Page 36 of The Daughters of Avalon
Elspeth exhaled a breath she hadn’t realize she was holding as she watched Malcom return to the table and lift up the glass he’d sipped from only moments before. Only this time, instead of spitting out the contents or setting the glass down with a sour face, he tossed the entirety of it down his gullet, and then poured another and drank that one down as well.
“So, then… what will you tell this lord of Amdel?”
He swallowed a third glass before answering. “I’ll know when it comes to mind,” he said. “In the meantime, you should get some rest.”
Stronger than lover’s love is lover’s hate.
Incurable, in each, the wounds they make.
—Euripides
Named for the surrounding woodlands,Darkwood Inn lives up to its name. The number of its years in existence equal the number of years of Stephen’s reign, but it appears far older. The interior pillars are filled with knotholes and greying with age.
The innkeeper here is the third to serve, and he’s as discreet as he is loyal, toiling behind his bar, waiting for his cue. If he were not loyal, I would suck the life from his body and leave him for a dried-up carcass, in the same manner a locust discards its shell, only to find itself no more than dust beneath the hammer of a fist.
So I sit here at my favorite table at the back of this familiar tavern, resting, though not ready to choose. Tonight, there aretwo offerings, both comely, if boring. But then, again,theyareallboring to me—Henry, Stephen, Eustace, every man the same but with a different face.
The last I knew worth his salt was my Emrys, my lover, my dear brother.
So then, which to choose?
Which to save for later?
More to the point, I wonder which of these men might be persuaded to linger, because I fully intend to make another stop on my return to London. Only then, I will be in the company of three of my daughters, excluding Rhiannon.
I fiddle with the ring about my forefinger, the one I always wear. It was my mother’s ring, though Morgan preferred to fill hers with coltsfoot, so she couldseeany time she pleased without her scrying stone. I have found another use for the receptacle beneath the obsidian stone. It is rare that I can find time to slip away for atreatment, so I must come prepared. This ring contains the most precious of mygrimoire’srecipes—an ingredient for deathlessness, so powerful that a small pinch in my bath will extend my youth. And more than a pinch… well, let us say… I have ideas.
Using this particular recipe, my great, great grandmother lived to be two hundred and twenty years old. She would have lived much longer had she not found herself an enemy to Orkney’s King Lot. Three generations of Morgans followed thereafter, none worthy of the name… until me. Pity that my mother’s oversight gave me another name… but tis appropriate, don’t you think?
Morwen. Maiden.
I smile serenely, in love with myself and pleased with my progress. I will be amaidenfor all eternity, with skin softer and suppler than my daughter Seren’s.
Alas, poor sweet Seren—I smile more deeply—perhaps my most beautiful daughter will discover a bit of irony in wedding a beast… someone beneath her… someone who offers me great riches and power… but hideous to awake to. I will arrange this.But later.
Right now, I study my choices: One man wears a doublet, with chainmail gussets sewn into the vest and the sigil of his house emblazoned on the front— a golden two-headed falcon with a maxim that readAltium, citius, fortius.
Swifter, higher, stronger…
How swift would he be if I should happen to drop my spell of glamor and show my true self? I laugh inwardly at this… my breasts quaking with amusement, for not even my own daughters could possibly anticipate the truth: I am seventy years old—my mother’s age when she died. And, aye, she had me when she was but twenty, and spat my brother out one year later, before letting her womb rot and die.
I did the reverse. I let my womb lie fallow until I grew older… wiser…. I had my first-born child at the age of forty-six—older than my lover, and he never knew it. I bore Elspeth to bind him to me, and then, I was weak, allowing Emrys to get me with child—and oh, how my brother loved this news, even as I lamented an end to my plans. But life gives us choices, does it not?
Alas, my Emrys is gone—his bones resting in a reliquary—and one day, I will hand them to my daughter Rhiannon, because it will please me immensely to show my little girl how the weak should end. I will tell her all about the father she never knew, and how he died, and she will fall to her knees and weep… but I tell you what she willnotdo: She will not embrace the Death Crone’s rage. This is why my daughters will ever be poppets, made to serve my needs. The thought alone makes me happy—truly happy—for the first time since learning Elspeth ran away.
Ungrateful little bitch.
She could have had so much. She could have slept in the high priestess’s bed. She could have cast her spells into the Witch Goddess’s cauldron and she could have ruled Blackwood in my stead.
But nay! Oh, nay!She would prefer—what? A life on the run? With no safe harbor? Ever? Because some day, I tell you, England will, indeed, hand the crown to a lady… and that woman will be me, not Matilda. I have a hundred lifetimes to see it done… little… by little… by little.
One man across the room peers at me now—the one with the doublet—and I am drawn to him. I think about Blackwood. I think about Rhiannon and decide that she’s the one who should inherit Blackwood anyway—for her father and for me—although my second eldest first requires a lesson in obeisance.
Annoyed now, I am compelled to retrieve my scrying stone… to look and be sure my will is being done. But I am equallyhungryfor something else… and the night is no longer quite so young.
The other occupant of the room is a kitchen boy, taking his supper. The innkeeper hired the boy to keep him about as a second choice, but it is my experience that boys like that are never good to keep after a letting. They run their mouths. They run away.
Unfortunately, the other choice seems antsy. Apparently, he’s a deserter, who, rather than meet his fate at the end of a sword blade, fled the battle. Luckily for me, the innkeeper has a reputation for helpingunfortunatesfind a way across the narrow sea.
