Page 163 of The Daughters of Avalon
Rosalynde nodded with comprehension. Few understood the role Malcom Scott had played for England, all to aid her sister in her flight from Llanthony, but it was no piddling matter. He was once a member of the King’s elite Rex Militum, a powerful but secret guard assigned to protect the King’s interests—and, so Malcom had once believed, the welfare of the realm itself. For those whose loyalty remained fast to Scotland—as most Scots doubtless would be—they were bound to be offended by the return of a prodigal son.
In fact, Malcom’s own father, a powerful laird, disowned him for a good many years; thankfully he was also the first to embrace his son’s return.
Unfortunately, these were fickle, fickle times, and the barons—particularly the border lords—remained suspicious for a reason. Words of fealty were far too easy to speak; it was what a man did in times of war that mattered most. Too many waffled in their allegiance, one minute siding with Matilda, the next with Stephen.
But come what may, Malcom’s fealty was sealed. Already once, despite Malcom’s initial defection, and despite some of the counsel’s advice, David mac Maíl Choluim had ridden to Aldergh’s defense, even though he’d been called upon by an unlikely ally… Elspeth herself. After all, it was David of Scotia who so long ago put forth the indictment against their grandmamau. It was his actions that sealed Morgan Pendragon’s fate and sent her to the Inquisition, where, by their own half-sister’s intervention the Lady of Blackwood was dispossessed and dragged through the streets of London to be burned at the stake as a heretic. The Empress’s own husband sentenced her to death, and though Matilda might have believed she was spiting her father’s mistress, in the process they’d murdered one of the kindest souls that ever took a breath. And yet, somehow, Elspeth still blamed David for their grandmamau’s death, never Matilda. That was the bone Rhiannon always wished to pick with Elspeth—and Rosalynde, as well.
But no matter; this world was rife with unlikely alliances—not the least of which included her own marriage, for she, adewine, a Daughter of Avalon, was now wed to an executioner for the Church.
Nothing was simple anymore; so Rosalynde said nothing. She listened quietly, squeezing her sister’s arm when words might be expected but wouldn’t serve.
Elspeth told her briefly about the Scot king’s visit some weeks ago, about his generous gift of armored soldiers—a gesture meant to appease Malcom since her husband was constantly en route to Carlisle. But at least Aldergh was well defended. There was not an inch of the fortress that wasn’t manned by guards, and what was more, Elspeth had installed a powerful warding spell only to be certain.
Rosalynde expressed her disappointment not to be able to hug her sweet nephews, because their presence alone was likea shining light, but she assured Elspeth that she understood. A mother must do what was best for her babes.
Elspeth patted her hand and said, “Oh! I brought the Book.”
The Book of Secrets.
“Good,” said Rosalynde, with no small measure of relief, because if there was one thing they needed right now it was the words of theirdewineforebears. Somewhere in that ancient tome there must be some means to defeat Morwen—and if not defeat her, per se, then perhaps disarm her.
But what a wonder it was that Elspeth was so willing to exploit the secrets thegrimoirecontained, when little more than a year ago her eldest sister would have gone to great lengths to deny theirdewineheritage.
Rhiannon would be amazed.
Chapter
Nine
The brume Seren conjured near Dover doggedly pursued them, showering them with a fine, cold mist that never quite soaked them, but left them immersed in a discomforting cocoon of dampness.
As a matter of expediency, they dared travel by road, avoiding travelers whenever they must.
Although it was impossible to say whether anyone knew that she and her sister had been hiding aboard the Whitshed, there was no immediate sign of pursuit, and so, concealed beneath Wilhelm’s immense, brown cloak, aglamourspell wasn’t necessary. Albeit, dressed as she was, Seren couldn’t help but feel like an oversized sack of meal.
Chafing beneath the crude hood, her hair teased loose from her braid, clinging damply to her cheeks. Now and again, she swept the wayward strands beneath her hood, and dared not complain. It was her own doing, after all, and the best she could hope for was to ride out of the brume.
Considering the circumstances, Wilhelm was sober as he should be. Jack was hard-pressed to keep his eyes from welling with tears. All afternoon, the mood remained grim.
Then again, Seren couldn’t have borne it had there been gaiety or laughter. No one could possibly have any reason to laugh. She felt grief-stricken, and still couldn’t weep.
Silence ensued as she contemplated her losses—her sister, foremost, but that certainly wasn’t all. Along with Arwyn, Seren had lost her one true chance to escape England. Now she was well and duly caught amidst thepolitikalmachinations of would-be kings and queens.
Women like her were little more than pawns to be played.
What would be her fate once herintendedgot hold of her?
Would he do as he’d sworn to do and marry her, all the while bending the knee to an unworthy sovereign?
But, of course, he had too much to lose to break faith with the crown. Naturally, he would honor their betrothal. The King’s son had burned his castle once already. Stephen had all but threatened to do it again. But sweet fates, if he was aligned with Stephen, then for certes he would be aligned with her mother, and to be within her mother’s grasp would be a fate worse than death.
Arwyn, she thought.Poor, poor Arwyn.
By the time they’d returned to the harbor, the entire area was aswarm with guards. It was fortunate enough she’d been wearing Wilhelm’s cloak, or they may have recognized her, though, in truth, fugitives though they were, it didn’t appear anyone knew that Arwyn Pendragon was aboard the vessel when it burned. Her sister’s name was not bandied once, and, in truth, there was no one who even bothered to wonder what had happened to the captain’s son.
Nary a survivor emerged from the wreckage.Not one.Her sister was well and truly gone. Whatever had set that ship aflame had done so with great expediency and violence. Barely a cinder remained; and what little survived, sank to the bottom of the harbor. Captain Airard, so it seemed, came from a cursedlineage. After two generations had found their graves amidst shallow seas, she hoped Jack would be smart enough not to follow in his father’s shoes.
Each mulling over their own part in the day’s tragedy, the trio journeyed in silence, with no one quite certain how to breach the ever-expanding chasm.
