Page 92 of The Daughters of Avalon
Three
Despite the holiday—or perhaps because of the holiday—the halls were a crush of human flesh: people awaiting audiences with the king; merchants hawking wares; clergymen stalking the halls. Even in the midst of winter, the abundant smells were disturbing—particularly for a young woman raised in the Welsh countryside. Richly adorned ladies waltzed by, drenched in Flemish perfumes, followed by men, whose clothes and bodies were perfused with far muskier scents. Though, fortunately, considering the disparity between the king’s subjects, no one paid Rosalynde any mind as she rushed through the halls.
Praying her mother wouldn’t read Seren’s mind the instant she arrived in the king’s hall, she moved swiftly through the mob, her heart thrumming like priory bells. But, thanks to theglamourshe’d cast, her appearance was so altered that, at one point, she passed Seren in the vestibule, and even her sister, for a full instant, did not recognize her.
In fact, her mother’s glamour spell was so powerful that neither she nor her sisters had ever had the smallest glimpse of her mother’s true persona. For all anyone knew, Morwen Pendragon was as young and lovely as her daughters—a babeherself when she’d born them. Knowing she would outlive Henry by many, many years, she’d lied to him when she’d arrived at court, telling him she was but sixteen.
Of course, it wasn’t true. So far as Rosalynde knew, Morwen was at least seventy or more.
She and Seren shared a look, and with a blink of recognition, Seren’s lips turned at one corner, then she lifted her chin and turned away. Thereafter, they veered in opposite directions, Seren toward the king’s hall and Rosalynde toward the palace doors.
At long last, Rosalynde slipped past the guards, emerging into the yard. Holding her Book possessively, she thrilled over the prospect of seeing Elspeth again, even if it meant leaving pieces of her heart in London. She had no doubt the journey would be long and fraught with perils, but no danger could be greater than her own mother. But Morwen was as canny as she was treacherous. If Rosalynde didn’t find a mount soon and flee before Morwen chanced to discover their plot, everything would be lost.
Hopefully, Seren would leave today with her betrothed, and Arwyn would endeavor to convince Morwen she’d had no hand in Rosalynde’s schemes. Luckily, her sister had a way of convincing folks everything she said was true; you might call it aglamourof words. No doubt Rosalynde would have preferred leaving all together, but if her sister had come along, it would have been impossible to evade Morwen. As charming as Arwyn could be, she was not very self-sufficient. Rosalynde needed to keep all her wits about her at all times in order to succeed, and Morwen would pluck out their hearts if they were caught.
Nay, it was better for her mother to believe she still had three daughters to barter away, although it wasn’t likely she would ever forgive Rhiannon for her part in Elspeth’s escape.
Realizing with a start that she’d forgotten to check the coins in her hem, she reached down to snatch up the heavy wool gown, not caring that she was showing all the world her ankles. She’d sewn in five gold marks, along with thephilter, basting them in place with a bit of thread. She shook one coin free, hearing it jangle, but she wouldn’t rest reassured until she touched every one, and then thephilter. Without the herbs, she wouldn’t be able to maintain herglamour. Counting coins, and then moving her fingers along the hemline until she felt the soft lump, she exhaled in relief and dropped her skirt. The gold marks settled with another jangle.
All is well, Rose. Don’t fret.
She and Arwyn had a deeper connection for having shared so much time in the womb. For them, it was easier tomindspeak, but they shouldn’t be taking chances—and this was precisely the reason Rosalynde couldn’t take her.
Find a horse. Get out of the city.
Please, shut your gob!
It was late afternoon, near about the hour when many of the king’s guests should be departing or seeking beds for the evening. For obvious reasons, Rosalynde would prefer not to have to enter the king’s stables. Getting back out without getting caught might be problematic. Therefore, if possible, she planned to liberate one of the horses whose misfortune it was to be hobbled outside. There were too many visitors to expect that everyone should be able to stable their mounts as they pleased. And besides, the interior stables were expensive, and often, visitors preferred to pay a stablehand to keep an eye on their belongings. Searching for such a horse, whose groomsman was preoccupied, she walked along the stable’s perimeter.
“Good day, sister.”
“Good day, my son,” she said, feigning a look of perfect serenity, in hopes that it would bleed through herglamour.
“Excuse me, sister,” said another man, as he bumped into her.
Rosalynde tried not to scowl at the man, but it wasn’t easy, considering that she was blessed with more temper than any of her sister’s, save Rhiannon. “Good day to you,” she said, though she longed to smack him with her book for not watching where he was going.
He apologized, Rose. Don’t engage every battle.
Alas, Arwyn, you stole my share of good temper in the womb. But, please, do not fret, I know what my task is. I’ll not risk it by engaging in petty squabbles.
Good,said Arwyn.Good.May the Goddess bless your travels.
Do not worry. I’ll get the grimoire to Elspeth as quickly as I am able—unless your prattling gets me in trouble with mother.
And still, her sister persisted.Do you really think she can keep it safe?
Only pray she can,Rosalynde replied.If not, we are all doomed.
Their mother must be stopped. If, in fact, she continued with her present scheme, England itself would find itself beneath her thumb, because Eustace was naught but a greedy little boy.
Be safe, my sister.
I will! Now, please! Stop talking to me!
Rosalynde tried to close her mind, but distracted as she was, when another clumsy fool bumped into her—this one without a word of pardon—thegrimoireflew out of her hands, landing in a pile of dung.
Literally.
