Page 122 of The Daughters of Avalon
Of course, he did. There seemed to be very little of her story that surprised him. But, all through the telling, Wilhelm stared at her, his dark eyes wide with horror, his shredded and blood-stained face like the Shadow Beast, contorting with every word she spoke. Only now that she had revealed herself, she wasentirely at their mercy and she was too far into her explication to pretend it was aught less than it was. “I amnota witch,” she explained. “I’m adewine.” But, when both men furrowed their brows, she relented. “Very well, Iamwitch. But this is not what you suppose.”
She didn’t like that word—witch—because of what it meant to others. She was a child of the Earth Mother, a Maiden pledged to thehud, but for all these men knew of the Craft of the Wise, witchery was as good as any word she might use. And nevertheless, she endeavored to explain that in their native tongue, they were known asdewines, not witches. Translated more precisely, they were enchantresses, but also healers, prophets, seers. As with any art, not everyone had the same skills, and certainly not all were dark.
“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 motheris 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 evenas 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 Shall 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 Shall 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
Twenty
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 wasthatface 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 wasnotevil. 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.
