Page 219 of The Daughters of Avalon
As Seren offered her neck to be ravaged, waiting to be fulfilled, the wind lifted, swirling leaves.
Chapter
Thirty-One
It was the worst possible turn of events.
Giles was gone. Wilhelm hadn’t been seen in months. Warkworth was vulnerable, and Rosalynde hadn’t any choice but to empty their garrison. Perforce, she would leave a few good men to defend the castle, but there was nothing more critical than the battle she faced right now, and she was ill prepared to wage it.
To make matters worse, somehow Mordecai had survived the ordeal in the woodlot, and she knew he would be there, fighting by her mother’s side. The very thought of facing that creature alone put a tremor in her belly.
So much depended on the outcome.
It had been months now since she’d last met her mother and so much had transpired since that day. She’d known very well that Morwen would never take the loss of hergrimoirelightly, and that she would stop at naught to see it returned. Even so, she’d never once considered that her mother would endanger an innocent child.
Anticipating the battle to come, she dressed herself in the chainmail her husband had given her—hauberk, chausses, tunic and gauntlets. She offered Elspeth a suit of boiled leather, as wellas a mail coif, knowing her own armor would never fit. Elspeth was shorter than she was, but the babes had put a bit of weight on her and the chainmail wouldn’t stretch. Alas, she would have preferred to see Elspeth better protected. She was a mother, after all, and had another babe at home to return to, but because she was a mother, there was no way Rosalynde could ever hope to keep a sword from her hand.
Besides, Elspeth was the eldest of her sisters. As such, there was little chance of telling her sister what to do. Elspeth was hardheaded. She was also furious, and at the instant, Rose pitied anyone who stepped in her sister’s way.
Once they were armored and well-armed, the sight of Elspeth left Rosalynde awed. With her red-gold hair, and her bright blue eyes glinting with vengeance, she reminded Rosalynde of their mother. Save for the color of their hair and eyes, Elspeth and Morwen shared the same features. She had never quite noticed the startling resemblance before now, and it was no wonder Elspeth’s servants had beckoned her inside. That’s the only way Morwen could have trespassed against Elspeth’s warding spell. She would have had to have been invited, and for that alone, though he didn’t fully understand, Alwin was despondent.
About an hour after Mordecai departed, they received a message via homing pigeon: Even now, David and his men were traveling south to York. Malcom was said to be among them, but Giles was not.
Considering the circumstances, communicating by pigeons was not at all propitious, but there was so little time to waste. With all due haste, they’d dispatched yet another bird, with the intent of informing Malcom of their travails. As of yet, they’d received no response, but neither had they anticipated hearing before their departure, nor could they wait. Rosalynde only hoped that with fifty good men, they would have some small chance against Morwen. If luck be theirs today, Eustace wouldnot be with her in Holystone Wood, and she would not have his army by her side. Alas, even if she did, there was no way to avoid the conflict.
My Book for the child. Or he dies.
The very sight of those words had left Rosalynde sick to her belly. Sensing how important theBook of Secretswas to her mother’s plans, she preferred not to hand it over, but again, they had no choice. Unfortunately, even if they managed to successfully negotiate for the return of the child, Morwen would still have won, because she was sure to use thatgrimoireto ensure their doom in the end. These were troubling times, and they could use all the help they could get. In light of this, while awaiting word from Edmund that the warriors were prepared to ride, she and Elspeth slipped into her marquee, joining hands in prayer.
“Mother Goddess hear our plea,” Rosalynde whispered. “Dark be the hour, but you hold the key.”
Elspeth joined her refrain. “Guide us now in your light, from darkness we flee. By all on high and law of three, what be your will, so mote it be.”
There was no more to be said.
Their fate was in the hands of the Goddess, and England itself would rise or fall according to the outcome.
Tears sprang to Elspeth’s blue eyes, and Rosalynde’s eyes stung. Even together, they were ill-equipped to face their mother. Where, for the love of night, was Rhiannon?
They rode out before dusk,a company clad in silver, led by the Pendragon sisters, armor winking against a waning sun. They had but thirty miles to go—twenty as crows flew, but they werenot crows. They rode swiftly, but no matter how swift the pace, it was impossible—as Edmund predicted—to arrive at the Widow’s Tower before sunrise.
The ruins were not approachable by road. They must circle around peat bogs said to be greedy enough to swallow a man whole, and then re-enter Holystone Wood through the Lady’s Walk. From there, it was another league or two traipsing over dry land.
A well-equipped cavalcade of fifty, they traveled all night long, and at long last, when the tower appeared on the horizon, the sun was beginning to rise, still sweltering enough to boil flesh in the confines of Rosalynde’s helm.
With a gasp of distress, she drew off the helm, shoving back the coif to consider the battlefield and the best course of action…
The tower itself where Morwen was said to be keeping the babe was not so impressive, save that it was impossible to believe such an edifice had remained standing for so many decades, much less centuries. The structure seemed as ancient as Avalon, surrounded by a mantle of black ash—as though the entire premises had suffered a fire.
A cacophony of bird cries filled the air. Nearly every tree within a half-a-mile radius was laden with shrieking birds.
Worse, Morwen had lit a circlet of blue fire to keep her enemies from the tower—witchfire, no doubt. Barred by that fire, it was only possible to breach by air, and the last time Rosalynde looked, she didn’t have wings to fly, and neither did Elspeth.
But that wasn’t what gave Rosalynde the greatest pause; it was that army of black-clad soldiers standing outside the circlet’s perimeter, three rows deep—hundreds at the ready to do her mother’s bidding. Her fifty-odd soldiers were no match for this army, not even with the help of witchery, and even thesimple boon that Mordecai was nowhere to be seen was only small comfort.
Fear prickling her flesh, she stood watching from the shelter of the woods, wishing to the Goddess that they had more men. So, it seemed, they’d underestimated Morwen.
Yet again.
