Page 179 of The Daughters of Avalon
Good God, man—get hold of yourself.
Chapter
Sixteen
Fixing her gaze on his back, Seren willed the man to feel her outrage. So much for their truce, so much for peace. He was a sour-faced lout, and she didn’t know why she’d even considered his offer ofpax.
Dwarfed by his size, his mare didn’t appear as though she could comfortably carry him, and even so, like most women, that poor beast managed to be stronger than people imagined. For certes, Seren was discovering her own strength, and though she still didn’t comprehend what happened to the Whitshed, she knew in her heart that her sister would want her to carry on.
She still had three living sisters, and together they must find a way to stop Morwen, else there would be more blood shed over this land than the last fourteen years of war combined.
Later, she would allow herself to mourn—later, when she was reunited with Rosalynde, and until then, she would continue to fantasize over ways to torture Wilhelm Fitz Richard.
For one, she would like to tie his ankles together and hang him like a bundle of herbs from the bough of a tree, then call bees to harass him.
Or mayhap charm a polecat and let the foul beast spray him so thoroughly he’d have good reason to scowl.
Only then, she recalled all his thoughtful gestures: the effort he’d taken to forage for her, the ribbon he’d bought in Dover, the satchel full of provisions, and the fact that he’d returned to help Jack, even against his will, and her anger dissipated.
Reaching back to finger the silk ribbon in her hair, smoothing it between her fingers, she decided that everything about this man confused her.
Three days had gone by since Dover, and so it seemed, he was still determined to ignore them. Mother’s mercy! He reminded her of those silly guards outside the King’s Hall—silent, long-suffering, and ever ready to serve, only pretending to look straight through them. But if you dared attempt to enter the King’s Hall, they planted their lances in your face quicker than you could blink.
Truly, in all her days, she had never been in the company of a man so intent upon dismissing her. She considered that a long moment, releasing the ribbon as her lips twisted wryly.
Elspeth so oft said her charm was a gift, like aglamour, irresistible and inescapable. But if that be the case, Wilhelm was hardly fazed at all. Riding beside her, Jack remained mopey. Long-faced, he chewed his left cheek and no doubt he was worried about finding his way home. For his sake, she realized that the worst thing she could do right now was to give in to her grief. “Do you have family in England?” she asked conversationally.
“Nay,” he said, shaking his head. “And you?”
Seren nodded. “I have four—” she swallowed suddenly and painfully. “Three… three sisters.”
“They are waiting for you?”
She sighed. “Only one… my sister Rosalynde.”
“Where are the rest?”
Seren sighed. “One sister in Wales, the other somewhere near Scotia.”
“Oh,” he said, and then went back to chewing his cheek.
Like a lodestone, her gaze returned to their rueful champion. He wasn’t unkind, not at all. Nor was he contemptuous; that wasn’t the problem. Rather, he was unapproachable and uncommunicative. And despite this, he still managed to be incredibly solicitous, looking after their every need—not only hers, but Jack’s, as well. Three full days they’d been on the road, and, aside from that first day, she’d not had to harry him once over stopping to see to their needs. Considering that, it seemed ungrateful to complain. If Seren was lonely, she had Jack to keep her company, and anyway, she was accustomed to silence. Much of their time at Llanthony had been spent in prayer, mostly because Ersinius was ever intent upon saving their heathen souls.
For the most part, Morwen had never bothered with her daughters. From the very instant they’d left court as wee ones, to the instant they’d returned as women-grown, their mother appeared to have forgotten she had daughters altogether, only rousing herself to do aught for them when it suited her purposes.
All those new dresses this past fall?Only because their appearance embarrassed Morwen—and particularly so when their “competition” was dressed to the teeth in the finest of Flemish cloths.
Invitations to sup?Only when their mother wished to remind King Stephen that she had daughters to wed to his endless list of new men—hundreds and hundreds of oath-breakers, whose only recommendation was that they were in the right place at the right time to serve.
As for Seren, Morwen had a particularly hideous beast in mind—one William Martel, who espoused loyalties to his sovereign, but was ever-prepared to betray him, as he’d once betrayed her father.
So they said, lampreys killed Henry, but Seren didn’t believe it for an instant. Eels’ blood was poisonous, and a small amount could, indeed, kill a man, which was why no one should eat them raw. But in such cases, the manner of death should be swift and painful. By all accounts, Henry had been hale that day, and though his death might, indeed, have been painful, he’d lingered overlong with fever and took his last breath with his “loyal” steward by his side—suspicious to say the least. And, according to Morwen, it was Martel who’d administered the poison, and if you asked Seren, her father made a far deadlier mistake than eating lampreys that day in Saint-Denis-en-Lyons; he’d made the mistake of inviting his vicious, deceitful mistress to the hunt.
But, of course, Seren couldn’t prove it. Neither was she present at her father’s deathbed, but she’d heard more than enough accounts of her father’s passing to know it was as suspicious as Wilhelm’s mood.
Something was niggling that man… something she couldn’t put her finger on. And yet if he was still piqued over having to go back for Jack, he never once took it out on the boy.
It must be something else.
