Certainly, she’d never asked to love him.
The woman riding alongside her looked too much like a cat who got the cream.
“Why are you helping me?” Rhiannon asked. “For my husband?”
“Nay,” the woman replied. “Mind you, I care deeply for Lord Blackwood, but I believe loving you will be the death of him yet, and for what? I cannot believe you ever knew his heart.”
Rhiannon winced, confused, more than angry.
It was true, perhaps: There was much about Cael d’Lucy she was not privy to know. But that was not her fault, she told herself. He’d only ever revealed the face he cared to show. And even so… she’d spent so many waking hours in his company over these past five years; shouldn’t she know him better than some woman who hadn’t seen him in years? Even a cousin?
“He’s not the man you believe him to be, Rhiannon.”
“No doubt,” Rhiannon agreed. “But, then, prithee, who is he?”
The dewine shook her head. “That is not for me to answer, my dewine sister. Though if he survives your mother, you might ask him yourself.” Then she laughed acerbically. “As to the reason, I’m helping you… why else? ’Tis the will of the Goddess, no doubt.”
“I see,” said Rhiannon. And perhaps she did—far more than she cared to. It was there in the glint of Marcella’s eyes, in the tears she’d disdained to shed. Marcella might, in truth, be his cousin, but the woman might also be in love with him.
The two women shared a knowing glance, and then Marcella huffed a sound of disgust, and put a heel to her mare, moving ahead to take the lead. Meanwhile Jack fell back to ride alongside Rhiannon. “You mustn’t concern yourself with Marcella,” he advised. “Betimes she’s abrasive, though she means well. She’s quite protective of Lord Blackwood.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
The young man grinned stupidly, then sighed, watching as Marcella whacked at brambles. “She’s not only lovely, but she’s clever, as well.”
Annoyance rushed down Rhiannon’s spine. “So I must presume.”
Jack nodded, ignoring the telltale note of sarcasm in Rhiannon’s voice, responding with unreserved pride. “She served the Empress and her house many, many years.”
The Empress. Rhiannon’s half-sister, though they hadn’t really a drop of blood in common. Still, her interest was mildly piqued, and she said, “In what fashion?”
She never anticipated the answer she received. “Marcella is the only woman ever to be assigned to the Papal Guard.”
14
She was a paladin?
Rhiannon blinked, surprised for the second time this morn, now seeing the woman with entirely new eyes.
Gripping her reins until her mount protested over the tension, she stared wide-eyed at Marcella’s back. Riding with her back straight, head held high, with her trusty sword brandished in her hand, she wielded it with the same confidence she displayed in the saddle.
How was this possible?
Even by her own admission, Marcella was a witch. For obvious reasons, those two professions did not align.
Disbelieving what she’d heard, Rhiannon met Jack’s gaze, only to be sure. He nodded swiftly at the question in her eyes, and Rhiannon blinked yet again.
How was this possible?
For ages, their dewinefolk had been hunted by paladins—and not merely in past times. From its conception, the Papal Guard had ruthlessly hunted her kind, dragging them out from their homes only to be burned at the stake—like her grandmother. Shortly before Rhiannon was born, her grandmother was sentenced to death, and executed by a company of paladins. They were, essentially, no more than executioners for the Church.
And nevertheless, she shouldn’t be so surprised, because her own forebear was said to have aided huntsmen. The great and esteemed Taliesin was Uther’s mage, and Uther was said to be a founding member of the Papal Guard. There wasn’t a living witch who knew their dewine history who didn’t feel some measure of ambivalence over the conflicts of their past. There might appear to be clear sides—right or wrong—but the truth was far more complicated.
A pure-blood dewine herself, Cerridwen should have been the one to whom their loyalties were bound. After all, she was a Goddess, and Taliesin was her child, natural born though he was not. And nevertheless, it was her blood that made him, and in the end, he’d betrayed her—as he later betrayed their dewinekind by aligning himself with Uther Pendragon.
As the story was told to Rhiannon, Uther hunted faefolk and slew them till their numbers had dwindled. He was the reason her people hid themselves in the sacred forests, and buried their grimoires for fear of persecution.
And nevertheless… here was Marcella… aiding Rhiannon… at her cousin’s behest. It was enough to make Rhiannon’s head ache as much as her heart. Even with the burden of her manacles lifted, she could scarcely think to make sense of all the things she’d learned. Everything was clear as sludge.
And yet, she knew that not all paladins were agents of destruction. Proof of that was her brother by law; Giles de Vere was Rosalynde’s champion and now her husband. For love of her sister, he’d turned his back on his paladin vows.
Had Marcella as well?
And what, pray tell, was Marcella’s connection to Cael?
Whose side was she on?
And so, it seemed, even after so many centuries, there were still no clear lines to be drawn… Morwen was evil, perhaps because she was betrayed, and despite that this alone was no true defense, neither was Taliesin an innocent man. Their ancient feud—fanciful though the bards might make it—was as real as the nose on Rhiannon’s face, vicious besides.
There was no way around it; Morwen must die. And yet, despite this, Rhiannon suddenly understood something about her mother’s plight—perhaps even sympathized with her as well.
And now, if she sensed ambivalence in Marcella, at least she understood why: Marcella might, in truth, be her dewine sister, but she was a slayer of her own kind. Therefore, she was not to be trusted nor trifled with, and, yes, indeed, Rhiannon must keep her wits about her, until she chanced to discover what it was that motivated the paladin.
In the meantime, one thing was certain: It was going to be a long, long journey to Warkworth.
15
By the time they crossed into England, Rhiannon felt her strength nearly returned. Although her body wasn’t so hale as it was before the confinement, her head felt clearer than it had in ages—as clear as it could possibly be while plagued with thoughts of Cael.
Unfortunately, there was little she could do for Blackwood’s lord, and she must accept the truth. Her husband had chosen his fate. Whatever his attachment to Morwen, his consequences were his own to bear. And nevertheless, it still made her miserable—as miserable as she’d been over the loss of her sister, although, in truth, they shouldn’t be the same.
She’d known Arwyn her entire life.
In contrast, she’d known Cael but a small portion of that.
And furthermore, Arwyn was an innocent, a good woman, who’d spent her entire life following the dictates of her heart.
Rhiannon didn’t know what Cael was, but he wasn’t particularly “good,” and neither was he innocent.