Page 127 of The Daughters of Avalon
Would Seren be wed to Giles? Would her sister have returned with him to Warkworth?
As life happened, nothing occurred without consequence—at least that’s what Rhi so oft claimed. And here was a perfect example: The nuns at Neasham were world-renowned seamstresses. They sold their services to support their work at the priory, where they hosted an almonry as well as a hospital. Even to the most discerning eye, their needlework was superior, and the Queen Consort oft commissioned their services. And, of course, whatever the Queen had one of her mother must keep twenty. Pride in excess was Morwen’s weakness, and she was not immune to vainglory. Therefore, merely so she wouldn’t feel humiliated by the poor state of her daughters’ dress, she had commissioned three new gowns, one for each. After all, it wouldn’t be seemly to allow Henry’s offspring—illegitimate though they might be—to be dressed so meanly whilst at court.
And yet, it must also be noted that not once during their years at Llanthony had Morwen ever provided them a single dress—not for twelve long years, even as they’d doubled in height and formed a woman’s curves. Rather, the sisters had fashioned their own gowns from cast-off robes. And if, indeed, they had arrived at Westminster in tatters, they had been proud enough to be wearing the fruits of their own labors. But this, of course, was neither here nor there.
Knowing Seren would be paraded before the court during her presentation to the lord of Warkworth, Morwen had commissioned a second dress for Seren. That was when Rosalynde acquired the nun’s habit. Having accompanied her sister to the fitting, she’d spied the habit folded in a chair, and when Sister Emma handed Rosalynde their finished stack of gowns, she’d very nonchalantly laid them atop the habit, and when they’d quit her chamber, Rosalynde took the habit as well. After all, it could so easily have been a mistake—or so she would have claimed if someone caught her. But no one did. Essentially, that stolen gown led to her escape, and having fled when she did, she stole theveryhorse of theveryman her sister had been intended to wed.
And this was theysbryd y bydher sister Rhiannon sometimes spoke of. According to Rhi, life was so much like a spider’s web, everything integrally connected. Free will was a gift, butalldivergent paths led to a shared end—a boundary not unlike the verge of the spider’s web, a delicate filament to be plucked like a harp, in tune to a song inspired by the hearts of men. Only whether that song be good or bad, happy or sad, depended on the spirit of the age, theysbryd y byd.
Now what would happen if Mother Helewys happened to note her stolen habit? Would she realize it was Sister Emma’s? Would she insist upon knowing the circumstances? Would she glean the truth and then tell Morwen?
To make matters worse, it was only then as she endeavored to hide her stolen garb that she considered the utter humiliation of arriving at Aldergh dressed in her current state—now, in truth, she was in tatters. Her poor sister would fear she’d been assaulted—and, well, so she had, but not under the circumstances Elspeth and her husband might think. But, as luck would have it, she worried for naught. Apparently, the five gold marks they’d offered for Lady Ayleth’s soul, plus whatever Giles paid for the room, was more than enough impetus for the prioress to accept his money without question. In fact, she invited them to sup in their hall, though thankfully, Giles declined, with the excuse that they’d been traveling too long, and hiswifehad an ague in her bones. If the prioress had any reservations at all, it was only when Giles ordered the bath. She gave Rose a narrow-eyed glance, though before she could say aught, Giles handed the woman another sterling, and off she went, happily, to do his bidding.
Perhaps she’d feared, as Rosalynde feared, that Giles meant for them to trollop together in the sanctity of her priory, but that too was a needless concern. When the bath arrived, Giles offered her a smile that put a twinkle in his dark eyes, and he left as in marched a procession of nuns, carrying a small tub, buckets, soap, towels, and the last in line held a stack of folded gowns.
“Oh, nay! There must be some mistake,” Rose said, peering out the door, but Giles was already gone.
The woman smiled serenely. “Oh, nay, Lady Rosalynde. Your husband procured them.” She glanced at the cloak Rose had pinched so jealously, perhaps wondering what lay beneath. “My lord of Warkworth informed us that you met some trouble on the road. For this we are heartily aggrieved.” The corners of the nun’s eyes crinkled. “For all your generosity, Mother Helewys has also provided her own small gift for your troubles.”
Guilt gnawed at Rosalynde’s belly.
The woman shook her head sadly. “We’ve not been able to take our wagons through Darkwood for years now.” With a tilt of her head, she thrust out the stack, insisting that Rosalynde take it. “Rife with thieves and cutthroats, and I dare not say what more.”
“Thank you,” said Rose, shamefaced. And yet it was only after the nun departed that she understood the true generosity of the gifts... There was not one, but two gowns amidst the lot. One of them rivaled the gown her sister had worn to the King’s Hall. The first layer was a gold-threaded camlet, fine as the finest silkchainse. The surcoat was a thick azure color made of a lovely corded fabric, soft as velvet. The color reminded Rosalynde of bellflowers. There was also a cloak to match in a darker shade of blue, generously trimmed with soft ermine.
Apparently, thecatskincloak was no longer amidst their belongings, and later, Giles would tell her the sisters accepted the donation graciously. But, of course, they would; it was a beautiful cloak, if only one didn’t know what it was made of.
Supper arrived after her bath, delivered by none other than Giles himself. Anticipating the moment of his arrival, Rosalynde received him dressed in one of her bright new gowns, hoping with all her heart that she’d chosen the one he preferred. After all, it would be their first night alone together and she wanted to thank him properly… and more, she wanted him to know how willingly she came to their union, even if he didn’t properly understand the gifts the Goddess had granted them.
Giles froze as he opened the door.
Whatever he had expected to encounter upon returning to the room, he hadn’t expected such a brilliant transformation. But it was more than the dress. As a matter of confession, he had been anticipating seeing her again, dressed in something more appropriate to her station, but nothing could have prepared him for the smile she bestowed upon him as he entered the room.It glowed more brightly than his sword ever could, and, in response, like an untried youth, he nearly dropped the tray he held.
Her hair was freshly washed and plaited, her skin translucent, and without the wimple, veil and filth, he could see every detail all-too clearly.
She was… breathtaking.
She was… precisely the woman he’d envisioned in his dreams. His siren…
She was… heartrendingly beautiful… her nose pert and sweet. Her lips so full and rosy. Her hair full of shimmer, catching the copper gleam of firelight. And her eyes shone with the light of an inner flame.
“You look… beautiful,” he said, averting his gaze, as he moved toward the room’s only table to set down the tray.
“Youare beautiful, my lord,” she said, with a tremble in her voice, and Giles chuckled softly, very swiftly losing all his good sense. God have mercy, it was all he could do not to strip the lady bare and lay her down upon that well-made bed, peel away herchainseand replace the garment with his burning lips… alas, he would not.
No matter that they seemed to have formed some inexplicable bond, she was still a lady, whose honor must be defended… including from himself.
Particularly from himself.
Alas, he could not explain his sense of duty to her. But then, nothing about this past week was even remotely explicable. She was Morwen Pendragon’s daughter—a witch by her own admission. Giles was a Paladin, sworn to eradicate her kind from this earth.
And yet… there was naught about Rosalynde Pendragon that was evil, and even now his sword lay silent against the wallwhere he’d put it… which was more than he could say about his othersword.
Gods’ truth, if there was any witchery at play here, it was only this: His heart would not stop thumping in her presence and his lungs felt too constricted to breathe. His blood simmered through his veins and his cock stirred against his will.
She was nervous, he could tell. He could see that she stood trembling, like a bride on her first night, with hands joined primly together, and her alabaster cheeks the color of a rose in bloom—a rose in winter.
For all that he might be twice her age, he was nervous, too—a fact that bewildered him. What was she? Twenty perhaps? He was thirty-three, yet, through his service in the Guard, he felt twice that.
