Chapter 26

Twenty-Six

Never in her life could Rosalynde have guessed that halloos could be as heart-rending as good-byes, but now she knew, as she stood clutching her eldest sister, her throat tight and hot tears burning her eyes.

It had been far too long—ten long, long months to be precise, and in the meantime, so much had transpired.

Elspeth, too, seemed overcome—the moisture pooling in her eyes dampening the crook of Rosalynde's neck.

Forsooth, she had somehow forgotten how diminutive Elspeth was, and lest she be mistaken, there was a bit more flesh on her bones as well. She squeezed her sister desperately. And then, finally, after the two had stood so long that their audience began to look about awkwardly, they wrenched themselves apart, to look into one another's red-rimmed eyes. "I cannot believe 'tis you," exclaimed Elspeth, her violet-blue eyes twinkling with joy.

Rosalynde swallowed a lump that rose in her throat. "Yeah, 'tis me," she said, overjoyed. "And wedlock has clearly been good to you, Elspeth."

Elspeth's lips curled into a secret grin. "Aye, well, as to that… I have something to show you." And she took Rosalynde by the hand, pulling her toward the donjon, abandoning everyone else in the yard.

Rosalynde went, only because Giles tipped her a nod when she turned to seek his gaze. He stood, smiling as he tugged off his gauntlets, encouraging Rosalynde to go. Her very last glimpse of the man who'd risked so much to escort her to safety was of him standing, with his cloak turned over his arm, beneath a swirl of snow and surrounded by Aldergh's men at arms. She wanted desperately to stop Elspeth and go back, but her sister was insistent—and far stronger than she remembered.

Inside the castel, Aldergh was not so elaborate in design as Westminster Palace, and in so many ways, not so fine as Llanthony's chapel, but the northern stronghold was sturdy and well fitted. There were tapestries hanging on most of the walls, and fresh rushes on the floors, the rooms clean as a bone after Willhelm got through with one. In this place, there appeared to be nothing her sister was lacking—not even a proper cauldron as she discovered in the lady's solar. Snuggled in a great hearth there, the pot sat very prominently displayed, with an ever-ready fire burning beneath its belly. And this, she assumed, must be the thing her sister wanted to show her—but nay, they had no sooner laid eyes upon the cauldron, when Elspeth dragged her back out of the room, whisking her through the halls.

There were stone and bronze effigies throughout, many in nooks, and a brazier burning in every room. Servants bustled to and fro, carrying on the household chores, but it was Elspeth who commanded them, with her heavy ring of chatelaine's keys dangling at her belt.

"I can't wait to show you my garden," she said, gushing. "Sadly, there isn't much in it right now, for all the snow."

"I can't wait to see it," said Rosalynde, feeling bewildered, because her sister was the same as she'd always been, but so very different. The Elspeth she had lived with in Llanthony had not been so much a wilting flower, but she had not been so confident either. How could she be? She had lived her entire life afeared for the consequences of her actions—and not only for her own sake.

Here, she called out commands as she passed. "Please make certain the guest quarters are tended," she told one servant as they passed, and the lady nodded and rushed away to do her bidding.

She passed another and said. "Ellyn, please go see that the kitchen has been apprised of our guests."

"Yeah, m'lady!" said the young woman, and she too, flew away in a rush.

"That is Cora's daughter," Elspeth explained, scarcely aware that her every word was met with reverence. In such short time, her sister had created for herself a haven.

"Cora?"

Elspeth smiled. "The steward's wife. She is my housekeeper and my dearest friend. I do not know what I would do without her. Alas, we've only just returned, and the house has been in disarray for months in our absence. We spent the winter in Chreagach Mhor, you see." She cast a glance over her shoulder to be sure Rosalynde was listening.

"Chreagach Mhor?"

"Scotia—near the foothills, where my lord was born."

Rosalynde could scarce take her eyes off the rich, colorful tapestries placed high on the walls, depicting terrible battles. Some of the figures wore a Scot's manner of dress, others wore armor. Still others were depictions of swarthy strangers from faraway lands.

Elspeth smiled, noting the direction of her gaze. "Lovely, to be sure, but, alas, they serve more than to please the eye. This part of the castel was built during the Roman days, much like Blackwood. The walls are not always so sound as they should be to weather the winters. If you listen closely—particularly in my solar—you can hear the howl of the wind through stone and mortar."

"Not so much unlike our cottage at Llanthony, eh? Sometimes I miss those days," said Rosalynde, sadly. "As poor as we were, life was simpler then."

And even as pleased as she was for her sister's good fortune, tears pricked at her eyes, and she planted her heels to recover her emotions. Elspeth spun to face her, her sweet blue eyes full of concern. It took Rosalynde a long moment to find her voice. "As you must know, I am not come for pleasure."

"Of course, I suspected," Elspeth said, and with a sigh, she took Rosalynde's hands in hers, warming them. It was a familiar gesture that Rosalynde had sorely missed. Only Elspeth had ever lavished motherly affection on her this way—loving her, reassuringly.

God forbid Morwen should ever do so. "Our mother is a demon," Rose said, in case Elspeth did not realize.

"I know. Believe me, I know."

Rosalynde felt her throat thickening, again. Only when she could, there, in the hall, she explained all about the grimoire… and the perilous journey she had embarked upon. She told her sister about the Shadow Beast that bore Mordecai's face. She told her about having stolen Giles's horse in London, and Seren's betrothal to the lord of Warkworth. Skipping over the night at Neasham she told her about the night of Morwen's arrival at Llanthony and the atrocities their mother committed at Darkwood.

"She swept into our cottage like a cold, bitter wind, put us on our knees and railed at us for being ingrates. All the while, Ersinius stood smirking as we knelt, choking on our tears. Once she was through, the windbag sent in two guards to escort Rhiannon out the door."

Elspeth's brow furrowed. "Did they perchance take her to Blackwood?"

"How did you know?"

"Malcom spoke to her."

"When?"

"It doesn't matter," Elspeth said, patting Rosalynde's hand, and whatever joy she'd had twinkling in her familiar eyes, it was gone now, at least for the moment.

"We cannot allow Morwen to retrieve the book," Rosalynde said, and she brought a hand to her breast. "In my heart of hearts, I know that book is crucial, and I am as certain of that fact as Rhi was the day she bade you leave us at the priory."

Fat tears swelled in her sister's eyes; one slid past her lashes, then rolled down her cheek. "I am so… so… sorry," she said, taking both of Rosalynde's hands, and folding them together, covering them with her own. "I would have returned if I could… and yet… I did send Malcom to find you." She peered down at her blue-slippered feet. "You were gone."

Rosalynde nodded. "We were gone by first light. Ersinius, for all his pandering to the Church, is her willing servant. He does her bidding no matter what cost. I dare not imagine what treachery they have planned together. But, alas, she has agents across the realm, including the Count of Mortain, and that stupid fool burned Warkworth by her behest—burned it to the ground."

Elspeth's eyes grew round with ill-concealed horror. "Is that not the lord you traveled with?"

Rosalynde nodded.

"Does he know you are Morwen's daughter?"

Rosalynde nodded again and squeezed her sister's hand. "Eustace must not be confirmed, Elspeth, and if you have any way to send word to Matilda, you must warn her. He is a villain, no less than our mother, and you were right… we must not turn blind eyes to the truth."

"I have dealt with that man; well I know it."

"So we heard. And yet mother would endeavor to convince everyone you are not here of your own free will."

Elspeth's face flushed. "Rest assured, my sweet sister. So much as I loathe being apart from you, there is nowhere in this world I would rather be. Malcom is…" She inhaled deeply. "Blood of my blood, bone of my bone. He is The One the Goddess ordained for me, and I love him to the depths of my soul." But then, Elspeth looked momentarily away, as though she feared the answer to her next question. "Pray tell, how are Seren and Arwyn?"

Rosalynde shook her head sadly. "I do not know. They were well enough when I left London, but Morwen…"

"Say no more." Elspeth patted Rosalynde's hand again. "We must not fear the worst," she said. "Our sisters are as savvy as you, Rose, else I'd not be here today, and you… you, my dear sister, you would never have found me." She shook her head with a look that betrayed both grief and wonder. "And to think you endured so much. I must thank Giles for taking such great care of my littlest sister, and I will be sure the kitchen prepares him something special."

Now it was Rosalynde's turn to blush, and she did so fiercely, even as she lifted a thumb to her lips in dismay. "Aye well, as to that… there is something else you should know." And then she told Elspeth all about their bonding… about Rhiannon… about the night they spent at Neasham.

"I see," said Elspeth, but if Rosalynde had expected her sister's censure, it wasn't forthcoming. Elspeth gave Rose a sly smile. "I should be the first to say virtue is prized far too highly. You must follow your heart, Rose, and the Goddess will bless you for it. Our sister will doubtless forgive you." And then her smile returned, even brighter. "Come," she demanded again, taking one of Rosalynde's hands and pulling her again down the hall. "I will show you the rest of my home later, but now I really need to show you something…"