Page 221 of The Daughters of Avalon
Desperate for something, anything, Rosalynde asked, “You spoke words at Aldergh without knowing them beforehand… can you do it again?”
Elspeth shook her head. “I only spoke what the Goddess told me, but I do not hear her now.”
The sisters turned their gazes to the tower, each whispering silent prayers to the Goddess, knowing full well that her intervention was not a given. The Goddess worked in mysterious ways, bending only where it served the spirit of the age. Such as it was, one lone child might not merit the altering of fate—not even fordewinefolk.
Soft and haunting, a melody drifted from the tower… rising in crescendo until it reached their ears… a familiar song… an echo of their youth…
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!’
The tune lifted on the fetid breeze, impossibly loud, and nevertheless quiet as the scurry of a mouse.
“She’s here,” said Elspeth, shuddering. And even as she uttered the words, Morwen’s dark-clad army shifted in formation, parting to form a path to the circlet.
Heart pounding with fear, Rosalynde waited to see what Elspeth would do. It was her child; the decision must be hers.
Lifting her head, Elspeth pushed back her shoulders, accepting their mother’s invitation. Her sword hissed as she withdrew it from her scabbard and rode forth, eyes bright with vengeance—bright and blue as the fire girding the tower—leaving Rosalynde to follow.
The path grew narrow now,with wild carrots growing thickly beside a meandering trail. By now, Seren’s bottom ached, so did her legs. She felt like a court jester who’d turned summersaults for the King. By the blessed cauldron, she never knew there were so many ways to have relations; Wilhelm must have learned every one as thoroughly as he had the use of his sword—not only the one in his scabbard. The very thought made her cheeks bloom again, but she sighed contentedly.
“How far did you say we must ride?”
With a lazy grin, Wilhelm asked, “Art complaining already?”
Seren laughed softly. “Nay, I am not.” She eyed him meaningfully. “I would but know. Thanks to you, yesterday’s pursuits have left me… disadvantaged.”
He chuckled low, the rich sound of his laughter lifting her spirits as few things could do, considering the circumstances.
Soon enough, she would face Rosalynde, and what could she possibly say to make amends? Even after contemplating the Whitshed night after night, she hadn’t the first inkling what had happened back in that harbor. Mulling it over again and again, she recounted the day as meticulously as she could. She’d gone to see a courier with Jack. They didn’t linger going there or back. Forsooth, she wasn’t even gone very long. By the time she’d returned, that ship was already consumed.
“Art thinking of your sister?”
“I am,” Seren confessed. As of yet, over the course of these past few weeks, they’d barely spoken of the ordeal.
“There was little you could have done differently,” he suggested. “Except perish with her… would you have it that way, instead?”
Seren shook her head. “Nay,” she said. “I would not.”
Not the least for which she would never have known Wilhelm. She cast a glance at the man she had begun to think of as her Goddess-given champion, watching him as he ripped off a length of dried corned-beef—a gift from the sisters at Neasham.
“Thank you,” she said, again. “Were it not for you, ’tis certain I would have been returned to my mother’s keeping.”
His lips curved ruefully, as though he felt guilty over the events of these past few days, and she only meant to reassure him. “Wilhelm… if I had a thousand lives to lose, I would entrust them each to you.”
His dark eyes twinkled with black humor. “Aye, well, you have but the one,” he advised, and averted his gaze.
Seren sensed that, no matter how many times she spoke to the contrary, he would blame himself for stealing her maidenhead. And, in truth, there would be consequences to pay for this, but Wilhelm stole nothing. Furthermore, she would never regret it—not even if she lived to be a thousand.
She frowned then, remembering thatdewinefolkwere hardier and lived longer than most. Her grandmamau was seventy when she died more than twenty-two years ago. Her forbear, Yissachar, was said to have lived to be two-hundred and twenty. Morwen? Goddess only knew. Would she grow old enough to watch the man she loved die in her arms? It was a sobering thought, but however long she lived, Seren could never regret loving him, and she vowed to be a better mother than Morwen was—and suddenly, she found herself grinning, peering up at Wilhelm, realizing, only for the first time since their consummation, that she could, indeed, be carrying his child. She put a hand to her belly in wonder.
Oh, sweet Arwyn,she said silently, shifting from a high note to a heartrending low.
Would that you could know him.
