Come what may, she would make the decision to trust Lord Blackwood, and not once would she dare peek out of her room, no matter if her guards did not return—mostly because she was afraid that if she went to the door, she might keep going and never return.
But neither did she dare gather her belongings. In the event that her mother should appear in her doorway, she didn’t intend to be caught packing. Therefore, she realized… when she left this place, she would be departing with nothing but the clothes on her back… that and her magik.
Come to think of it, maybe not even that.
She worried whatever magik had been cast upon these shackles, it had depleted her, like darkness banishing light.
Fortunately, the one blessing of these shackles was this: Whilst it allowed no magik to leave her person… neither should it allow any within—at least that’s what Rhiannon presumed, and soon she would put it to the test, because if her mother suspected treachery, she would unleash the worst of her hud du, and not even Cael would manage to survive it. She prayed to the Goddess that he knew what he was doing, and then resigned herself to wait…
It wasn’t long before she was summoned belowstairs.
To her surprise—and to her dismay—along with the summons arrived an unexpected gift: a gown unlike any she’d ever beheld. It was a silvered surcoat, dyed purpure, with a snow-white chainse to wear beneath. Only, no matter how desperately she searched the folds, there was no place to hide a key, and no time to sew a pocket into the dress.
“My lord sent me to help you dress,” explained the girl who brought it—a maidservant Rhiannon hadn’t met before now.
Perhaps noting her confused expression, the girl added, “He said he needed Aelwyd in the kitchen and sent me instead.”
Aelwyd was the only maid who’d ever served Rhiannon, though even Aelwyd had not been altogether companionable. She did her lord’s bidding, and kept her distance, perhaps frightened of what and who Rhiannon was.
“Oh,” said Rhiannon. “Well… no matter. I’ll dress myself.”
“Oh, nay, meistres! What of these?” asked the girl, showing her a fistful of ribbons. “I am bidden to weave them through your hair.”
There were no fewer than twenty ribbons, Rhiannon noted, and she winced over the time it would take to braid them—time she desperately needed to prepare.
“Very well,” she relented, smiling, but her eyes scanned the room, alighting upon an empty ewer. “Oh, but, please… I am thirsty. Might I trouble you for a bit of mead?” And then she lifted her hand to show how it trembled. “Nerves, I suppose.”
Eager enough to please, the maid curtsied at once. “Of course, meistres. I’ll go fetch a cup.” And then, smiling still, she rushed out of the room, tossing her ribbons upon a table, leaving Rhiannon alone for the moment.
The very instant she was gone, Rhiannon rushed over to pluck up one of the silver ribbons, lacing it through the eye of her key. She then tied the key firmly to her ribbon, and when that was done, she rushed back to the bed, shoving the ribbon, along with the key, beneath her pillow, scarcely in time to turn and greet the maid, who’d returned too soon with a sheepish smile.
“Owen says I’m not to leave you. He’ll go fetch it.”
Rhiannon frowned, realizing belatedly that her guards must be watching belowstairs. So much for Cael trusting her to do the right thing. And, aye, indeed, so much for believing she could leave if she chose. Although she should have anticipated as much, the revelation disheartened her. Perhaps because it dispelled any notion that she had been given a choice in the matter. And, aye, she would wed Cael d’Lucy, because he demanded it, and she knew that if he set her free, he would do so at his own discretion.
Rotten, misbegotten cur.
Mistaking her downcast expression, the maid tilted Rhiannon a look of compassion. “Oh, please, meistres, don’t worry, you’ll be lovely,” she said. “I’ll see to it myself, and ye’ll make your mam proud.”
Rhiannon winced.
The thought was unthinkable.
Retrieving the ribbons, the maid brought them over and tossed the entire lot onto the bed, lifting one, then catching a thick lock of Rhiannon’s hair.
“Used to be I lived here when I was a little girl,” said the maid conversationally. “We went away when King Henry took the castle, but your sweet mam brought us back. She cured me and my mam of leprosy.”
Leprosy? Rhiannon’s eyes were drawn to the hands the maid moved so deftly—hands that were devoid of scars. “My mother cured you?” she said with surprise.
The maid smiled warmly. “Aye, meistres. She did. I swear, no matter how terribly they speak o’ her, I know what I know, and I will ever be grateful.”
“Oh,” Rhiannon said, because it explained so much—most notably why Cael had never allowed this girl to serve her before. Only he knew who to trust in this wretched pile of stones. And if he’d sent her here, he must have needed the aid of a servant he trusted. That lifted Rhiannon’s hopes.
She didn’t bother to tell the poor girl that Morwen never did anything for selfless reasons. If she had cured the woman and her mother, she would only have done so in order to enthrall them. Morwen cultivated sycophants—by whatever means she could, be it hud du, or lies. Therefore, she kept her mouth shut and allowed the maid to plait her hair, taking comfort in the fact that if all went well this eve, she would be long gone from this place by the cock’s first crow.
5
Somewhere near Bury St. Edmunds
Newly returned from negotiations, Giles de Vere was home long enough to see his newborn son, wash, sleep, fill his belly, and then get himself an earful from his wife and his sister by law, then he was back in the saddle, with his brother at his side.
Evidently, the King’s son had desecrated the abbey at Bury St. Edmunds, pillaging the Church coffers and destroying holy relics. Giles was commanded to locate the fool and return him to London to treat with his father, although Giles half hoped someone would put an arrow through the dastard’s heart and save everyone the trouble.
Eustace was a menace to the realm. By now, the King’s son had abused his state in more ways than anyone could count. Not only had he burned Warkworth to the ground, merely to appease his puerile sense of importance, but he injuriously taxed his counties until they complained to the bishops. It was no wonder the Church steadfastly refused to consecrate him, and now that his bear of a mother was dead, he hadn’t many allies remaining, not even his father.
However, the winds of change were blowing in one final tempest and his warrior’s heart anticipated the worst…
All it would take to change the course of history was the death of two very, very mortal men. If Stephen and Duke Henry should happen to find themselves murdered, and if Eustace remained the last man standing, with that witch by his side, the kingdom would come undone.
By now, Giles had come to understand this was not truly the tale of a usurper, nor the uncle betrayed, nor even a grandson so eager to reclaim his birthright.
Rather, it was a story about queens.
Three, to be precise.
First, the Empress Matilda, whose mother kicked up her toes when she was only sixteen, and whose father left her with an uncertain legacy.