“As God is my witness,” he said. “I am your servant.”
When she said naught, he continued. “I will see you safely to Warkworth. And once there, reunited with Rosalynde, you may decide for yourself where else you might go. I warrant my brother will not keep you against your will.”
Seren lifted a brow. It was not her experience that any man should ever behave so honorably. In fact, over the past year she’d endured much at the hands of “honorable men”—a grope as she passed in the hall, a wandering eye, a crude gesture when it was certain no one was looking. Even Father Ersinius had cornered her inside the chapel at Llanthony, where God’s eyes were said to keep their keenest vigil. And yet, her sister Elspeth had, indeed, found herself a champion. If there was one, perhaps there could be two… and where there were two, might there be three?
It was as though Wilhelm read her mind. “There is no love lost betwixt my brother and your mother,” Wilhelm said.
Seren considered the verity of his words. “What about you?”
A hint of a cruel smile turned his lips. “I cannot lie. I wouldst put my hands around her throat if ever I could,” he confessed.
Seren sensed he spoke true, and if she’d also sensed he understood her grief, she now remembered why. He, too, had suffered a devastating loss—perhaps, even worse than hers, if only by measure, because his entire family was burned alive. And yet… she could not bring herself to trust him so blindly—nor was she prepared to dismiss his initial rudeness, tossing her willy-nilly over his horse.
Unfortunately, he was thrice her size. He didn’t have to win her consent. Nor, by the same token, must he say sweet things to sway her, she realized. If he were so inclined, there was naught she could do to prevent him from sweeping her away—not even magik could stop him. It didn’t work quite that way, and considering how little time she’d had to study the grimoire, the witchwind had come as a surprise.
Reminded of that, she peered up into the sky, noting the darkened horizon—lingering evidence of her temper. But, truly, never before in her life had she experienced such a tempest. She only knew about such things after reading the Book of Secrets. Tied to emotions, a witchwind was essentially the inspiration of the world, inexorably linked to the soul of a witch. Just as some dewines could use fire or water, a stormwitch could harness the wind, making use of its energies in much the same manner some dewines used crystals, sunlight or moonlight. It was a powerful tool she had never anticipated using, and be that as it may, she didn’t know how to control it. And now that it was gone, he was still here… waiting patiently for her to speak.
“What say you? Will you come willingly?”
Willingly?
Nay. But neither would she fight him. Seren could scarce consider anything at the moment, much less where to go or what to do. As for Warkworth and its odious lord, she had no intention of wedding that poppet, but the closer she ventured to Aldergh, the easier would be her journey to Aldergh. And, perhaps after all, if Wilhelm spoke true, Giles might be persuaded to escort her a little further north.
With canny eyes, she studied the giant who’d spirited her out of the harbor. Wilhelm Fitz Richard was easily the brawniest fellow she’d ever laid eyes upon, and yet for all his size, he hadn’t actually harmed her, nor did she sense he was inclined to. His face, scarred though it might be, betrayed not a trace of enmity or even disgust for her witchery, and now that they were away from the harbor and she was calmer, he made no additional attempt to restrain her. Alas, she wouldn’t call him a champion, but in the end he might do. And yet, be that as it may, she couldn’t leave Jack in that city, not when she knew he hadn’t any place to go. His mother lived in Calais; and thanks to her mother, his father was dead.
“Aye,” she said. “I will go.” And the tension in the warrior’s shoulders seemed to ease before her eyes. However, before he could rest too easily, she added, “I’ll not leave without Jack.”
His head cocked backward. “Jack?”
“Captain Airard’s son.”
Wilhelm frowned.
She would have him return to the city?
Now?
Even as they’d fled, the king’s guard had come rushing into the vicinity. By now, every last soul in the city was bound to be watching that ship burn to its bowels. It was the last place he should take Seren. He didn’t even have to think about it; he shook his head. “’Tis unwise to return, m’lady.”
“And will you endeavor to stop me?”
As he sometimes felt with Giles, Wilhelm felt cowed by the marked intelligence in her gaze. And nevertheless, despite that he’d never learned to read like his brother, he could read people well enough, and he knew her question was a trick. If he answered nay, she would test him, and then he would be forced to stop her for her own good. If he said aye, her ire would no doubt return—and so might the storm.
By God, he’d suffered enough witchery these past few months to know he didn’t wish to challenge another Pendragon. That witch storm alone was alarming. He scratched his head, again, for it seemed there was no proper answer. And still he tried, answering her question with a question of his own. “Wouldst you truly have me betray an oath to your sister?”
“Rosalynde?” she asked, and when he nodded, she narrowed her gaze. “How much has she told you?”
“About what?”
She thrust her hands against her hips, eyes red-rimmed—hardly as serene as he remembered her from their first encounter in London, and yet… even in her anger and grief she was far lovelier than he remembered. Wilhelm held her bright silver gaze. “Everything,” he confessed. And then he repeated, lest she mistake him. “Everything.”
She lifted her chin, clearly doubting him. “And?”
“And what?”
She lifted her hands, turning up her palms. “For example?”
“Aye, well…” He peered into the treetops. “I know enough to know that sudden change in weather was no act of God.”
Clearly it was the wrong thing to say, because once again, she sought refuge in anger. “Not your god, perhaps,” she said.
“M’lady,” he argued, trying desperately to reason with her. “The king’s guards are still seeking you. Wouldst you have me leave you to walk straight into their arms? Wouldst you not be better off with my brother and your sister?”
No doubt his question annoyed her; he could tell by her vexed expression. She peered down at the ground, tears brimming at the corners of her eyes, and he felt a swell of pity for her. Then and there, he resigned himself to rise above whatever stones she might throw his way. Whatever Seren needed to get through this, he would allow it—except for that boy. He was firm in that decision, until she began to cry. “I… I c-can’t leave him,” she said despondently. “He has no one. Please, Wilhelm, please!”
6
It was all Seren could do not to collapse into a puddle and weep over his boots. Arwyn, she thought, tears scalding her eyes. Oh, Arwyn!
“He’s old enough to find his own way,” her dubious champion contended, arms akimbo. “If the truth be known, he’s like to have more friends than you and certainly more than me.” He spoke matter-of-factly, not cruelly, and nevertheless, it gave Seren a fit of rancor.