Rhiannon listened quietly, loathe to take the witch-paladin’s side, despite that she was right. “Command the birds, command the nation,” her mother used to say.
And, of course, it was true, because whosoever commanded the realm’s mode of communication, commanded the barons as well. Morwen’s affinity with those birds had made her indispensable to Henry, and then to Stephen as well. Ultimately, this was how a penurious young Welsh maiden was able to gain the notice of a King. Consequently, it was also how she’d kept it long after her wiles had failed her. Eventually, both kings had their fill of the witch, and when they did, she moved on to Stephen’s son…
Eustace.
Scourge of England.
Bane of his father.
Puppet to Morwen.
“Is it true she can change them?”
“Aye,” said Marcella and Rhiannon, both at once.
Marcella peered back at Rhiannon, giving her an annoyed glance, though Rhiannon ignored her. Rhiannon asked Jack, “Did you never meet Bran?”
“Nay.”
“I wish I had not,” she said, though thankfully, she’d heard naught more from her mother’s manservant since the day she saw him on the Whitshed.
Alas, she wished she could say the same about Mordecai. Now and again, that abomination had come to perch himself on her windowsill, in the guise of a bird. Only once had he ever ascended the stairs as a man, and Rhiannon had made Cael aware of it and he promised to never allow him to come again.
As for Bran, Rhiannon prayed to the Goddess that those flames had taken him as well—and surely, they must have, else, like Arwyn, Seren would never have lived to see the end of the day.
Poor, poor Arwyn.
Her people held a strong belief that all things were one, living and dead. If, indeed, the tenets of their faith were to be believed, nothing ever truly ceased to be. If she was lucky, mayhap one day she would see Arwyn again, though if she did, what would she say?
I’m sorry for asking you to sacrifice yourself.
I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough to save you.
I’m sorry it wasn’t me.
Anger blazed through her—a righteous anger so intense that it threatened to make her combust right there in her saddle. She had allowed Arwyn to sacrifice herself, just as she’d let Morien…
Her sister Seren was blessed with infinite patience and goodwill, but Rhiannon feared she was cursed with her mother’s darkness; what was more, she heartily embraced it.
Five long years of incarceration had made her more wrathful than ever—all the more so at herself for loving a man who’d kept her imprisoned.
Cael…
Oblivious to her state of mind, Jack and Marcella prattled on endlessly and Rhiannon couldn’t help herself. Squeezing her fist tight, she opened it suddenly, and her fury materialized in the palm of her hand, a tiny blue flame she longed to cast away to set the forest ablaze, damned be the consequences!
Oh, yes, she knew there was a price to be paid, and she accepted the Law of Three as truth. Still, anger was her constant companion…
However, if, for example, one had summoned a brume in order to aid one’s sister’s escape… perhaps five years of imprisonment would be one’s just reward.
And mayhap, rather than blame Cael for all her troubles, she should blame herself…
Closing her fist, she snuffed out the flame.
“Do you smell that?” asked Jack.
“What?”
“Smoke.”
“Nay,” said Marcella, although she turned to peer over her shoulder at Rhiannon, narrowing her shrewd green eyes.
Rhiannon smiled innocently, and shrugged.
17
The days blurred one into another…
Ride, eat, sleep, wake, listen to Marcella crow, ride, eat, sleep, wake, listen to Marcella crow…
Whatever her true allegiance, her opinion was clear as Waldglas: Marcella wasn’t impressed by the English, nor their usurper king. However, what wasn’t precisely evident was where her loyalties lay—not with the Germans, neither with the French or the Normans, even despite that she’d spent so much of her adult life in Germany and then Normandy with Matilda.
At heart, she was perhaps a Welsh patriot, but that was not entirely evident either. She defended Matilda as well as the Church, and marveled that the marcher lords hadn’t found a way to depose all the shambolic Welsh kings.
She was, in truth, a bit of a riddle…
“Pride is their sin,” she said now, expounding on Stephen’s barons and specifically their choice of war mounts. “If you ask me, they are too concerned with appearances, not enough with practicality,” she said. “Destriers are a menace on the battlefield. Meanwhile, our coursers might not put the fear of God into a man, but neither will they madden over the scent of blood. That is why he fell,” she said, speaking of King Stephen. “Not because he is ill-favored by God—that, and because he’s old and weak. Try putting a bit of horseflesh between your legs as an old man, and see if you don’t find yourself with a gob full of muck as well.”
Apparently, the King had taken a tumble from his horse very recently—a few, in fact. The last time, he went face-first into the mire, causing a bevy of tongues to wag. He was “cursed,” so they’d said—abandoned by his God.
But really, how could he possibly win against the anointed son of a Holy Roman Empress! Duke Henry was the rightful heir, and furthermore, how was Stephen ever supposed to keep a discontented nation when he couldn’t even control his own son?
“I am only repeating what I heard,” said Jack, conversationally. “Though, in truth—at least to me—he seems ill-favored as any man can be.”
Marcella’s bark of laughter was acerbic. “Please!” she scoffed. “He stole his uncle’s throne, quite literally—stole England’s treasury, as well, and then forsook an oath to Matilda. Even so, that man kept his throne for nearly a full score years. If that is not good fortune, my young friend, I cannot say what is.”
Like her eldest sister, Elspeth, Marcella was clearly a loyalist for the Empress—prepared to defend the haughty woman at a moment’s notice. Sadly, Rhiannon hadn’t any love for the Would-be Queen. Half-sisters though they might be, in all their living years, Matilda had never once shown any of them any affection—not even Ellie.
Oh, yes, perhaps, in truth, she’d been kinder to Elspeth, once upon a day. But that was so long ago that Rhiannon doubted Elspeth would even remember what Matilda looked like at this very late date. Truly, that woman could be standing before them, grizzle-haired and full of chin hairs, and neither would recognize the other.
So far as Rhiannon was concerned, it didn’t matter to her who sat upon England’s throne, so long as they weren’t a poppet to Morwen—which, in fact, Stephen was.
True: He might be rethinking his alliances these days, but so long as Morwen kept his son’s ear, and so long as Eustace was still the heir apparent, her mother would rule through him. Rhiannon didn’t know Eustace well at all, but she knew enough about him to know that he was as weak of mind as he was of heart. And nevertheless, she was bored of politiks, and she wasn’t moved to speak throughout their entire discourse. Kings, queens, emperors, empresses—they all shat exactly the same, so far as Rhiannon was concerned. She wasn’t impressed with any overlord, no matter their affiliations.