Chapter 3

Three

Despite the holiday—or perhaps because of the holiday—the halls were a crush of human flesh: people awaiting audiences with the king; merchants hawking wares; clergymen stalking the halls. Even in the midst of winter, the abundant smells were disturbing—particularly for a young woman raised in the Welsh countryside. Richly adorned ladies waltzed by, drenched in Flemish perfumes, followed by men, whose clothes and bodies were perfused with far muskier scents. Though, fortunately, considering the disparity between the king's subjects, no one paid Rosalynde any mind as she rushed through the halls.

Praying her mother wouldn't read Seren's mind the instant she arrived in the king's hall, she moved swiftly through the mob, her heart thrumming like priory bells. But, thanks to the glamour she'd cast, her appearance was so altered that, at one point, she passed Seren in the vestibule, and even her sister, for a full instant, did not recognize her.

In fact, her mother's glamour spell was so powerful that neither she nor her sisters had ever had the smallest glimpse of her mother's true persona. For all anyone knew, Morwen Pendragon was as young and lovely as her daughters—a babe herself when she'd born them. Knowing she would outlive Henry by many, many years, she'd lied to him when she'd arrived at court, telling him she was but sixteen.

Of course, it wasn't true. So far as Rosalynde knew, Morwen was at least seventy or more.

She and Seren shared a look, and with a blink of recognition, Seren's lips turned at one corner, then she lifted her chin and turned away. Thereafter, they veered in opposite directions, Seren toward the king's hall and Rosalynde toward the palace doors.

At long last, Rosalynde slipped past the guards, emerging into the yard. Holding her Book possessively, she thrilled over the prospect of seeing Elspeth again, even if it meant leaving pieces of her heart in London. She had no doubt the journey would be long and fraught with perils, but no danger could be greater than her own mother. But Morwen was as canny as she was treacherous. If Rosalynde didn't find a mount soon and flee before Morwen chanced to discover their plot, everything would be lost.

Hopefully, Seren would leave today with her betrothed, and Arwyn would endeavor to convince Morwen she'd had no hand in Rosalynde's schemes. Luckily, her sister had a way of convincing folks everything she said was true; you might call it a glamour of words. No doubt Rosalynde would have preferred leaving all together, but if her sister had come along, it would have been impossible to evade Morwen. As charming as Arwyn could be, she was not very self-sufficient. Rosalynde needed to keep all her wits about her at all times in order to succeed, and Morwen would pluck out their hearts if they were caught.

Nay, it was better for her mother to believe she still had three daughters to barter away, although it wasn't likely she would ever forgive Rhiannon for her part in Elspeth's escape.

Realizing with a start that she'd forgotten to check the coins in her hem, she reached down to snatch up the heavy wool gown, not caring that she was showing all the world her ankles. She'd sewn in five gold marks, along with the philter, basting them in place with a bit of thread. She shook one coin free, hearing it jangle, but she wouldn't rest reassured until she touched every one, and then the philter. Without the herbs, she wouldn't be able to maintain her glamour. Counting coins, and then moving her fingers along the hemline until she felt the soft lump, she exhaled in relief and dropped her skirt. The gold marks settled with another jangle.

All is well, Rose. Don't fret.

She and Arwyn had a deeper connection for having shared so much time in the womb. For them, it was easier to mindspeak, but they shouldn't be taking chances—and this was precisely the reason Rosalynde couldn't take her.

Find a horse. Get out of the city.

Please, shut your gob!

It was late afternoon, near about the hour when many of the king's guests should be departing or seeking beds for the evening. For obvious reasons, Rosalynde would prefer not to have to enter the king's stables. Getting back out without getting caught might be problematic. Therefore, if possible, she planned to liberate one of the horses whose misfortune it was to be hobbled outside. There were too many visitors to expect that everyone should be able to stable their mounts as they pleased. And besides, the interior stables were expensive, and often, visitors preferred to pay a stablehand to keep an eye on their belongings. Searching for such a horse, whose groomsman was preoccupied, she walked along the stable's perimeter.

"Good day, sister."

"Good day, my son," she said, feigning a look of perfect serenity, in hopes that it would bleed through her glamour.

"Excuse me, sister," said another man, as he bumped into her.

Rosalynde tried not to scowl at the man, but it wasn't easy, considering that she was blessed with more temper than any of her sister's, save Rhiannon. "Good day to you," she said, though she longed to smack him with her book for not watching where he was going.

He apologized, Rose. Don't engage every battle.

Alas, Arwyn, you stole my share of good temper in the womb. But, please, do not fret, I know what my task is. I'll not risk it by engaging in petty squabbles.

Good,said Arwyn. Good.May the Goddess bless your travels.

Do not worry. I'll get the grimoire to Elspeth as quickly as I am able—unless your prattling gets me in trouble with mother.

And still, her sister persisted. Do you really think she can keep it safe?

Only pray she can, Rosalynde replied. If not, we are all doomed.

Their mother must be stopped. If, in fact, she continued with her present scheme, England itself would find itself beneath her thumb, because Eustace was naught but a greedy little boy.

Be safe, my sister.

I will! Now, please! Stop talking to me!

Rosalynde tried to close her mind, but distracted as she was, when another clumsy fool bumped into her—this one without a word of pardon—the grimoire flew out of her hands, landing in a pile of dung.

Literally.

See what you did, Arwyn!

There was only meager comfort in the fact that Arwyn did not respond. Dismayed, Rosalynde gasped when she saw her dung-covered grimoire.

"Nay!" she said, kneeling in the dirt to begin wiping it off—praying with all her heart that her mother would not somehow sense her betrayal and fly out of the palace to catch her on her knees—only then, it might be a propitious position from which to beg for her life.

Goddess please!

Grimacing with disgust, she attempted to dislodge the horse-dung with a finger, grateful it wasn't fresh, but it was nevertheless disgusting. With a groan, she slid the book across the dirt… and that's when she spotted the twin black horses hobbled side by side…

Like shining gifts from the Goddess, there stood two lovely mares with glistening black coats. She needed only one. And… as luck would have it, there was no one near the horses, and the stableboy was busy arguing with another customer.

Scooping up the grimoire, Rosalynde bounded to her feet. Not quite daring to place the book against her breast, she nevertheless held it close and made her way toward the horses. Mild mannered, neither protested her approach, and thankfully, both still wore their tack, though it was certain that neither of the saddlebags would contain anything of value. Stifling the urge to peek inside—because that might look suspicious, she pretended as though she knew what she was doing, untethering one of the horses, and apologizing to the other as she did so. Feeling a pang of regret when she led the animal away, she reassured herself that these were the gifts the Goddess had provided, and who was she to look a gift horse in the mouth?

Quickly, she opened one of the satchels, slid her grimoire inside, patted the mare's soft, black rump, and hurried away. When she was out of the line of sight of the stable hand, she tried to mount. It wasn't so easy as she would have supposed…

Cursing beneath her breath—because it wouldn't serve her disguise to be running about spouting oaths—she tried twice before removing her mother's cloak. Vexed with the garment simply for existing, she shoved the monstrosity into the saddlebag, not caring if it was ruined. At any rate, it was temperate for winter, and it would be easy enough to cast a warming spell—she knew plenty of those after so many years living in such mean quarters at Llanthony.

Alas, until now, she had never stolen anything of value, but the Book of Secrets was more precious than any crown jewel, and in the wrong hands, more lethal than Stephen's Rex Militum. So long as she had the Book in her possession, she must have faith and press on. No matter what… she must do all in her power to defend the Book of Secrets.

Finally, she placed her foot in the stirrup and without daring to look back to see if anyone noticed, she settled her rump in the saddle, prepared to risk life and limb to keep the Book safe, she snapped the reins and made for the city gates.

It was a long, long journey north, and there was no time to lose…