Unless…
He couldn’t help but remember the morning they’d encountered Rosalynde in the thicket. She’d given herself what she called a glamour. The effect was hideous; it had been all Wilhelm could do not to look at her. Dressed as a nun, she’d fashioned herself in the most unappealing manner possible, with eyes crossed and a pocked face. How his brother had found the wherewithal to keep her on his mount was a mystery to Wilhelm.
To the contrary, it had been all Wilhelm could do not to gape at Seren when he’d met her in the King’s Hall. She was easily the most stunning woman he’d ever beheld. Truly, even as lovely as Rosalynde might have turned out to be without the glamour, it was inconceivable to Wilhelm that any man—not even St. Giles—would rebuff Seren for want of another. Seren Pendragon was a paragon of beauty, rightfully earning her reputation as the Beauty of Blackwood. Even now, all these months later, and particularly whilst he’d been searching for her, it was much to his chagrin that he sometimes dreamt of the lady, even despite knowing she was not meant for him. And not only was she a coveted beauty, but she was an heir of the Pendragon line, a bastard child to Henry himself. All things considered, illegitimate or not, she was a valuable pawn in Stephen’s game of Queen’s Chess. Baseborn as he was, Wilhelm wasn’t fit to kiss her slippers.
And by the by, if he couldn’t win the hand of the daughter of a lowly baron, winning Seren would be hopeless.
Reminded of Ayleth of Bamburgh, Wilhelm’s mood soured. With a grumble, he tossed down the tuft of straw, kicking it annoyedly, finally losing the battle of wills with his belly—he was famished, damn it all to hell.
Twenty minutes—that’s all he needed. Those bloody ships wouldn’t be going anywhere in the meantime. Merely twenty minutes, he reasoned, and then it was time to take more drastic measures.
Morwen Pendragon was due to be released from the Tower on the morrow, and she would immediately set out to accomplish what her minions could not. She would ferret out her daughters more easily than Wilhelm ever could, and judging by what that Shadow Beast had been capable of, its contemptible mistress was a force to be avoided at all cost.
No bloody wonder her daughters ensconced themselves like moles, never daring to peer out of their holes.
One way or another he was going to find a way aboard that ship… but first things first; it was time to silence the beast in his belly. His temper would be far less offensive if he shoveled something down his gob, and with that decided, he cast a last glance at the Whitshed, then made straight for the smoking brick building at the edge of the market, his nostrils flaring over the scent of freshly cooked fowl.
After all these months, Ellie and Rose must be worried sick. Seren was right; they couldn’t depart England without sending news. But as the time neared to depart, Arwyn grew more and more anxious by the second.
Pacing relentlessly, she chewed at her nails.
Much as she loathed to confess it, she understood why Seren didn’t wish for her to accompany them to the courier: Arwyn hadn’t much composure, nor even a smattering of her sisters’ dewine skills, but alas, she needn’t have any dewine skills to sense impending doom.
Even now, safe in the bowels of this vessel, with so many of Matilda’s allies surrounding her, she knew...
Something dreadful was looming, something she couldn’t see or hear, but something she could feel… deep, down in her bones, like an ague.
Back and forth.
Back and forth, she paced.
The wooden floor was dry and full of splinters. Her slippers were ragged, catching every sliver as she passed. Muttering an oath, she took off her shoes and cast them away.
Ten long days they’d awaited opportune sailing weather—ten fear-filled days, wherein every second of every day they’d worried Morwen would find them. After all, Dover was no bastion, for Matilda and Stephen’s guards were here in droves. It defied logic to be here at all, in the heart of Stephen’s domain, but Seren, in her wisdom, had argued against doing what everyone expected them to do. Instead of fleeing north, they’d talked a fisherman into ferrying them east, traveling by night on the Thames all the way to Gravesend. Then, afoot they’d gone to Canterbury, where they sought shelter with the Church.
Fortunately, even after all these years, their Empress sister still had friends in high places. Escorted by Matilda’s allies, they’d come south to Dover only to bide their time aboard this vessel. Now, very soon, after all the stories Elspeth told about Matilda, they would finally embrace their half-sister. And, so much as Rhiannon loved to begrudge Ellie’s affection for their father’s only true remaining heir, Matilda must not be so terrible as Rhi liked to believe—not if she so willingly offered her protection. By sundown, if everything went well, they would disembark in Calais. From there, they would venture to Rouen—safe at last out of Morwen’s grasp.
On her birthday, no less, they would finally depart England, and with a bit of luck and wind, Captain Airard assured them they could make the journey in less than three hours’ time—only so long as Seren returned before the tide turned, and so long as their mother remained ignorant of the journey.
Faith, she commanded herself.
Have faith.
After all, it was faith that brought them to Dover.
Where are you, Seren?
By now, Arwyn’s nails were spent to the quick, and regardless, she couldn’t stop fretting.
What a heinous way to spend her birthday.
What if, after all, their mother should glean their intentions? All it would take to endanger the crossing would be for Morwen to have a small inkling they were traveling. Even from her tower prison, she could send a fog like the one she’d sent to doom the White Ship.
Look at the bright side, Arwyn…
There was no sign of Mordecai, nor any of her mother’s minions. And despite that fact, with so much at stake, Arwyn could no more find peace in her heart than she could have remained in her mother’s keeping. Perhaps, after all, she should have insisted on going with Seren…
“It’ll be faster if you remain aboard ship,” her sister maintained. “No one will be searching for a woman alone with a young boy. And besides, Arwyn, you’ll attract undue attention.”
“I would cast a glamour,” she’d argued.
“Will you?” her sister had said, and Arwyn had blushed, because, nay, she could not. Her glamour spells were sorely deficient, and in the end, she was apt to move five freckles to one side of her face. Therefore, she’d relented—and here she remained, with sore fingers and a sulky mood.
Truth be told, the simple fact that they had avoided capture so long was more a testimony to Matilda’s influence—none so much to their own ingenuity. Seren had no guile and Arwyn had no magik, but, thankfully, no matter that Arwyn and Seren had no true relationship with their Empress sister, they were bound by blood—and more, they were bound by a common purpose. More than anything, they would love to see Stephen deposed. Perhaps he wasn’t as wicked as their mother, nor so greedy as his sour-faced wife, nor even as mean as his son, but he had nevertheless forsworn a sacred oath to their father, and his ignoble actions placed England at war—fourteen long years now. God help them all if Morwen should succeed in replacing father with son.