Page 114 of The Daughters of Avalon
Rosalynde forced a smile. “You have a good ear, my lord. My mother was Welsh, my father… English. He’s dead now.”
“And your mother?”
“Dead, as well.” Or, she might as well be. In so many ways Elspeth had been more of a mother to her and her sisters than Morwen ever was. Morwen simply couldn’t be bothered with anyone who didn’t serve her immediate needs. Left to their own devices, she and her four sisters had been forced to look after one another.
Of course, it was one thing to be born a legitimate heir to the crown, another to be a king’s bastard. She supposed she should be thankful that they’d been allowed to wander the palace, until such time as they were no longer welcome… Once she and Arwyn turned six—the year their father died—she and her sisters were roused from their beds in the middle of the night and ferreted away to Llanthony in Wales, to be hidden away like embarrassments—or at least that’s the way it seemed to Rosalynde.
Morwen always claimed that it was for their own good and she’d only meant to keep them safe from harm, but she’d spoken those words with the tenor of a lie. In retrospect, she’d only pretended to fear Stephen’s wrath, and she’d claimed that he’d meant to dispose of Henry’s children—illegitimate or nay—but from where Rosalynde stood now, that never appeared to be the case. Rather, it seemed to Rosalynde that the only thing Morwen was ever afraid of was that her five little brats would get in her way. She was despicable, and her years of neglect had left Rosalynde with an emptiness in her heart that might never be assuaged.
It was no wonder she was looking to Giles for…what?
Now that his fire was burning stronger, he surprised her by coming over and sitting beside her.
“It looks to be quite old. May I?” He lifted a hand as though to request Rosalynde’s book, and then, when she didn’t hand it over at once, he told her, “As I’ve said, I spent quite a few years in the seminary.”
“It is old,” she said. But still, she pressed the tome closer to her breast, protecting it, even though she didn’t believe he could see what she saw. Regardless, she daren’t allow him to have it. It was far, far too precious, and she didn’t wish to let it out of her hands—not even for an instant. So long as she lived, no man nor woman would ever pry it out of her hands—and that was beginning to be the dilemma. The longer she remained in this… this… place, undefended and unprotected, the more probable it was that someone would do precisely that.
Her mother.
Morwen Pendragon.
A fallen daughter of Avalon.
His hand remained turned between them, beseeching…
“I beg pardon, my lord… I would prefer not.”
He gave her an odd glance, his hand lingering only an instant longer. Thankfully, Wilhelm saved her from denying him again. Returning with their supper in hand, he grinned broadly as he held up two fair-sized conies.
“Hungry?” he asked.
Chapter
Fifteen
Sleep was not possible.
Outside the door could be heard an occasional shuffling of feet—guards, probably, but little good ever came from wandering the halls by night. Only two nights ago, a woman had been murdered, her body left to be discovered by the palace guards. And yet, as dangerous as Westminster’s halls might be, by first light, with Mordecai still at large, both Seren and Arwyn were contemplating escape.
It was impossible to say what could be keeping Morwen.
Day by day, the king was growing over suspicious, believing everyone was out to subvert him, particularly now that the Archbishop of Canterbury had steadfastly refused to confirm his heir, leaving his succession in question and reinforcing the illegitimacy of his reign. Rumors abounded that he had sent agents into his court to ferret out spies. Some were whispering lies to fill their purses. But, whatever the case—whatever had detained Morwen, there could be no doubt that when she returned, she would peel the skin from their bodies to attain what information she required. Both girls had recognized the look in her eyes as she’d walked out the door. It promised the worst of herhud du.
Neither Seren nor Arwyn were experienceddewines, and until that night at Darkwood, neither had truly understood what depravity could be wrought bymagikof any sort, nor why good folks should fear them. But that night, they’d learned. And it soon became apparent that their mother was not to be bargained with. She reveled in their tears.
Resolved now—for what better chance would they have?— the girls moved swiftly through the chamber, gathering all the supplies they could carry. Every loose piece of silver and gold Morwen possessed—everything that was not locked away—they shoved into sacks. Then, they turned to more perishable items—anything they could find to sustain them.
With a bit of good fortune, they might find themselves reunited with Elspeth or Rhiannon.
Finally, when they were ready to walk out the door, Seren’s gaze fell upon the scrying stone that had once belonged to their grandmamau.
It was too large to take in its current form. It would be impossible to travel with… and yet.
Rosalynde had the Book of Secrets, and here sat Merlin’s Crystal. To leave it with Morwen was folly, because their mother would only use it to vanquish them—and more importantly, she would use it to find Rosalynde.
Seren herself had never witnessed its use, but they knew it was precious and powerful, and in its current state, their mother could easily use it to ferret them out.
Gently, Seren lifted up the scrying stone. The instant she touched it, the interior began to shift, the stone swirling and billowing through the marbled depths like a storm made of crystal. Helpless to do aught but watch, their eyes became affixed to the images forming…
