Page 112 of The Daughters of Avalon
God help her sisters at Neasham—and then, a thought occurred to him: Perhaps, with her five gold marks, she’d intended to bribe her way into the nunnery. Only now that her money was gone, she would have one hell of a time convincing the prioress to take on another mouth to feed—particularly one so colorful as hers.
Nevertheless, she clearly prized her scripture. She hadn’t let that bloody book out of her sight since the moment he’d laid eyes upon her.
And regardless, with that impudent lift of her chin, she would be wasted in a priory. She was spirited, strong and bright. And while, in truth, her face might not be so exquisite as his intended’s, the more he looked at her… the more he recognized a certain quality that spoke to his heart.
There was an inner light that shone from Sister Rosalynde’s eyes. Even with her odd face and penchant for the veil, he would prefer this woman any day over Seren Pendragon.
But Seren Pendragon was the least of his concerns, and so, too, should be this mouthy nun. He had more urgent matters to settle… not the least of which was the disenfranchising of a king and his idiot son. The Count of Mortain was swiftly becoming a scourge to England. He was dangerous, petty and reckless, and if he continued, unmanaged, he would plunge the entire nation into hell itself. What was more, Morwen Pendragon would be the fallen angel who would usher them in. And this wasnotpuffery, nor a disgruntled lord speaking… nor a man who’d lost his kindred to an idiot’s rampage.
If any other man had done half what Eustace had purportedly done, undermining what little of his father’s good will remained, he would have been drawn and quartered. Instead, the mouthy bugger beat his hairless chest even as he laid waste to England, taxing loyal lords, until even those who’d willingly supported his father now begged to see Duke Henry reclaim England’s throne—and so he would.
So he would.
In the meantime, Giles wanted naught more than to take his new title—and his lovely betrothed—and shove them both up Stephen’s arse. Beautiful as the lady might be, her mother would stop at naught to see her will done. And Giles knew as well as Wilhelm that it was by her counsel that Eustace had burned Warkworth to the ground. Still, even knowing this, he’d stood in Stephen’s hall, watching those complicit fools twitter like birds into each other’s ears, and it was all he could do not to unsheathe his sword, there and then, and climb the stairs to the dais to claim their heads.
Alas, he could not so easily have wiped the smug smile off Morwen Pendragon’s face without sacrificing his own life and Wilhelm’s as well.
Or, for that matter, puttingeverythingat risk.
But now he had another axe to bear for Wilhelm’s sake. After everything his brother had endured, he had been forced to stand by Giles’s side and watch as they’d awarded him an earldom—inexplicably—whilst neither their father nor Roger ever achieved the honor—and, no less, in the presence of Morwen Pendragon. Giles would like to gut them all, if only for pouring fuel over the fire of Wilhelm’s rage. His once good-natured bother was no longer the gladsome fool. The Wilhelm he’d known was dead… perished the night of the fire. He was now pettish and brooding, and as tiresome as it was becoming, Giles was determined to endure it with patience. He only wished he could tell the bloody fool that vengeance was forthcoming. But, all in good time, for the Church itself had an investment in Stephen’s ruin.
“My lord?”
Giles couldn’t say he’d forgotten she was there—not precisely—though he’d made it a point not to look at her again. More and more, he was growing ambivalent to her presence, inexplicably drawn to the lady even though she was not at all his type. And even if she were—Good Christ, she was a nun, a woman of the cloth. It was quite unsettling to feel his cock stir in her presence—and more so over the petting of her stupid book.
“Arewetruly to kindle a fire?”
There was disapproval in her tone, and perhaps a bit of ire. Giles clicked the fire-steel a few more times, annoyed that the wood was so green and wet. “Aye,” he said. “Iam.” And he cast her a brief glance, fighting anew his desire to stare.That face… every time he looked at her, he felt as though he had tippled too many ales.
“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 caughta 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 andphilterin 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 herglamourdaily, therefore it mustn’t be necessary—unless… there was something Morwen was adding to herphilter…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 Gilesstruck 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 benotrue change. Theglamourwasn’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 bloodmagikcould ever truly alter flesh—ergo perhaps the one who’d cast theglamourcould 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.
