Page 145 of The Daughters of Avalon
Considering his best course of action, Wilhelm Fitz Richard stood chewing on a length of straw. Tall as he was—six-feet-five and weighing more than sixteen stone—it had been teasing the pate of his head, and rather than move aside, he’d wrenched the offending tuft from the awning and slid it between his lips, hoping to deceive his brain into forgetting about his complaining belly.
By now he was ravenous, and to make matters worse, the scent of fowl roasting somewhere nearby was making his mouth water and his thoughts go astray. Truth to tell, he hadn’t enjoyed a good repast since leaving Warkworth, but so much as he craved a fat, juicy bird leg, he wasn’t about to leave his post… notyet. He had a feeling in his gut that time was growing as thin as those clouds.
Two months ago, Arwyn and Seren Pendragon fled the palace in London. Best as anyone could surmise, they’d slipped away during the wee hours, very likely on the day their sister Rosalynde stole his brother’s horse.
Fate was such a trickster, twisting circumstances every which way and that. Inexplicably, they’d abandoned one Pendragon in London only to escort another one north. And then, after all was said and done, his brother forsook his intended, only to lose his heart to her sister.
Wilhelm couldn’t blame Giles, not really. Somehow, despite his bitter loathing for their mother, Wilhelm himself had developed a soft spot for Rosalynde. That was why he was here, now, searching for her bloody sisters.
Thinking it only naturally the direction they would go, he’d wasted weeks searching north. Stephen controlled nearly every port save Bristol, and so it had surprised him to learn their trail wended south instead, ending here, then going as cold as a witch’s tatty thereafter.
So, it seemed, the sisters were slippery as wet eels, and knowing Rosalynde so well as he did, he suspected Arwyn and Seren must be usingmagikto avoid capture—magikhe didn’t particularly comprehend, though he’d witnessed firsthand what it could do. God’s truth, if aught plagued him more than the memory of his decimated kinsmen, it was the memory of the Shadow Beast they’d encountered a few months ago in the woodlot south of Whittlewood and Salcey. To this very day he hadn’t any clue how they’d defeated the hideous creature, and no matter how many times Rosalynde explained it, he couldn’t wrap his brain about the doing of it—something about binding and transmutation, things he might never have dreamt of in his worst night terrors… leastways not before seeing it. Strange as itmight seem, he owed his life to a slip of a girl, and God save him if he should ever encounter another.
Nipping at the straw, considering all the ships in the harbor, his best guess was this: If he were in their shoes, he might seek sanctuary with the Empress in Rouen. And, if this be the case, as a matter of conjecture, they must be aboard one of those larger cogs—the Whitshed perhaps.
Today, there were only three ships large enough to navigate the open sea—the Whitshed, the Achéron and the Cassiopé. The largest of these, the Whitshed, was owned by a known conspirator—a man who, though he remained suspect to the crown, was well protected by the Church, else his lands would have long been forfeit by now.
On the other hand, the captains of the other two vessels—the Achéron and Cassiopé—were fiercely loyal to the Crown. Even now, the Achéron harbored an emissary en route to St. Omer to bargain with Canterbury’s exiled archbishop, Theobald of Bec. Perforce, Stephen would have Theobald crown his son though he still lived, though evidently, Theobald would rather keep his exile than put Eustace on England’s throne. That was a good thing, because Wilhelm was like to commit treason if that fool was ever confirmed. As it was, it was all he could do not to take a torch to the royal palace and burn it to the ground.
Wasn’t that what scripture ordained—an eye for an eye?
Aye, well… one day he still might.
One day he’d like to see every man and woman responsible for the slaughter of his kinsmen pay for their sins, and, aye, that included Rosalynde’s wretched mother, Morwen Pendragon.
He bloody well wasn’t afraid of her—or at least that’s what he told himself every night before closing his eyes.
I’ll see your skin turn black till it slips off your bones.
As it was with his loved ones.
All these months later, the memory threatened to purge his belly and ruin his appetite. God’s truth, no matter how many years he lived, he would never forget… that stench… seared flesh. The eye-stinging smoke and ash that turned the landscape grey Wilhelm had been the youngest of his father’s sons, except for Giles, and in one fell swoop, he’d become the eldest, with two half-sisters gone, and an older brother as well. Only Wilhelm and Giles had survived, and only because neither were present at the time.
Pulling the straw between his teeth, he studied the Whitshed… he couldn’t very well force his way aboard. If he tried, or even if he approached the situation with candor, and he was wrong about the captain’s allegiance, it could very well alert the Crown of his intentions. Not only would he give away the sisters’ location, it could bring undue attention to Warkworth—attention they could ill afford whilst Giles was busy conspiring with Matilda.
This was delicate business, but come what may, he’d sworn to find Rosalynde’s sisters and see them safely returned to Warkworth and that’s what he meant to do. Only he would need their trust. It would serve no one for him to go barging aboard that vessel to drag them away perforce.
Watching the deckhands trek from ship to ship, he thought perhaps he could inquire about work, perhaps ask to inspect the sleeping quarters… but, nay, that wouldn’t do. There were more than enough willing and able bodies who didn’t give a bloody damn about sleeping arrangements, so long as they had a belly full of victuals and a pocket full of coin. They were far more likely to turn him away.
But perhaps he could feign business with the captain…
He knew enough about Airard’s history to know how to begin: As it so happened, his namesake and grandsire was the captain of the Mora, the flagship of The Conqueror’s invadingfleet, and judging by the simple fact that he’d followed in his father’s and grandfather’s footsteps (even despite that his own father also found his fate at the bottom of a salt-sea), meant that he was sure to be vain about his legacy. He could find a way to flatter the man, and then perhaps determine if the Pendragon sisters were aboard his ship. Alas, Wilhelm wasn’t as sophisticated as Giles; lies tasted bitter to his tongue.
For the past two days he’d been watching the Whitshed’s comings and goings. The only female he’d spotted was perhaps an elder sister of one of the deckhands. Arm in arm with a boy, she’d disembarked two hours past, although he didn’t believe that could be Seren. He knew what she looked like and he couldn’t imagine the sisters separating for any reason. Where one went, the other was sure to follow.
Unless…
He couldn’t help but remember the morning they’d encountered Rosalynde in the thicket. She’d given herself what she called aglamour. The effect was hideous; it had been all Wilhelm could do not to look at her. Dressed as a nun, she’d fashioned herself in the most unappealing manner possible, with eyes crossed and a pocked face. How his brother had found the wherewithal to keep her on his mount was a mystery to Wilhelm.
To the contrary, it had been all Wilhelm could do not to gape at Seren when he’d met her in the King’s Hall. She was easily the most stunning woman he’d ever beheld. Truly, even as lovely as Rosalynde might have turned out to be without theglamour, it was inconceivable to Wilhelm that any man—not even St. Giles—would rebuff Seren for want of another. Seren Pendragon was a paragon of beauty, rightfully earning her reputation as the Beauty of Blackwood. Even now, all these months later, and particularly whilst he’d been searching for her, it was much to his chagrin that he sometimes dreamt of the lady, even despite knowing she was not meant for him. And not only wasshe a coveted beauty, but she was an heir of the Pendragon line, a bastard child to Henry himself. All things considered, illegitimate or not, she was a valuable pawn in Stephen’s game of Queen’s Chess. Baseborn as he was, Wilhelm wasn’t fit to kiss her slippers.
And by the by, if he couldn’t win the hand of the daughter of a lowly baron, winning Seren would be hopeless.
Reminded of Ayleth of Bamburgh, Wilhelm’s mood soured. With a grumble, he tossed down the tuft of straw, kicking it annoyedly, finally losing the battle of wills with his belly—he was famished, damn it all to hell.
Twenty minutes—that’s all he needed. Those bloody ships wouldn’t be going anywhere in the meantime. Merely twenty minutes, he reasoned, and then it was time to take more drastic measures.
Morwen Pendragon was due to be released from the Tower on the morrow, and she would immediately set out to accomplish what her minions could not. She would ferret out her daughters more easily than Wilhelm ever could, and judging by what that Shadow Beast had been capable of, its contemptible mistress was a force to be avoided at all cost.
