Chapter 20

Twenty

Giles was a Paladin—as formidable a commission as the king's Rex Militum, save that he served the Holy Roman Empire, not the English crown. And yet, he wasn't a priest; he was a man, with all a man's faults, and his body trembled at the sight of the woman peering up at him so haplessly, her expression something akin to horror.

But he knew why she was looking at him that way, and he sensed she understood precisely who—and what—he was.

Her own grandmother had been subject to the laws of the Church, and she'd suffered a heretic's death, burned at the stake by the edict of the Empress's first husband. As it was with the Rex Militum, the Palatine Guardsmen were executioners for the realms, and it was their company who'd been assigned to carry out justice for Morgan Pendragon. After all, it was their task to dispatch enemies of the Church, whether they be heretics… or witches. And yet, his post was a bit of a contradiction, because it was the Prophet Merlin—a Pendragon himself—who'd given them their rites of passage. It was a fact that kept them relegated to the shadows—a stain on the sanctity of the Church.

"You're a Huntsman," she said quietly, though it wasn't a question.

Giles shrugged dispassionately, despite there wasn't a single muscle in his entire body that didn't feel tense, and there was naught apathetic about his thoughts.

"That's perhaps one word for it," he said.

Rosalynde blinked again, and he swallowed now as he studied her face—the same face he'd first spied when he'd encountered her sleeping… and it was that face he'd envisioned in his dreams. To look upon it now left him breathless. And, not even the fact that she was Morwen Pendragon's daughter had any tempering effect upon his ardor. It was as though, in truth, as he stood gazing down upon this Daughter of Avalon… all meaning to his life became clear. He was meant to be here… this moment… with her, and not even his true mission in England held the same verity. Somehow, he was meant to be Rosalynde Pendragon's champion, and she was meant… for what?

What role had she to play in her mother's demise?

He flicked a glance at her book; understanding dawned.

Avoiding Rosalynde's gaze, he bent to pick up his longsword and then re-sheathed it—another legacy of Merlin's. As it must be for all the men in the Palatine Guard, the sword had been chosen specifically for him, but there remained twelve such swords, all forged from blooms of steel, and containing a special consecrated alloy that glowed faintly in the presence of evil.

This girl was not evil. The sword's golden halo had vanished the instant he'd dispatched the Shadow Beast, and not for an instant during their travels had he felt the low thrum of the finely-honed metal at his hip.

As for Morwen Pendragon… she was another matter entirely. Morwen herself was a demon, and the Church had dispatched Giles—not only to reclaim a valuable seat in his father's name, but to pave the way for the Empress's son to take his rightful place on England's throne.

Now, more than before, he understood that the Church must not confirm the Count of Mortain. Stephen must not be allowed to install his son on the throne. Morwen Pendragon must be stopped at all cost, and Eustace was no more than her poppet. If the king managed to hand the realm to his miscreant son, England would be lost.

And yet, so much as the barons had sworn their fealties to the Empress, neither was Matilda destined to be their savior. She was a woman, and so much as a woman could destroy it, no woman could unite England's barons. It must be Duke Henry, and they must continue to weaken the king's hold and strengthen the resolve of the Church.

Giles had but needed his dispensation to give the illusion he was Stephen's loyal man—to keep those bastards off his lands. Even now, there were ships due to arrive at his port with men enough and supplies enough to begin reconstruction—all save for the stone he must procure, and perhaps that dilemma might be solved now by speaking to the very man whose aid Rosalynde was seeking—the lord of Aldergh. The ex-king's man had access to a sizable quarry, and it was for that reason alone he had managed to construct and maintain such a monstrosity as Aldergh. If the earl of Wallingford could hold back a siege for a year, Aldergh could do it for three.

He realized Rosalynde was still staring at him, perhaps waiting for confirmation. "Aye," he said.

His brother, as always, was clueless. "What is she talking about, Giles?"

He turned to Wilhelm now, gauging how much he could say without betraying his oaths, and then said in jest, "I mustn't be so dreadful with a blade, after all." And he gave his brother a lopsided grin.

Wilhelm tilted him a look of confusion, bemused, perhaps as he should be. More than once Giles had tried to tell him that he was not the man he believed, although if the dispatching of the Shadow Beast wasn't proof enough, there wasn't much more he could say—or do. And nevertheless, he could say this much: "I am sworn to protect the Holy Church from its enemies, no matter what form they take."

Wilhelm pointed into the woods. "What was that?"

Giles shrugged, again. "That… I don't know, brother, but this lady might enlighten us…" He returned his gaze to Rosalynde Pendragon, entreating her with a tilt of his head. "As you were saying, Lady Rosalynde… what, pray tell, is a Mordecai?"

Rosy cheeked, Rosalynde averted her gaze. "He's my mother's… manservant, but… I did not know…" She shook her head, and if she meant to say anything more, her words seemed disinclined to come.

Unwittingly, Giles's attention fell upon the rip in her dress, exposing her middle to his brother's eyes—and for the first time in his life he understood Wilhelm's jealousy over Lady Ayleth. He didn't wish for any man to see Rosalynde this way—not even his staid and loyal brother.

Swallowing hard, Giles walked away, returning a moment later with the cloak Rosalynde had placed in his satchel. He tossed it down beside her, and she pushed it away. "That is my mother's," she said. "I would not wear it lest I were dying!" And with a bit more ardor, she added, "'Tis catskin!"

Dear God. Cat fur.

Giles grimaced in disgust.

God's truth, the more he knew of the dispossessed lady of Blackwood, the more thoroughly he disliked her.

Removing his own cloak, he handed it down to Rosalynde, pleading wordlessly for her to cover herself, and wondering what was wrong with him that he had not offered his own cloak long before now. Was he so poor in spirit that he would only respond to a lovely face?

Thoroughly displeased with himself as much as he was with the entire situation, he turned away, commanding Wilhelm to disband their camp. "We'll be leaving at once," he said. And then he sighed. "This time, we'll keep to the woodlands, out of sight of those bloody birds."

Wilhelm nodded, and, for once, without any complaint, he rushed to do Giles's bidding.

In the meantime, Giles returned to Rosalynde, reaching out his hand. "Would you trust me with your book, Rosalynde? I will keep it safe." And he would. Now that he understood who and what she was, he suspected he understood why she had safeguarded the tome so jealously. "I will put it in my satchel and guard it with my life."

The bookhe was requesting was lying beside her. For all that he was still in possession of that weapon, he might simply have taken it, simply by bending to retrieve it. After the feats Rosalynde witnessed in that glade, she would never have challenged him… But… he was asking. Nicely. And more… there seemed to be a new accord between them… a thread of familiarity… perhaps only natural after having endured such a harrowing experience.

Nodding, she reached over and lifted up the grimoire, handing it over to him, even as her own actions confused her.

How willingly she was now proffering the one thing she'd vowed to die for.

With a nod, Giles took the book, then offered Rosalynde a hand. Alas, if she expected nothing more to come after their previous ordeal, she would have been wrong. A sudden jolt passed from his fingers as their fingers met, and yet, startled though she was, she did not pull away. Once the initial shock passed, it left her with an infusion of warmth that traveled from the tips of her fingers, to the very center of her being, right down to the tips of her toes. She curled them reflexively, because the sensation was so… so… evocative.

Bards crooned about love at first sight… of lords and ladies whose hearts burned as one… and this must be how they felt.

Somehow, she sensed that he, too, must have felt it… at least so it seemed by his blink of surprise.

Bound by destiny, to destiny bound,

Another to one, and one to another...

Dizzied by the sensation, Rose wavered on her feet, until Giles caught her and steadied her. Tears sprang to her eyes, because the feeling was so intensely powerful. And nevertheless, oblivious to what was transpiring between them, Wilhelm rushed around, dutifully picking up their belongings and putting out their fire.

Only by now there was another fire burning in Rosalynde's heart… simmering to the very depths of her soul… its heat coloring her skin until every part of her flushed.

Freely choose, or choose to be free.

As you will it, so mote it be.

Rosalynde blinked. Quite literally, she saw stars bursting before her eyes, and even as the soft, silken voice breezed through her mind, she realized what it was… She'd heard the voice only once before in her life… back in the glade… whilst the Shadow Beast held her in its talons. It was, she realized with awe, the voice of the goddess.

If only she wished to refuse her gift—if Giles wished to—she was free to do so. All she had to do was release his hand… let go, turn away. Confused though he seemed to be as well, he held her hand firmly, and, sweet fates, even knowing that he was betrothed to her sister, Rosalynde entwined her fingers about his, holding him fast, even as she felt a strange thread weave its way through her belly. Terrified to look away now, she peered straight into his dark, soulful eyes, only begging him to confess the things he was hearing and feeling…

The essence of nature seemed to fold and unfold itself, circling around them, like ribbons of fae dust. And still, Rosalynde dared not release his hand…

And… neither did he release hers, though she realized that, though he must surely feel what she felt, he probably couldn't hear what she heard nor see what she saw.

At long last, Rosalynde took a shuddering breath, withdrawing her hand.

"We are ready to ride at your command," announced Wilhelm. And when he received no response, he said, "Giles?"

Giles blinked twice, then shook his head, as though shaking off his stupor, turning to address his brother, looking as confused as Rosalynde felt.

"Aye," he said. "Let's go." And he turned to Rosalynde again, blinking once more.