Would he regret having embroiled himself?
After all, he didn’t actually have to wed her, and in truth, he was promised little for the effort. If in fact King Stephen meant to cede his crown to Duke Henry after his death, he hadn’t any reason to keep his Rex Militum, since the entire purpose of that commission—by all accounts, Rhiannon had heard—was to find and exterminate all threats to his reign. So, then, Cael might yet have to forfeit Blackwood, after all—not that she cared, mind you. Though she could certainly find it in her heart to love that pile of stones, she would be content enough to simply be with Cael, wherever that may be.
She wondered then… were they truly wed if they hadn’t yet had a first night?
Did men still have the desire to lie with a woman in the midst of war?
She considered that, and thought perhaps the answer must be yes, because, she was a woman and even she thrilled over the barest possibility. Moreover, she’d heard about those women who followed troops, sometimes traveling along with them. They wouldn’t be doing that if men didn’t enjoy them, therefore the answer must be aye, but then, she frowned over the thought, wondering if Cael had ever availed himself of their services. She didn’t relish the possibility.
Something inexplicable had changed since he’d joined them—something Rhiannon couldn’t begin to construe.
It was as though she might be two people now—one, naught but a silly, blushing bride who longed for nothing more than to be touched by her lord husband. The other a dauntless soldier, ready to do battle for the sake of the realm. Neither of these two women had any likeness to the other, and somehow she was both.
And really, considering the circumstances, she shouldn’t even allow her head to be so filled with thoughts of kisses and caresses, but she couldn’t help it.
Even the steady trot of her mare left her wiggling in the saddle, and she felt like a doxy, exposed, even in full attire. No one was watching her, and nevertheless, she felt as though everyone one must be. She longed to ask for Marcella’s advice, but didn’t know how to broach the topic, and then it occurred to her that, normally, this might be something a maiden would ask her mother—more’s the pity, because she’d never had one.
“You speak so fondly of your mother,” Rhiannon ventured. “And yet you’ve never spoken her name.”
“Isolde,” said the paladin after a moment.
“Isolde?”
“Aye.”
“The same—”
“Indeed, she is one and the same,” Marcella said, and once again she heard rather than spied Marcella’s smile.
Goddess, alive, it didn’t seem there could be any more surprises, but here was yet another.
Isolde was the old woman who’d tended them for a while at court, whilst they were still very young. She was also the same woman who’d delivered Rhiannon and her sisters to Llanthony the year King Henry died. She was the one who’d roused them from their slumber in London, and spirited them away to the Vale of Ewyas, where she’d placed them in the care of those monks. Only then, she’d gone, and they never saw her again, and Rhiannon had only assumed she had abandoned them to their misfortunes. After all, who wanted to attach themselves to five penurious young maids.
Rhiannon didn’t know what to say.
“We parted ways after an argument over your mother,” said Marcella.
Rhiannon shook her head. “So it seems, my mother is the cause for so much discontent. I’m so sorry to hear this, Marcella. Have you seen her since, or are you still estranged?”
She sensed Marcella’s gaze, even through the darkness. Her face became visible only in glimpses as moonlight pierced the foliage. “My mother is dead,” she said. “She died a few moons after Henry died. There was a bout of leprosy at Blackwood when I was young, and despite that she was healed, she was twisted and ravaged by her illness. After she left court and deposited the five of you at Llanthony, she wasted away and died. God forbid she should ever humble herself enough to appeal to me—not in life. Though I do still see her now on occasion.”
Rhiannon blinked. “You still see her?”
Silence was her initial response, and then, Marcella asked, “’Tis odd how we can know something in our hearts, and still not know it experientially.”
“I don’t under—”
“As you must know already, all things are one, living and dead. If the stars align, you might still connect with loved ones Beyond The Veil, but you must wholly believe it.”
Rhiannon considered that a moment, and then Marcella added, “If you look and listen, you’ll see signs of our departed in so many forms.”
Rhiannon wondered how Arwyn would appear—in a glorious explosion of flames, she decided with a smile. Her youngest sibling may have been gentle at heart, but she was dazzling in spirit. She found the thought comforting, and tucked the knowledge away for further exploration.
“How much longer to Amdel? Do you know?”
Marcella peered up at a sliver of sky through the trees. “I would suppose by now we have passed into Darkwood, so perhaps another bell.”
Rhiannon stiffened.
“Never fear,” Marcella said, correctly reading her unease. “We are far north of the inn.”
Rhiannon shivered, although it had little to do with the evening’s damp or chill. “I have never been there, but I know enough from my sisters to know it is nowhere I wish to be.”
Marcella agreed. “No man, lest he have some death wish, ever rests at that inn.”
“My mother is the patron, did you know?”
“Of course,” said Marcella. “And I must confess I made good use of that knowledge.”
“Hunting?”
“Aye.”
Rhiannon arched a brow. “Dewinekind?”
“Nay,” said the paladin, sliding her a glance. “I know what you think, Lady Blackwood. Fortunately, ’tis been an age since dewinefolk were the sole concern of the Guard, or even the Church. Mind you, we’ve far worse enemies now, and the greatest being your mother.”
Rhiannon peered back to find Jack loitering at a distance, and she wondered how much he knew. “If you don’t mind my asking, what precisely is Jack to you?” Rhiannon asked, taking advantage of Marcella’s forthcoming mood.
“He’s only my apprentice.”
“And Cael? I know his commission is nearly the same as yours.”
“Not quite. He answers to your King. I answer to my Church.”
“Your Church,” Rhiannon mused aloud. “How odd to hear you say so, though I suppose one creed is the same as another.”
“More or less,” agreed Marcella. “Some call it prayer, others invocation. Still, these are one and the same, and how sad to know it and still find so much discord.”
“I did wonder… how came you to be a paladin?”
There was a long, long pause, and then Marcella said, “Interestingly enough, because of your mother. She charged me to spy on Matilda whilst she was still wed to the Emperor. And, of course, this was precisely the reason for the discord with my mother. She begged me not to do it, and I… well… as you know, I forsook her advice.”
“Did you do it to please my mother?”