Page 216 of The Daughters of Avalon
There were plans to be made; however, without knowing precisely what Morwen intended, it was impossible to respond accordingly. Already, they’d dispatched riders to find Malcom—wherever he could be—to inform him of his son’s abduction. More messengers to Aldergh, only to be certain Elspeth’s Lachlan is safe, as Alwin claims. As for the steward, the poor man, he is disconsolate. He has returned to Aldergh with an escort to ensure he arrives safely.
If, indeed, Morwen had Elspeth’s babe, she must be somewhere nearby, but where?
Why would she take one child, not the other?
Did she plan to keep Broc?
But nay… this was not their mother’s way. Morwen loathed children. Her own daughters were a testament to this fact. Even before Llanthony, she’d employed an army of maids to care for her children, and even whilst in the same room with them,she’d barely ever spared them a glance or a word. She was not a woman inclined to nurture, and she would never be a doting grandmother.
What did she want with that child?
“I should not have left,” Elspeth sobbed. “I’m a dreadful mother. Malcom will never forgive me—gods forbid, I’ll never forgive myself!”
Rosalynde hadn’t the first inkling what to say under such dreadful circumstances, but it tormented her to hear her sister blaming herself.
“You did all you could, Elspeth. You warded that castle. You left the children in capable hands. You had no cause to believe our mother might infiltrate Aldergh.”
Elspeth cast Rosalynde a dark look, her face twisting with anger. “I told you she is wily! I told you that nothing was safe from her—now, my sweet babe is gone!”
There was naught Rosalynde could say.
She knew her sister was beside herself with worry, and she wasn’t herself. Much as Rose longed to calm her, she began to pace as well, worried beyond measure.
They sent another rider south to locate Giles. And yet another to King David, in hopes of enlisting the Scot’s king’s aid—one last time though it was doubtful David would ride to their rescue, when he had no hope of turning Warkworth’s allegiance. And nevertheless, it was worth a try. Rosalynde was ill-prepared for war. Even after all these months, Warkworth was not ready. She was not a commander-in-chief, and what was more, she had no inkling of her mother’s true powers or what her role should be in defeating her—but if only Rhiannon were present.
Rhiannon would know what to do.
Elspeth continued to pace disconsolately.
“If you wear yourself out, you will be of no use to your son.”
“Quiet!” her sister snapped. “I cannot think for all your prattling.”
Rosalynde frowned. She had said so little until now. Even so, she refrained from pointing that out, giving her sister leave to say or do as she would. It was not every day one lost a child. Morwen was not kind. Nor was she merciful.
Alas, hope was a luxury they did not have, and even so, hope was all they had. Foremost in Rosalynde’s mind was the day they’d watched their mother strangle a poor maid who sat begging for her life.
“Lady Rosalynde,” inquired Edmund, her steward, eyeing Elspeth sympathetically as he parted the tent to enter.
“What is it?”
His gaze was dark, sidling first to Elspeth, who barely acknowledged him, and then to Rosalynde. He gave her a nod, and she rose from her seat to follow him out the door. Poor Elspeth barely noticed.
“What is it?”
“We have a visitor,” he said darkly.
“Did you bid them enter? Should we dare?”
He shook his head. “Nay, m’lady. I did not believe you would wish it.”
“Who is it?” she asked, but even as she did, tendrils of fear rippled down her spine.
Edmund swallowed visibly, lifting his brows. “He calls himself Mordecai. He said you would know him.”
Rosalynde’s eyes widened. “Mordecai?” she asked. But nay, nay, they slew him back in the woods. Mordecai was her mother’s Shadow Beast. “Art certain, Edmund?”
“Quite,” he said, and then he handed her a slip of parchment. On it, lay scribbled eight terrifying words:
