Page 227 of The Daughters of Avalon
And despite the aggressions, they gathered at Warkworth every year on this date to hold a memorial for Arwyn. The timing was perfect, and Wilhelm, for all that he was bastard-born, was now Warkworth’s warden, with a place at his brother’s side. Dressed as befitted a proper lord, he came sauntering into the solar, stopped to give Elspeth’s twins a tip for swordplay, thenwent straight for his wife, with the sole purpose of offering his lady a kiss—on the lips, no less. Shockingly crude, with little decorum, but everybody knew he was bastard-born. He left again without a word, though not before casting the sisters a backward glance, and a wink.
“That man is besotted,” said Rosalynde, smiling, resting a hand on her increasing belly.
“Entirely,” said Elspeth. “I should wager he’ll return within the hour for another.”
The sisters all laughed, and Rosalynde said, “Alas, Elspeth, it seems we are widows and Seren is the only one with a living husband.”
Seren smiled. “Malcom and Giles will return soon,” she consoled her sisters. And yet, she knew well enough that “soon” would never be “soon enough” for her lovelorn sisters. Certainly, if the case were reversed, it would not be soon enough for her. She was eternally grateful Wilhelm’s duties kept him safe at home.
“Broc!” rebuked Elspeth. “Do not strike your brother!”
“Mother, please! We are learning to be proper warriors,” said Broc, who was too young, at five, to even handle his wooden sword. And nevertheless, he tried. The make-do weapon swayed as he held it aloft, and his brother held a curled fist upside his own head. “Uncle Wilhelm said we must practice,” Broc explained, his pale brows colliding. “See, mother, he’s already recovered.”
Chin stiff, and brows furrowed, Lachlan nodded in support of his elder twin and rose.
“Of course, you must practice,” agreed Elspeth. “But, really, Broc, must you be so violent? And please, do not play here in the solar,” she demanded. “You will wake your sister.”
The boys shared a meaningful glance, then darted from the room both together; only Broc stopped to peer back at them asthe wee babe threw up her hands in fright and began to wail. Broc grinned then, and vanished into the hall.
“What a terror,” said Seren. “Defiant to his soul.”
Rosalynde asked, “Did he wake her apurpose?”
Elspeth shrugged, wearied by her son’s antics. “Who knows? He reminds me so much of Rhiannon,” she said. “Draw a line in the sand and forbid him to cross it, and he will wait until you’re watching to do so—and with a grin, no less.” She sighed. “But then again… everything reminds me of Rhiannon these days.”
Elspeth settled her babe, rocking the small, wooden cradle that had been gifted to Rosalynde for her coming babe. “I long to know how she fares. Surely, someone somewhere must know…”
Seren’s sisters were both blessed with new babes, though Rosalynde’s was yet unborn. Lachlan and Broc had welcomed their little sister with gleeful smiles, and despite that Broc seemed to like to harry his mother, he adored young Arwyn more than words could say. His admiration was there in his eyes for all to see.
Seren, on the other hand, had yet to conceive, but not for lack of trying. She knew in her heart it must be because the Goddess had something else in store for her… what that could be, she didn’t know. But… it was a feeling she had.
Frowning, her thoughts returning to Rhiannon, she turned to look out the window, and started at the sight of a lone black bird seated upon the sill—a plain old crow, not a raven, but, before she could remark upon it, a knock sounded upon the solar door. “My lady,” said a maid. “There’s an auld woman here to see you.”
Seren blinked, peering back at the window to find the bird gone.
“She says her name is Isolde.”
“Isolde?”
“Isolde!”
“Isolde?”
All three sisters spoke at once, but Seren was up before Elspeth could snatch her baby from the cradle. Dropping her needlework, she rushed for the door, trusting that Rosalynde and Elspeth would follow. Neither she nor her sisters had seen that woman in a score of years, and the last time Seren so much as thought of her was that night before Wilhelm asked her to marry him.
They found the old woman seated alone at one of the lower tables in the great hall, kicking her toes against the rushes. She rose to greet them when they approached and sat again without being asked to, almost as though she couldn’t find purchase on her tired old feet. Seren peered down to find her legs spindly and twisted, not unlike that of a bird’s.
“Isolde,” she said very warmly, leaning to embrace the old woman where she sat. It didn’t matter that they hadn’t seen her in so many years; Seren remembered her kindness.
As her sisters greeted her as well, then chatted, she ordered sustenance for their unexpected guest, and as they waited, Isolde apprised them of the reason for her visit. She’d come to advise them, somehow knowing they would all be in residence at Warkworth.
“Gird your loins,” she warned, crooking her finger at Seren. “The time has come! Even now, the King’s son begins the end-time prophecy. Shewill return now, and onlyCaledfwlchwill stop her.” She leaned forward, looking Seren straight in the eyes, emphasizing with great meaning. “Onlyyoucan imbue that sword.”
Seren’s hand lifted to her breast in confusion.
The old woman nodded. “Sweet, sweet Seren… by now you must realize your sister Rhiannon isnotthe Promised One.”
Seren felt herself grow dizzy over the woman’s words.
