Page 28 of The Daughters of Avalon
Inside the cottage, it was cold enough to show her chilled breath. She exhaled a puff of frozen air and swirled her finger through the mist, watching quietly as shapes coalesced.
A man and woman… sleeping peacefully on a pallet… under the moonlight.
The smaller form was huddled beneath a mountain of wool and velvet and fur. The man lay beside her, perfectly still… without blankets.
Rhiannon sighed. Alas, she was too far away. She could not speak to Elspeth, nor could she interfere, no matter what transpired. It was some terrible form of torture that would compel her look when she could see all but do nothing. It was for this very reason she had refrained from showing Seren, Rose and Arwyn.
She puffed away the image, and reached up one more time, swirling a finger through the thin veil that had yet to dissipate, and once again, shapes took form, only this time settling into the image of a long and winding road… the king’s road from London.
Two dark figures on horseback, one man, dressed in black… and a woman, with a cold wind blowing at her back. This would be Morwen.
Her mother was on the way.
Vengeance is in my heart,
death in my hand,
blood and revenge are hammering in my head.
—William Shakespeare
It’s not alwaysabout a man.
I am Morwen, only-born daughter to the regnantdewinepriestess, born to be seneschal of Wales. Conceived by the Beltane fires, I should have been preordained, but my own mother gave my legacy to my unborn babes. In truth, for that offense alone, I would have ripped my own belly and dragged them out to strangle them with my bare hands; consider what I would do to a child not my own. In this world, there are no true kings. There were never any kings. And no man ever ruled save by the grace of a woman. And therefore, some may think otherwise, but this has naught to do with Henry or Stephen. It is about a haughty little child by the name of Matilda. It is about her unbridled arrogance and the way she swept through her father’s halls, crooking her little finger in defiance. It is about a spoiled child-bride who’d resented her papa’s paramour so deeply that she’d determined to undermine him at every turn.And even after Henry banished that little shrew from England, wedding her to a whey-faced emissary of the Church, she grew worse, persecuting me from afar, with greater and greater power, thanks to the greed of her sire and the backing of the Church.
But it isn’t enough that I gave my own mother to be judged by these cretins—a sacrifice for their altar. She would tirelessly campaign against a “faith” she so imperiously presumes to be evil, when all the while what she truly desires is to destroy me. Her meddling cost me everything—never mind my own mother and thankless daughters. It cost me the only man I’ve ever loved… Emrys, dead, by my own hands. And the irony is lost to all, for his druid name meant life immortal.
And now he is gone, and despite that it breaks every tenet I am bound to, I will show that wretched woman the true face of evil.
One day soon, Henry’s high and mighty Empress daughter will discover what it means to anger a Daughter of Avalon. That bitch thinks herself better than me, but she has no more than a sharp tongue to defend her, whilst I have the blood of my ancestors and a fury unlike any she will ever encounter. Only once she’s spent an adequate amount of time groveling on her knees, and only after she’s crawled from baron to baron, begging entry at every once-held fief, only then will I squash her life—but not before she understands her folly, and not until she learns thatIam the reason her children will never sit on her father’s throne. In the end, I give not one whit who wears her father’s crown, only that whoever wears it serves me well.
For much of the journey from London, the king’s road remains clear of woodlands—mostly to discourage brigands—but as the road begins to narrow, the trees huddle closer and darkness enfolds me. I breathe a lungful of relief.
Tonight, the night air is thick and damp. It is the time of year when the soil holds enough warmth that mist rises naturally from the road, unfurling before me like a lady’s veil, teasing the way.
Opting for privacy and making all due haste, I travel light this evening, riding, not sidesaddle as most genteel ladies might feel compelled to do, but legs astride, like the warrior queen of the late Iceni tribe. This is how I see myself, and, this is how others will see me so long as I have breath and life. No matter how wrinkled I may grow beneath my spell of glamour, I will ride tall and proud in my saddle, with my velvet cloak flying at my back like the wings of a vengeful angel.
And can you guess what pleases me most? This: Rather than employ an entourage and carry a portmanteau filled with jewels and gowns and maquillage to maintain my youthful visage—as Matilda must certainly do—I need only carry my scrying stone and my mother’sgrimoire.
Mine now. All mine.Keep a hundred thousand crowns if it be your wish, little darling!None of your gem-studded tiaras will ever come close to the worth of my heirlooms.
Mothers and daughters, daughters and mothers; so much toil and trouble. But whoever said blood is thicker than water is a fool. Not even the simple fact that my five comely brats were wrenched, screaming from my womb, can make me feel aught but fury over them. How it galls me even now to hear the fruit of my own loins described as beauteous! Unparalleled! As though I, myself, am not also gifted with the prophet Taliesin’s blood. Like Matilda, my own children are ungrateful brats, and why shouldn’t they be? They all share the same blood—save for Rhiannon.
Rhiannon, oh, Rhiannon, you could have filled my heart.
Alas, my dearest daughter, there can be only one high priestess, and it will forever be me.
It has been years now since I last returned to Wales, but I know these woodlands well. Instinctively, I sense that Bran has flown ahead, certain in the knowledge that I do not need him. Still, I cast my head back to peer at the waning moon—a glowing orb that pulses in time to the beat of my own heart.Ah, yes! It is a lovely night for blood magic…
The night is still young.
Fueled by vengeance alone, I would sweep through these lands like a black and terrible flame, but tonight I have more pressing matters to contend with before facing my wayward daughters. It is such a costly thing to keep my glamour, and the price of allowing it to fade is too dear. But soon enough, dear ones, you will learn what it means to defy your lady mother—Elspeth most of all.
Like a hound on the hind of a kill, I catch the scent of blood. “Ride ahead,” I say to my companion. “I will require immediate sustenance.”
“A bath, m’dame?”
“Aye. Fresh, please. I cannot abide the stench of old blood.”
