Page 94 of The Daughters of Avalon
And this was hardly an embellishment. If he told Wilhelm what price he’d paid to be released from his obligations, Wilhelm would shed blood tears.
Wilhelm closed his eyes and thrust a trembling hand to his mouth, clearly overwhelmed, and Giles realized only belatedly that he must have been walking away so vigorously, not because he was furious, but because he was in danger of unmanning himself with tears.
“I… I am… not… angry… not with you,” he said.
Giles stared at him, confused. “What, then?”
“’Tis that…” His brother swallowed visibly, his brows slanting sadly. “I feel… less… a man… for having stood in that lady’s presence... I did nothing.” He shook his head with despair.
Giles furrowed his brow. “Lady Seren?”
“Nay, Giles! Morwen Pendragon!” Clearly, whatever it was that had unsettled Wilhelm in the hall had shaken him to hisbones. It took him a moment before he could compose himself, and then said, “It was her, Giles.I felt her that day.Only I did not realize. I took it for my own rage, but I felt it again today—a presence black as night.”
The lady of Blackwood was, indeed, quite formidable. Her gaze had never left them in the hall. “I understand,” Giles said.
“Nay, brother, you do not!” Fear turned Willhelm’s pupils to pinpoints. “It was as though she were here…” He thumped a finger to his head, hard. “In my head. Laughing all the while.”
Giles nodded, squeezing his brother’s arm, realizing only belatedly how much this ordeal must be weighing upon him. He cast a glance toward the stables, considering the holiday. Already, the crowd had thinned. “Come,” he said. “The horses can wait. Let me buy you an ale for the journey.”
“Piss water!” complained Wilhelm, sliding a hand down, and squeezing the tendons at the back of his neck. “I would defy you to find one good alesman amidst the lot.”
“I know a place,” said Giles, reaching out, pulling his brother in the direction of Castel Tavern. Finally, Wilhelm relented.
From where they stood, it was but a short walk. Regrettably, the establishment was as much a rubbish heap as he’d remembered, but at least they served their clientele quickly, and being so close to Westminster, they had better ale than most. After a drink to settle Wilhelm’s nerves, he would remove his brother from this hell pot and the journey home was bound to be more pleasant.
Twenty minutes later, they were seated at a table in the dimly lit common room, clinking tankards. “To father,” said Giles.
Wilhelm gave a rueful nod. “To my… Lord de Vere,” he said, “May God rest him in peace.” And then he raised his glass a little higher, offering a hint of a smile. “And,”he said,“to the newly appointed earl of Warkworth.”
Giles reached up, clinking his brother’s cup, meeting his gaze and holding it fast. “I give you my word, Will… I will avenge our dead.”
“Aye,” his brother said, flicking his nose with a finger. “I know you will.” After a moment, he swiped the back of his sleeve across his suds-covered lips, and the two of them drank awkwardly.
Their relationship had never been close, but over the past few months it had been strained in a way it had never been before. In so many ways, they were strangers—too far apart in years to have any fellowship or shared memories. And, in some ways, Giles was more a bastard son than Wilhelm, because, at least Wilhelm had had their father’s praise and he’d had a mother. Giles had come into this world a babe without a breast to suckle, and he’d scarce recovered his strength by the time he was old enough to train. By the age of ten, Richard de Vere had dismissed him as an able warrior. Far more readily, he’d embraced Wilhelm, who, from the first had shown a warrior’s aptitude and a willingness to learn.
Their father had been a proud man, with a penchant for siring daughters. His first wife bore him a son—Roger—but then she gave him a daughter and died with her babe. His next wife gave him two daughters before Giles, then she, too, died. And if there was one thing to be said about the elder de Vere, it was that he was persistent. He married again to the youngest daughter of the Bamburgh’s lord, just before her father bent the knee to David. Ayleth was her cousin.
But as for his sons… he hadn’t known what to do with Giles, who was sickly until he’d sprouted his first whiskers—and in the end, perhaps more to distract him than aught else, his father encouraged him to academia. That, more than aught else, was what drove Giles to the seminary, to excel where he thought he might—for the same reason Wilhelm and Roger worked so hardin their training: to make Richard de Vere proud. None of his sons were immune to that aspiration. Richard de Vere had been a force of nature, magnanimous and ever-ready with a smile—but hard on the field, because he’d understood the consequences of frailty and inexperience. His own father had fought in the People’s Crusade, and he himself had fought by Henry’s side during the Battle of Tinchebrai in Normandy.
So many years Giles had watched his brothers, wishing so much that he could match them, and absurdly, it was whilst he was attending the seminary that he’d discovered, though he did have a mind for academics, he was equally adept with his sword. Simply because he’d quit Warkworth did not mean he’d quit the desire for his father’s approval. He’d trained in private, and all that time he’d spent watching his siblings and father spar had not been in vain. After a time, he’d found himself enrolled in a very elite Papal Guard—so they’d claimed, a good warrior understood the value ofbothhis pen and his sword. If he was now solidly built, it was due to the vigorous training he’d received, but only once in his life had Giles ever spied the glint of pride in his father’s eyes—and it was a day that would haunt him till his dying breath… not simply because he’d finally earned his father’s praise, but because… on that day he’d also sealed Warkworth’s fate.
God’s truth, he was equally responsible for the deaths of Warkworth’s innocents, and even so, given the same circumstances, he would do it all again. And if he was pleased to have been raised to earl, it was only because it would better afford him the opportunity to see justice done.
Wilhelm raised his glass with a slow, unfurling smile. “Another toast… for Roger, who’s like to be howling in his grave over hearing his weedy brother made earl in his stead.”
A short rumble of laughter escaped Giles, but he shook his head. “Weedy?” he said, tipping his cup, and peering over therim. He paused before putting the tankard to his lips. “Weedy?” he asked again. And yet, there was no malice in the insult, and so he let the jibe pass, wondering if Wilhelm must be blind. They held gazes a long, awkward moment, and then Wilhelm shrugged.
“’Tis been overlong since ye been home, Giles… I’d warrant Roger’s got nay memory o’ ye looking as ye do.”
“Dead men haven’t any memory,” said Giles, and Wilhelm lifted his face to reveal the torment in his gaze.
“Even so,” he said, raising his cup higher. “A toast to Warkworth’s firstborn. Seems unfair… to work so bloody hard… only to die the way he did.” Wilhelm shook his head, peering down at the table. “I mean you no insult, Giles. But here you are… earl…”
“To Roger,” Giles interrupted, eyeing his brother pointedly. The last thing he wished was for Wilhelm to say something in his cups that he might regret… or worse, that Giles wouldn’t be able to forgive. As it was, he found himself subject to emotions he’d never realized he was capable of… most notably, an insidious, underlying resentment that was being stoked to life by Wilhelm’s persistent judgments.
God’s truth, he wished he’d known his eldest brother. For that matter, he wished he’d known his father better. But for all that Wilhelm must be grieving for everything he’d lost, Giles was also grieving for all that would never be. He had precious few memories, even of his beloved sisters, and all that remained of his brood was seated here… across this damnable table… and that man found him wanting.
Now that Wilhelm was calmer, he tried again to reassure him… after a fashion. “Remember, brother, like goodvin, vengeance is a toast better served aged.”
