Page 298 of The Daughters of Avalon
Elspeth warded the interior with a spell that should keep all but its denizens at bay—and this time, no one would be allowed to enter.
Finally, Seren enchanted all the animals in the surrounding woodlands. Anyone approaching would discover themselves sorely abused by great, tusked boars.
Considering the circumstances, there was no rest for the weary—not even for a mother fresh from the birthing table. Rosalynde hadn’t the luxury of time to nurse her newborn babe, so she gave the duty to her wet-nurse, and only now, as she stood peering down into her son’s face, she couldn’t help but recall her sister’s desperation and fear when their mother had threatened her eldest child. Anxious to leave him, even despite all the precautions, she clung to young Richard with a new mother’s desperation, kissing him very gently upon the forehead, before handing the babe back to his nursemaid.
Named for his grandsire, the boy went without protest, although his dark eyes, so like his father’s, never left his mother—not till she vanished amidst a sea of armored men.
It was not normally a woman’s place to lead armies, and yet, it was always presumed that, no matter how capable their champions were, in the end, it would be the Pendragon sisters who must challenge their mother.
After all, what good was cut steel againsthud du?
Fortunately, all three sisters were wed to men who understood their lot in life, and who not only accepted their fates, but prepared them with all the skills and knowledge they would need to prevail.
Day after day, for four long years, Seren and Rosalynde had sparred with swords. Elspeth came now and again—nearly every time Malcom was meant to be away.
And finally, as a gift from the Holy Church, the sisters were each afforded ringmail suits, all blessed by the Pope and fitted to their precise measurements, complete with coifs, chausses, sturdy boots and gauntlets. Moreover, each sister rode a courser trained by the paladins, and the horses were lightly armored as well. Each sister wielded a finely honed sword, calibrated precisely for her weight and height… with one exception: Seren carriedCaledfwlch,thoughCaledfwlchwas meant for another.
Now, as Warkworth’s army prepared to ride, messengers were dispatched to Malcom Scott at Carlisle, another to King Stephen at Wallingford, yet another to Duke Henry in place of Matilda. For all her years of battling Stephen’s barons, the Empress Matilda seemed content enough to remain in Rouen and tend to affairs in Normandy.
Sadly, there was no guarantee anyone would answer their summons. After twenty long years, England was finally at peace. For all intents and purposes, their days of war were behind them. But little did anyone realize that the greatest battle of their day was soon to be waged… but not at Wallingford.
Sweet Goddess have mercy if this battle was lost.
If it was lost…
It wouldn’t matter what peace Stephen and Duke Henry had wrought; England would face certain doom, dark days would descend on the land…
God save the realm.
Seren saw it all now.
She’d witnessed the tapestry of time weaving itself through the ages: the brotherhood of twelve kings, theirdewineimbued swords; the bloodshed that ensued betwixt them; the betrayal at Llanrhos, where her forebear, Taliesin, conspired with Uther to take the life of the true Dragon Lord.
And, aye, she knew now whathewas, as well—a Shadow Beast, whose soul was bound, and whose eternal life could only be ended by destroying the reliquary his soul was bound to.
And, more importantly, she knew what and who her mother was. Morwen had lived by many names: The Dark Goddess, the Shadow Crone, the Shapeshifter of Legend, the Mother of Avalon, Keeper of the Cauldron and Defender of the Grail. But there was only one true name for her: Cerridwen, destroyer of realms.
And still she was more: She was a true-blood daughter of the God and Goddess, who’d created all realms. She was, as Lucifer was, an angel fallen from grace, and in her true form, she was a Sylph—she who was tasked to protect the realms of men, and who, in her fury, betrayed her promises to the coven and was banished from Heaven and earth.
Morwen’s soul, like Cael’s and Mordecai’s souls, was bound to a reliquary, but for one very crucial difference: Hers was the soul of a goddess and could never be fully destroyed.
At best, they might hope to put an end to her mortal form.
As it happened, gods and goddesses did not die the same way mortals died, and the crux of it all was that, despite their immortal blood, adewinewas only a demigod, and therefore bound by mortal laws. They bled as men bled. Their hearts beat as all hearts beat. They were merely more attuned to theaether, which was, in its essence, the breath of life.
The day seemed bleak as ever.
The sun refused to shine.
At the end of July, there was a pall over the land that lingered, despite the season.
In truth, there was no reason to believe they would prevail. There were no more favors to be called upon from Scotia, or anyone else.
And, aye, the Church had sent its company of paladins, but it would never dare confess its true relation to the company of assassins, and neither would they ever acknowledge a preternatural threat to this realm that was directly opposed to their doctrine. No matter the truth, to their specifications, witches were not angels, or natural beings. They were aberrations of nature, to be feared and reviled.
And neither would they acknowledge any but the “One True God” and put no others before him, not even the woman who was his mate. England was a patriarchy in the truest sense.
Truth itself was a weapon to be feared, and therefore, a call for banners would be raised in the name of England, but it could be that Warkworth’s would be the only army to bear the King’s standard.
