past few months it had been strained in a way it had never been before. In so many ways, they were strangers—too far apart in years to have any fellowship or shared memories. And, in some ways, Giles was more a bastard son than Wilhelm, because, at least Wilhelm had had their father’s praise and he’d had a mother. Giles had come into this world a babe without a breast to suckle, and he’d scarce recovered his strength by the time he was old enough to train. By the age of ten, Richard de Vere had dismissed him as an able warrior. Far more readily, he’d embraced Wilhelm, who, from the first had shown a warrior’s aptitude and a willingness to learn.

  Their father had been a proud man, with a penchant for siring daughters. His first wife bore him a son—Roger—but then she gave him a daughter and died with he
r babe. His next wife gave him two daughters before Giles, then she, too, died. And if there was one thing to be said about the elder de Vere, it was that he was persistent. He married again to the youngest daughter of the Bamburgh’s lord, just before her father bent the knee to David. Ayleth was her cousin.

  But as for his sons… he hadn’t known what to do with Giles, who was sickly until he’d sprouted his first whiskers—and in the end, perhaps more to distract him than aught else, his father encouraged him to academia. That, more than aught else, was what drove Giles to the seminary, to excel where he thought he might—for the same reason Wilhelm and Roger worked so hard in their training: to make Richard de Vere proud. None of his sons were immune to that aspiration. Richard de Vere had been a force of nature, magnanimous and ever-ready with a smile—but hard on the field, because he’d understood the consequences of frailty and inexperience. His own father had fought in the People’s Crusade, and he himself had fought by Henry’s side during the Battle of Tinchebrai in Normandy.

  So many years Giles had watched his brothers, wishing so much that he could match them, and absurdly, it was whilst he was attending the seminary that he’d discovered, though he did have a mind for academics, he was equally adept with his sword. Simply because he’d quit Warkworth did not mean he’d quit the desire for his father’s approval. He’d trained in private, and all that time he’d spent watching his siblings and father spar had not been in vain. After a time, he’d found himself enrolled in a very elite Papal Guard—so they’d claimed, a good warrior understood the value of both his pen and his sword. If he was now solidly built, it was due the vigorous training he’d received, but only once in his life had Giles ever spied the glint of pride in his father’s eyes—and it was a day that would haunt him till his dying breath… not simply because he’d finally earned his father’s praise, but because… on that day he’d also sealed Warkworth’s fate.