Page 199 of The Daughters of Avalon
God help him. From the moment he awoke, it was all he could think about, even as her witchy wind roused, and he wished to God in Heaven above that he didn’t feel so concerned about leaving her alone, because they would both be better served if he could find himself five minutes alone so he could strangle his cock.
How the hell was he going to keep her safe if he couldn’t stop thinking about the beast in his breeches?
Growling with dissatisfaction, Wilhelm surreptitiously adjusted himself so that the horse’s gait wouldn’t offer more pain.
In retrospect, he should have told her everything. From the very beginning, he should have sat her down and explained all he knew. And still, in his defense, he’d had more than a few confusing feelings of his own to muddle through—for one, she represented everything Wilhelm could never have, and yet she was everything he could ever want.
And then there was this: He hadn’t appreciated the shrewish tone of her voice, nor her lack of enthusiasm for his aid. He’d traveled a long, long way to help her, and he was risking life and limb, even now. If they should happen to encounter another Shadow Beast, there was little he could do to save them, and he would die with certain regrets.
And, so much as he loathed the events that transpired before his arrival, it also wasn’t his fault her sister was dead, nor had he wished to embroil himself in her family’s troubles. They had enough troubles at Warkworth, and he’d been dragged into this kicking and screaming, because why in damnation should he agree to aid the daughter of the very woman who murdered his kinsmen?
Aye, despite knowing it wasn’t Seren’s fault, it took Wilhelm time to reconcile that fact—not to mention that she’d saddled him with another poor soul to see to, and despite all Wilhelm’s objections, he’d come to care for Jack—well enough to part with yet another gold mark for the boy’s care, and the horse as well.
The sisters at Neasham were pleased enough to take his coin and his horse, and so much as he’d believed they would remember his generosity and refuse any more gold, they took everything he offered, and more. And, then, after taking his hard-earned coin, they’d gone and filled Seren’s ears with tittle-tattle.
They ought to add that to their tombstones: Servants of God, celebrated seamstresses and gossipmongers. Every last one. And particularly Mother Helewys, who’d filled his own ears with whispers about Giles and Rosalynde—whispers he ought never have heard.
Evidently, the abbess didn’t condone bathing. She’d bent his ears for over an hour over that sin. And then, Wilhelm made the mistake of revealing that Rosalynde and Seren were sisters, and once revealed, Mother Helewys had rebuked him, telling him tonever darken her doors again with Morwen’s offspring. Not that she didn’t believe Seren a perfectly lovely young woman, she’d said. She simply didn’t wish to court trouble, and trouble was all the Pendragons ever wrought.
For his own part, he couldn’t disagree. He had his own demons to excise over that, but now that he’d gotten to know both Seren and Rosalynde, he presumed her other sisters should be as sweet and lovely as they were. They but had the grave misfortune of sharing Morwen’s blood—and consequently, it was a good thing Mother Helewys didn’t ask him to negate the rumors of sorcery, because Wilhelm was a poor liar. He wouldn’t have been able to gainsay them, and, if that be the case, they would have put Jack out on his ear. As it was, he’d promised to retrieve the boy the instant he could, because they didn’t wish to involve themselves inpolitikalintrigue.
Hoping against hope that Seren’s mood would improve, Wilhelm amused himself with his own thoughts, never for one instant taking his eyes off the skies. Now that the nuns were privy to Seren’s identity, it was but a matter of time before word spread to Stephen. He only hoped that, if Giles hadn’t already found a way to disclose his recent nuptials to the King, he would be gone from London before the truth was revealed.
Chapter
Twenty-Three
Avarice, envy, pride,
Three fatal sparks,
have set the hearts of all
On fire.
—Dante Alighieri
When thy father went a-hunting,
A spear on his shoulder, a club in his hand,
He called the nimble hounds,
‘Giff, Gaff; catch, catch, fetch, fetch!’
Of course, as you must suspect, I have every intention of laying hands upon my grandbabes. I will bequeath them a gift—a lovely spell that will, in time, break their mother’s heart, as she broke mine.
Or perhaps I should bind them—but nay, Elspeth would be relieved by this. She has never been at one with the Goddess.
So perhaps I should poison them in their cribs? That way, when she returns, she will find her sweet babes blue as the seaunder which I was imprisoned—I search my cloak to be sure I have my herbs.
But, nay, killing them too swiftly would be boring. Elspeth would mourn them, never realizing her own mother had deprived her.
Nay, I decide. Better to curse them in their fortunes so she will weep blood tears for all their suffering. Even as I meant to bless Morfran, I will plague them.
Diverting myself with all the amusing possibilities, I seek my reliquary, allowing my senses to guide me. At long, long last, I am led to a women’s solar, and here I am startled to find a small cauldron in the hearth.
“Elspeth,” I exclaim, delighted. But of course, you would embrace yourdewinitynow that you’ve had a small taste.
