“You’re all so pathetic!” said Eustace. “Look at you!” He laughed, and then, his gaze fell upon Rhiannon, his eyes narrowing as he scoffed, “At long last! The proud, prodigal daughter emerges. Has anyone ever told you that you look precisely like your mother, dear? Alas, I warrant you’ve not half the wits she has. Too bad.”
Smiling thinly, he then turned to Cael, and said, “And you! Traitor! Your lips speak words—” He made a kneading motion with his hands to simulate froth at his mouth. “But ’tis little more than scum of the mouth. You are no better than Morwen’s ungrateful daughters. Oh, but I warrant she’ll see you pay for your faithlessness—every last one of you!”
He pointed to each of them in turn, stabbing at the air. “You. And you. And you. And you. You. And you!”
His gaze returned to Rhiannon then, and he said, “There’s nothing you can do to stop her, witchling!”
It was Marcella who spoke next, her voice resounding throughout the empty hall. “And yet, Prince Eustace, ’tis you who sits alone in the shadows of an abandoned castle, drowning your sorrows with sour vin! I warrant ’tis you who is the fool—you and those poor dafties who were stupid enough to follow a worthless, would-be king.”
Eustace’s gaze shot to Marcella, his gray eyes burning with loathing. “I may yet show you how ineffectual I am, you black-eyed cunt.” His hand moved to grasp the area of his genitals, and he squeezed furiously.
Marcella drew her sword and rushed the dais. Cael intercepted her, throwing an arm about her waist and drawing her back to a safer distance, even as the brothers advanced upon the dais.
“You’ll die poorly,” promised Marcella, even as she allowed herself to be restrained.
“Not yet,” said Cael. “As it stands, he’s one more bargaining chip in our favor. We’ll make good use of him. Seize him,” he said to the Warkworth brothers, and both men rushed the lord’s chair, dragging the prince up by his skinny arms.
No more than a lanky boy, he stumbled as they tossed him roughly toward the steps. However, emboldened by the realization that he would be spared—for the moment—the relief in his eyes was evident. His gaze narrowed malevolently. “You haven’t the first hope to defeat her!” he screamed. “Hail the Witch Goddess!”
And then he roared, “England will fall, and then rise again from its ashes! ’Tis I who will rule in the end! Damned be my father and to hell with Duke Henry!”
“You’re a fool,” said Rhiannon. “My mother will give you nothing. She’ll take whatsoever she pleases, including your seat on the throne, and in the end, no one will remember your name.”
Cael frowned at the disheveled prince being led off the dais, feeling a twinge of regret for what they were forced to do, if only in part because the lad was the same age his own son had been when Uther murdered him. “I’m certain Beauchamp kept an oubliette,” he suggested. “Find it and put the prince there.”
“Gladly!” said Wilhelm.
“He’s all yours when the time is right,” said Giles. “Don’t harm him yet.”
“Guard him as though your life depends upon it,” added Marcella.
“Because it does,” agreed Cael.
Once the prince was led from the hall, the remainder of the party dispersed, Giles to search for supplies and Cael to look for signs of life.
Rhiannon and Marcella worked together to safeguard the castle with warding spells and the remainder of Marcella’s philters. But the castle was a poor refuge as it stood.
The outer gate was destroyed.
The ramparts were still smoldering.
Whatever protection the outer bailey had afforded them, it was gone.
Alas, there wasn’t time to rebuild. Between now and such time as Morwen descended upon them—whenever that might be—they must find some way to secure the stronghold as best they could. Unfortunately, the prospects were grim—two women, one dog and four men against whatever army Morwen was rousing. Consequently, before setting out to inspect the grounds, Cael did something he hadn’t done since his time in the monastery. He searched for and found Amdel’s chapel—hidden as it was at the back of the bailey behind a savage little garden. He shoved open the door, revealing a dusty and cobwebbed interior, and made his way down the aisle toward the nave. Then, he knelt before the altar and prayed.
“Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.”
Macbeth, William Shakespeare
Our reunion is bittersweet. In your belly, swollen with promise, I made the tricksy fae. Within your bowels I wrought the future. With your brew I’ll change the fates.
Very soon, when the light of this world has been doused like the flames of a hundred thousand dying stars… here, I’ll remain. “With you, my sweet…”
D’Lucy will pay.
Rhiannon will pay.
Stephen will pay.
The years have been long, and my body left wanting—too long without a lover’s touch.
The last I had in my bed was no more than a selfish little twat with dreams of wearing his father’s crown.
“Marcella,” I hiss. You’ll pay most of all, because you knew me when my heart was tender with pain… because when I revealed unto you the deepest, darkest place in my soul, still you held me and sang to me in the crook of your arm. “Deceiving little witch.”
How easily you plotted and schemed to steal away my daughter. How easily you betray me.
“Fire burn and caldron bubble,” I say, coaxing a flame about the fertile belly of my grail. And then, for a moment, I watch, fiddling with my ring. After a moment, I open the hidden compartment, then turn the contents into the kettle: Newts. Moon snails. A touch of human remnants. A pinch of bloodroot and hemlock, only for good measure.
Stirring the pot with the tempest of my thoughts, I stand and stare into the silvery solution, once again mourning the loss of my scrying stone—that heirloom of my destruction that was stolen from me, along with my cauldron and my children. I suffered Taliesin to live and he repaid me by conspiring with my enemies.
Creirwy, you fool. Did you believe there would be no reckoning? Did you not know I’d suck the breath from your lungs? Did you think I would allow you to grow old and die here in this wretched pile of stones, keeping from me my grimoire and my grail? Nay.
Arrogant, faithless, ungrateful daughters.
Every one of you—Creirwy, Elspeth, Rhiannon, Seren, Arwyn and Rosalynde.
I brush a finger across the lip of my cauldron as Mordecai appears before me in the courtyard, his dark form silhouetted by the shifting dawn.
“Where are they?”
“Amdel.”
“Not so far,” I say.
And yet, not close enough.
“How many travel with them?”
“Six, including Marcella and Lord Blackwood.”
Cael, you fool! I told you not to lose your heart to my daughter, and what did you go and do?
My gaze moves slowly to Mordecai. “Do not call him thus in my presence ever again. Blackwood is mine. I am done with pretense.”
“As you wish, meistres.”
“What of the lords you roused from slumber? How many will pledge their armies?”