Forevermore, the world would be deprived of her sister’s sweet smile—her quiet wisdom and endless fervor. All these things were turned to ash—and why?
What happened?
What in the name of the Goddess happened?
What could possibly have happened?
She asked herself these questions over and over, but even as she did so, she suspected the answer… Morwen.
Somehow, inexplicably, her mother must’ve discovered their plans—but, nay… wouldn’t she simply take Arwyn away? Why would she kill Arwyn? Would she truly have been so heartless to have murdered her own flesh and blood?
Seren’s eyes burned with unshed tears; rage frizzled them away—rage against her mother, rage against herself, rage against this rude beast who’d wrenched her away from the harbor. Without a by your leave, he’d seized her away from the docks, flinging her over his saddle, and for all she knew, he could have been the one to set that fire.
“I will not go with you,” she said. “You cannot make me.”
“I can, and will.”
“Nay! You’ll not,” Seren said, flying at him again.
He caught her and held her firm, and if she glared at him with ill-repressed fury, Wilhelm more than anyone understood how she felt.
He knew because he’d stood in her shoes… except for the fact that he hadn’t had the luxury to stand there, raging against fates. Perforce, he had been the one to march into those ruins in search of their dead. And yet, more than he could bear, Seren’s sorrow and pain was his sorrow and pain, and even now, all these months later, he hadn’t properly mourned. The unrepressed grief and anger so apparent on her face was a mirror to his own.
Like a torrent, the sound of rushing blood deafened his ears. His heart pounded against the cage of his ribs, and he wanted desperately to shout back at her that she must listen. But he swallowed his words, constraining himself, holding her steady when he felt her knees might buckle.
But even then, her fingers wrenched at his sherte, clutching him desperately. Tears stung his eyes as her pale eyes beseeched him. It was that piteous look that nearly unmanned him. “Please,” she begged, and he was nearly undone.
He hadn’t wept that day while burying their dead, nor any day since, but he longed to weep with her now. His own grief throttled his words, and he swallowed with difficulty, assaulted by the image of Ayleth of Bamburgh’s body lying scorched before him. But this was not Lady Ayleth weeping. This was Seren Pendragon. Nor was she dead. She was alive. She was only broken as Wilhelm was broken.
In that instant Wilhelm felt a communion with Seren unlike any he’d ever experienced with anyone—not even with Lady Ayleth of Bamburgh. He’d pitied Lady Ayleth, in truth, much as he pitied Seren Pendragon, but this was not what rendered him speechless as he gazed into Seren’s shimmering blue eyes—eyes that were so pale a shade they reminded him of the silvery hue of a winter sea.
And… unlike Lady Ayleth, who’s fingers were so rigid in death that he’d had to break them to rest them in repose, Seren Pendragon’s hands were clutching him in desperation, pleading with him to return her to the harbor… but he couldn’t. No, he wouldn’t.
For the longest time, she clung to him—or perhaps Wilhelm clung to her. He didn’t know, precisely. But he swore in that instant he would do all in his power to aid her—not only because he’d promised her sister. He would champion Seren Pendragon because they were one and the same. He would protect her, not because she was his sweet lady’s sister, but because there was a small boy inside him longing to do what she was doing right now… a boy as lost to the world as she was lost. “Shhhh,” he said. “Only think,” he begged. “Wouldst your sister wish you to put yourself at risk?”
Wrenching herself away, Seren shoved at his chest. “What can you possibly know of my sister?”
What in the name of the Goddess could he know about anything?
Her face twisted with anger, and in that moment, she couldn’t have cared less if she looked like a demon possessed. If, in truth, men wept with longing o’er her beauty, there was naught in her countenance now that would lend truth to this tale. She felt as hideous as Morfran of legend—Morfran whose countenance was so hideous that his mother had pledged herself to the worst hud du. Filled with anguish, Seren let loose a scream at the top of her lungs.
“Seren,” he said softly. “Seren, please listen to me.” He gripped her by the shoulders and shook her gently. “It was your sister who sent me.”
Confused, Seren blinked at him. “Arwyn?”
“Nay, your sister Rosalynde. I am Wilhelm Fitz Rich—”
It was so cruel to give hope, only to rip it away. So cruel! Once again, she flew at him, this time pounding his chest with all her fury. “I heard you the first time, my lord!”
A flash of irritation ignited behind his dark eyes as he caught her wrists once again, saving himself from the assault. Bewildered, Seren stilled, only because she was too confused to do aught else.
Who was this man? What was she supposed to do? Where should she go? Arwyn—oh, Arwyn, oh, nay.
“I’m no lord,” he explained. “I am baseborn son to Richard de Vere.”
De Vere?
De Vere!
“Giles?” she said, blinking with sudden comprehension.
He nodded. “Your betrothed,” he said, and when she did not respond at once, he prompted again, “Lady Seren?”
Seren’s jaw went slack. After everything that had transpired now, Giles de Vere would still force her to wed? Sweet mercy, in the wake of her sister’s death, marriage was the least of her concerns. Words failed her; grief caught in her throat like a sticky pit. And once again she wrenched herself away, this time, rubbing at her wrists. “He is not my intended,” she professed. “I repudiate him!”
The man coughed, looking askance, then scratching the back of his head. “Aye, well,” he said. “As to that… whatever lies between you and my brother lies between you and my brother. ’Tis none of my concern. Rather, I was tasked to find you and return you safely to Warkworth and this I will do.”
He lifted his face to Seren’s and for an instant she was lost in his dark, fathomless gaze—eyes that were so profound they left her confused. But there was something in his expression that calmed her, because even despite that she was still furious with him, he was looking at her as though he somehow understood… and more… as though he felt her pain. For a long, long instant, she couldn’t avert her gaze.
Baseborn, so he’d claimed. Giles was his brother. Wide-shouldered, brawny and swarthy, Seren had little trouble believing the man could be lowborn. But something in her expression must have revealed misgivings, because he said, “Hold me in contempt, if you will… I am only here to help.”
Normally, Seren was not an angry soul. If the truth be known, she had the least temper of all her sisters, but it was so much easier to be angry with this behemoth—this beast of a man who seemed so intent upon forcing her to acknowledge the truth. “How can you help me?” she asked, lifting her chin defiantly. “Can you resurrect my sister?”
His jaw grew taut, and he pursed his lips, displacing a long, dark curl from his forehead as he shook his head. At one time, his hair might have been shorn in the Norman fashion, but it was overgrown now, and disheveled. His beard was sorely unkempt. “I am sorry,” he said. “Your sister cannot possibly have survived the blaze. She is gone, Seren, and you must return to Warkworth with me.”