Chapter 11

Eleven

They ate quickly. Elspeth ate sparsely—barely enough to settle her raging belly. And, then, whilst Malcom prepared a pallet for their slumber, she took the opportunity to dry his sherte by the fire. Once that was done, she went foraging for wild fenyl to settle her belly. She found none, but she did happen upon lovage and Alchemilla, and she harvested a bit of those herbs to begin a new medicinal supply. And then, when she thought she'd discovered all there was to find, she also discovered a bit of coltsfoot as well, which pleased her immensely. She could use it to see with. And it could be used one of two ways, either by sprinkling the herb into a fire, or by infusing it in a tea.

The second way was more effective, but it was also less healthful—particularly since the side effects of a seizure could be the straight edge of an axe or a burning at the stake.

Unfortunately, her grandmother discovered this the hard way.

As for the Alchemilla, it would serve Malcom's wound well enough, though she wished she had betony instead. That herb grew aplenty around Llanthony—not just in their garden—mainly, because Seren once happened to mention to Ersinius that it could be useful in protecting against witches. Elspeth rolled her eyes over that nonsense, because it grew everywhere now—under windows, beside doors, in small pots in the vestibule. Of course, Seren had been jesting with him, but Elspeth had this to say to Ersinius: Witches were not spirits to be vanquished. They were flesh and blood men and women and bled like everyone else.

Annoyed, Elspeth turned onto her side, listening to night sounds: Crickets chirping, Merry Bells snorting. Some distance away, a fox cackled.

Malcom had said he'd hoped to rest and rise early, but now she couldn't sleep. And considering how long she'd fought off that strange, annoying languor all day long, she found it rather curious.

On the other hand, Malcom himself appeared to be fast asleep, and she wondered how he could sleep so peacefully when his wound was festering so terribly.

Of course, he'd had some help from her herbs, and now she wished she'd drunk some herself. Huffing a sigh, she turned to stare at him in profile—his strong chin and aquiline nose.

Look to your champion, her sister had said.

Aye, well, she was looking, wasn't she?

Can you hear me, Rhiannon?

Silence.

Rhiannon…

Silence.

Elspeth frowned. As far as she knew, the ability to communicate outside proximity simply did not exist for any witch from time immemorial. But it was possible to consult a scrying stone, and for that reason, no one was ever truly out of Morwen's reach.

A few times, Elspeth had awakened to catch Rhiannon creating shapes out of mist, but what came so easily to her sister, did not come so easily to Elspeth.

Rhiannon? She tried again, even despite that she knew it to be useless.

But why?Why was it useless? If the Goddess could hear them wherever she might be, and, indeed, the entirety of the world was connected, why couldn't she speak to her sisters wherever she might be? Why was this so different from the sight, which could be invoked over great distances?

She studied the contours of Malcom's face.

Betimes she had the strangest feeling he could hear her. She thought about his demeanor this morning… in the woods… when she'd beguiled Merry Bells. His body had gone taut, and he'd looked about the same as Merry Bells—searching the tree tops for Elspeth. In fact, Elspeth had only pounced when she had because she'd feared being discovered.

Was it possible Malcom could hear her?

Her grandmamau claimed all living beings had inherent knowledge of the hud, but they didn't know how to use it. Perhaps tomorrow she would test this theory.

For a long, long while, she tossed and turned under the heavy cloak he'd given her, shivering and thinking how best to engage him—but more importantly, whether she dared.

And, finally, when her teeth began to chatter, she moved closer to Malcom, and gave him a bit of her cloak, not caring overmuch about propriety. What good was modesty if the poor man froze to death? Where would she be then? And then she worried: He was lying so very still.

Looking closer, searching for signs of life, she worried even more when she couldn't hear him breathing. Oh, no! Now that she had convinced him not to call upon Amdel, he would die here and leave her and Merry Bells all alone!

It was just like a man to think himself invulnerable. The fool had refused to allow her to cauterize his wound, but she'd tried. And now, fearful of what she might discover, Elspeth placed a hand before his nostrils, exhaling in relief when a light stream of warmth blew against her hand.

She could heal him… now… But what would he do when he awoke to find himself healed? Would he suspect her?

She had put a poultice on his wound, but if he'd ever suffered a wound of any kind, he would know very well that it wouldn't heal overnight, with or without any poultice.

And yet, he couldn't possibly suspect witchcraft after a single occasion, could he? People simply did not believe in the Craft any longer. They would rather believe in coincidence and miracles. And regardless, how could she allow any man to continue suffering, when she had the means to help him? Do good, harm none, she reminded herself. It was the one golden rule.

And anyway, wasn't she honor-bound to use her talents for the good of men? What was he, but a man? A handsome one at that—far too handsome for Elspeth's peace of mind. But what did that matter? And he was fast asleep. Whatever he thought, or didn't think, he could never prove it one way or the other. So, now that she could focus without his scrutiny, she placed her hand atop his shoulder, hovering close to his wound—as close as she dared without touching him.

When finally she could feel heat emanating from the affected area, she cupped her palm to catch it escaping, taking a moment to harness her own healing power before whispering…

Goddess, we are one, take his pain, make there none.

The words were adequate, but, possibly, not quite enough. Elspeth wished not only to ease his pain, but to rest assured his wound would mend. What was the point of exerting herself only to do it halfway? Once again, very gently, she lowered her palm over the wound, gasping softly as it fell to meet hard, muscled chest, and then, for a befuddled instant, she forgot what she was supposed to do, so entranced was she with the gentle rise and fall of his breath.

His skin was hot where she laid it. Fever. Raging. It was more than enough impetus to remind her of her purpose. Concentrating on lending him her own energy, little enough as there seemed to be, despite her restlessness, she used her third eye—the one peering inward to her heart—and envisioned the small moon that was the essence of her soul. Little by little, she made it swell, until she could feel it as potent as a tiny sun. Then, she traveled the palm-sized sphere of light down her arm, all the way to her hand, watching the faint glow as it passed through her palm to Malcom's abused flesh. In the utter darkness, the place where she touched him exploded like a thousand twinkling stars. And then, once she was ready, she whispered again.

Healing wight lend your light. Spirit mend, sickness end.

And once the words were spoken, she was utterly spent. Her limbs felt like porridge and her mind turned to mush. She was so weary that she forgot to take away her hand from his chest, and her last waking thought was for her sister Rhiannon…

Her sister was wrong… The only reason Morwen hadn't sequestered them sooner was because of Henry, no matter what Rhiannon believed.

It was merely that Rhiannon had been such a willful child, howling and wailing from the instant she was born. She'd come into this world full of rage. And later, once she'd got older, she was so often discomforted by the presence of people. She would rock and wail, rock and wail, with her sweet little hands pressed to her ears and Henry hadn't known what to do with her.

Naturally, since he had a nation to tend to, an odd little daughter was too easily forgotten. And nevertheless… Elspeth remembered the disconcerted look on her father's face when the midwife was commanded to carry Rhiannon away from his hall.

If only Rhiannon would settle the fire in her heart and try to remember…

The dream arrived like a breeze…

Rhiannon was sobbing. She was three years old and weeping inconsolably because she hadn't the words to tell anyone what was wrong. All about her, servants hustled, some carrying platters, others bearing ewers. And still others prepared the trestle tables and moved long, noisy benches.

Her sister had to carry her, but Rhiannon was far too heavy, and Elspeth set her down amidst the rushes, patting a hand atop her head, and saying words Rhiannon couldn't comprehend, though she certainly understood the love. Only now Rhiannon refused to look at her, because not even Elspeth seemed to understand Rhiannon. There were too many thoughts flying about her head—pictures without words. Her dress was too tight in places, and her head felt like bugs crawled inside her skull. Squealing with displeasure, she slapped her ears vengefully, trying to get out the bugs, and then, when she couldn't seem to do it, she shrieked at the top of her lungs—so loudly that the servants all stopped to stare. She curled into a ball, precisely the way she'd lain in her mother's womb—but even then, there hadn't been any reassurance. Her twin sister was dying—dying! Once again, Rhiannon felt the waning heartbeat, the light in her soul going dim. She hadn't even a name, but there in the womb, floating in water, she had reached out to tangle her fingers into the fine threads of her twin's hair.

Don't die! She bade her, don't die! But even as she tried desperately to share her own life force, the light grew dimmer, and dimmer, and dimmer… until finally, it guttered and extinguished.

"God's teeth, girl! Where's your mother?" Henry was shouting at Elspeth as Rhiannon tucked her knees to her chest, rocking back and forth.

"I… don't… know."

"Christ! She left you with no one to care for you?"

"Aye," said Elspeth. "But, don't worry, she said she would return anon."

"Where is Seren?"

"In her crib."

"By the bloody saints, the dinner hour is no time for children to flounce about the hall. What in God's name ails your sister?"

Elspeth shook her head, her blue eyes filling with tears. "I think she's hungry."

"Stay here," her father demanded, but then he lifted up Rhiannon and marched across the hall, shouting at the top of his lungs. "Someone, for the love of God, please see to this child!"

Rhiannon awoke, blinking away an image of a pair of desperate brown eyes peering into her face. The eyes were narrowed, but not angry. For a disconcerting instant, she was light enough to be wafted into the air, and momentarily disoriented as the memory vanished, dissipating into thin air.

This is now; that was then.

She lay in the bed she shared with her sisters at Llanthony, not in London. Elspeth was not four, and she was not two. Her twin sister—the first set of twins her mother carried—was twenty-two years dead, her life force extinguished long before she'd taken a single breath. Sadness enveloped her, and a loneliness that not even her living sisters could assuage.

And nevertheless, just like that time, once again, Morwen had been summoned and soon enough she would arrive like an ill wind.

Sleeping peacefully, her sisters were huddled together, one less than before, and although Rhiannon couldn't see Elspeth, she felt her sister's loneliness as acutely as she felt her own. Instinctively, she knew that her sister must be calling for her, but Rhiannon was powerless to answer. Outside, tonight, there was a waning moon lending its light.

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 regnant dewine priestess, 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 that I am 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's grimoire.

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."

"Aye, m'dame," he says, and breaks away, putting his shining silver spurs to his horse's flank, and I think to myself: What a good servant, he is… and why shouldn't he be? He enjoys the benefits of my Craft, and rides so spryly for a man so close to ninety. Alas, should he ever decide to defy me, he would be dead on the morrow, for he is the vessel that harbors my blood sins. His body might be beautiful on the outside, but inside lies a cancerous mass, eating him to his bones. Inhaling deeply, I watch him go, content enough to ride alone for the last mile to Darkwood.