Rexanne Becnel

by Where Magic Dwells

  Though she devoutly hoped she was mistaken, Wynne headed down the gently sloping hill, into the deep woods that surrounded Radnor Manor. She was careful as she walked, pausing to listen and notice which way the grouse and harriers and ravens flew. She maintained her calm as she went, but if Arthur had gone this way, she vowed to punish him severely. But only after she had given him the tightest and most grateful of embraces.

  Wynne was nearly to the Giant’s Trail, growing more and more agitated, when she suddenly halted. A squirrel high above her scolded in its high-pitched tone, then just as quickly became silent. From above the tree line came the screaming call of a chough, but where were the woodcocks and goosanders?

  Then the gay laughter of a child—of Arthur!—came to her, and she had her answer. He giggled again, and an enormous tide of relief rushed over her. She started forward, but then she froze in mid-stride, for a low voice murmured a reply to Arthur, something she couldn’t quite make out.

  As quickly as relief had come, so now did it flee. A cold hand seemed to clench around her heart. The voice was not one she recognized, and she belatedly remembered that Arthur was not a child given to carefree laughter.

  She shrank away, touching her amulet—the deep purple jewel her mother had worn, and her mother before her. Instinctively she pulled back into the protective embrace of a prickly holly, but all her senses strained forward, needing to know who was with Arthur. She heard the movement through the woods, the sound of a large animal traveling without fear in a straight path. He was mounted, she realized. But above all else that she sensed about this unknown person with Arthur, the most overwhelming was that this was the man. This was the one she’d felt since yesterday.

  “Are you often allowed to wander so far from home?”

  His voice was deep and mellow, though Welsh was clearly not his usual tongue. Yet Wynne nonetheless detected a small edge of tension in his tone. Or perhaps anticipation was a better description.

  “No,” Arthur admitted. “But now that I’m past my sixth birthday, I think it’s all right. Don’t you?”

  Had the circumstances been different, Wynne would have smiled at the odd mixture of childish lisp and mature phrasing that was so typical of Arthur. As it was, she only stood there as still as stone, waiting for them to come into view and promising to put the fear of the Lord into Arthur once she had him safely back.

  “I think six is too young to be alone in the woods,” the man replied to the boy. “How do you think your mother and father will feel about your absence when I bring you home?”

  He intended to bring Arthur home! That was all Wynne heard. It was all she needed to hear. She pushed away from the holly and moved toward their voices.

  “My real mother is dead. And I don’t have a father,” Arthur replied matter-of-factly. “Well, really, I had two, but neither of them wanted to keep me. I figured that out from what people said in the village.”

  “Arthur!” Wynne moved into the path of the big horse. She was as stunned by Arthur’s casual revelation as the man and boy were by her sudden appearance. But she was determined to brazen her way through this situation. She would deal with Arthur and what he actually knew of his parentage at another time.

  “Arthur, where have you been? I’ve been searching everywhere for you,” she said, her hands planted on her hips. Then she looked directly at the man, giving him what she hoped passed for a grateful smile. “Thank you for finding him. I’m sorry if he caused you any trouble, but I’ll take him off your hands now.”

  Her eyes met his, and then could not pull away. They were dark eyes, she saw, yet not that deep black-brown so common to her people. These were warm brown eyes, and yet they were opaque and impenetrable right now, as if he purposefully shuttered his thoughts—and motives—from anyone’s prying eyes.

  But though she could not guess at his reasons for being in her forest, there were many other aspects of him that she recognized at once. He was English, just as she’d predicted. His studded bliaut, tall boots, and leather gloves proclaimed it. But he was no monk, nor was he some fat and wealthy lord. This was a man who lived by his sword, she realized with an uneasy shiver. From the hard planes of his jaw and steely quality of his gaze to the obvious strength of his body and ominous presence of his dagger and sword, he was a man of war.

  Had he come to make war on them?

  “Don’t be angry with me, Wynne,” Arthur pleaded, breaking into her disturbing thoughts. “I was following a red kite. I wanted to find her nest. And then I got stuck—”

  “I found him up a tree,” the man interjected. “He couldn’t go up and he couldn’t get down.”

  Wynne took a settling breath. His voice was calm and comforting, but she would not be deceived by his reassuring tones and his handsome face.

  And it was a handsome face, she had to admit. Strong and lean, with a square jaw and a straight nose. Even his dark hair, which was long and tied back, was clean and shining in the sunlight that streamed down through the oak branches.

  She frowned, forcing herself to concentrate on what was really important here. How he looked certainly did not matter.

  “Thank you, milord. I’ll take him off your hands now. You need not trouble yourself with him any further.”

  “ ’Twas no trouble,” he answered, making no move to hand Arthur down. “Arthur and I have become fast friends, haven’t we?”

  “He said I have the hands of a horseman,” Arthur said brightly. “He said gentleness and a light touch are very important to the horse.”

  “So they are,” Wynne agreed. “But you must come down. Right now, Arthur.”

  “I am Sir Cleve FitzWarin,” the man said, still not making any attempt to relinquish his hold on the boy. “I know this is Arthur. Are you his mother?”

  Wynne peered at him. There was something about his question that bothered her, and yet she could not determine what. On the surface it was the most natural inquiry in the world, and yet she sensed again that strange air of anticipation about him.

  “No, I’m not his mother. As Arthur has already informed you, his mother is no longer living. He’s in my care now.”

  When he quirked one brow questioningly, she reluctantly continued. “I’m Wynne ab Gruffydd. Arthur and I live at Radnor Manor.”

  “Then you know this area.”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. Perhaps you will be kind enough to allow me and my men a place to rest our horses the night and fill our water pouches.”

  Wynne’s eyes narrowed, and she stared hard at him. He was manipulating her, pure and simple. She knew it, and she could tell by the sudden glint in his eyes that he knew she knew. But that didn’t perturb him in the least. Though a bubble of anger rose to her lips, she forced herself to suppress it. He wanted to see Radnor Manor, did he? Well, then, she would let him. That would give her time to determine what he was up to, for she was certain he had some hidden motive for being here. That’s why she had sensed him so vividly. She would invite him to stay on the manor grounds. Maybe she would even provide him and his men with a fine feast of fresh venison and birch wine.

  She fought down a slight smile and nodded her head. “You and your men are most welcome at Radnor Manor,” she said in a far friendlier tone than she felt.

  And if time proved them to be unwelcome, perhaps those fairy caps she’d planned for the next pompous churchmen who came through would do better for this English knight and his followers, wherever they were. Fairy caps or witch seed or even blue violets.

  She turned to lead the way and let her smile break through. Oh, yes, she would just love to play with this mighty knight from England. When he finally left her portion of Wales, it would be with the sincere intention never again to return.

  3

  SURELY NOT EVEN WALES’S greatest leaders had ever presided over so uncomfortable a gathering, Wynne thought sourly. She cast an eye at Druce and his scowling fellows, all gathered to one side of the main hall’s wide fireplace. He looked ready
to toss down the gauntlet at any moment and take the English on in battle, no matter that he was outnumbered.

  The English knight, however, seemed completely unfazed by the hostility of the Welshmen. Wynne stared at him and his men clustered on the other side of the fire pit, their faces lit by the flickering fire and the torchiers that circled the hall. To her distinct unease she could not escape the feeling that this Cleve FitzWarin was very well pleased to be feasting tonight at Radnor Manor.

  She heard a murmur behind her, then detected the stealthy movement of a six-year-old body. “Sit still, else you shall all go to bed,” she whispered as softly as was possible to do and yet still maintain control of her charges. Unfortunately instead of quieting the restive children, her words seemed only to draw the Englishman’s gaze.

  “I beg you, do not admonish them on our account,” he protested. “I would rather you introduce them than suppress their natural curiosity about the strangers in their midst.”

  Wynne started to respond, then promptly clamped her mouth shut. She and Gwynedd had agreed that her aunt should take the lead role in any discussions with the English knights. Druce was there to counter any physical threat, while Gwynedd and her calm manner would ease any tension. And perhaps the older woman would be able to draw this Cleve FitzWarin into revealing more of his plans and motives than he intended.

  Gwynedd smiled in the direction of her guest, then gestured to the children. “Come forward, my lambs. Come to my side.”

  Like eager kittens the five children tumbled from their shadowed positions behind Wynne, their eyes bright with curiosity. For once Arthur did not hang back, for he already considered the English leader his special friend. Not to be outdone, Rhys and Madoc jockeyed for position, pushing their way to the fore. They were not afraid of the “bloody English bastards.” At least not here in the security of their own comfortable home.

  Bronwen and Isolde were not as aggressive as the boys, yet even their curiosity could not be misread. Isolde stood as one of the boys might, hands on her hips, staring straight at the English. Only Bronwen, sweet, shy child that she was, stood demurely to the side. She held a puppy in her arms and kept her gaze more on the fat, sleepy animal, only glancing up now and again at the strangers across the fire.

  Once the children had introduced themselves, Gwynedd clapped her gnarled hands, drawing the squirming youngsters’ attention. “ ’Tis late now. Far past the time for all good children to be in their beds. Off with you now. All of you,” she added before Rhys and Madoc could make their customary protestations.

  Wynne was relieved to have the children away from the Englishman. His easy way with Arthur and his deliberate interest in the others somehow bothered her. She would rather he abandon this farce and reveal the true purpose of his presence in Wales. And in Radnor Forest.

  Torn between needing to supervise the children and not wanting to miss even one word of what went on around the fire, Wynne gnawed at her lower lip.

  “Arthur. Isolde. I’m putting you two in charge. Make sure everyone washes themselves and goes to the privy pot. Then everyone had better go directly to bed. Directly,” she added, raising her brows and staring pointedly at the twins.

  “But we’re not sleepy—”

  “—or dirty,” Rhys finished for Madoc.

  “And make sure you take off your shoes before you get into the bed,” Wynne continued, ignoring their protestations. “I’ll be up to the loft in just a little while, and whoever isn’t ready for bed shall suffer the consequences tomorrow. Is that clear?”

  “ ’Tis not fair,” one of the quintet muttered.

  “We never have any fun.”

  Even Arthur was surprisingly vocal. “Why can’t we stay up, Wynne? Just this once?”

  Wynne was hard-pressed to stifle her exasperation. Only by reminding herself that it was the Englishman she was irritated with, not the children, was she able to suppress a sharp retort.

  She squatted down among them, commanding their attention with her eyes. “You have to go to bed now, otherwise you’ll be too tired to get up tomorrow and go down in the Cleft with me.”

  “Down in the Cleft?”

  “The Devil’s Cleft?”

  “Shhh, shhh,” Wynne cautioned, but she couldn’t help smiling at her enthusiastic young charges. “You’ve been clamoring to go, and since I’m climbing down there tomorrow to dig for skirret root, I’ll take all of you along with me. But only if you go to bed right now.”

  Once more Wynne was reminded of gamboling kittens as the five of them competed to see who could get out to the wash bucket the fastest. Even demure Bronwen leaped gaily, caught up in the excitement, while her puppy ambled along after them all.

  But Wynne’s moment of pleasure fled when she turned back to the circle of adults. The meal was long over, and Gwynedd was now relating an oft-told tale of Radnor Forest and how the manor came to be built more than two centuries previously. Although her tale of the Radnor dragon and how the Giant’s Trail had come to be had the other Englishmen enthralled, and even Druce and his comrades who knew the story well were drawn in by her eerie singsong retelling of it, the one man—that Cleve fellow—was clearly not listening. He was watching Wynne instead, and once more she felt that odd shiver of anticipation.

  “—of these forests,” Gwynedd was saying. “ ’Tis a place well known for the magical power invested in its secret places. Our herbs are more potent. Our oaks are more holy. Even the mistletoe grows thicker and more freely in these woodlands.”

  The Englishman’s gaze finally turned away from Wynne, and he smiled at the older woman. “I’ve heard also that a woman of Radnor is known for her strange abilities. Some have gone so far as to term her a witch.”

  He paused, and in the silence there was a restless shifting among the Welshmen. FitzWarin’s eyes flicked briefly over them and then back to Gwynedd. “Are you the one named the Seeress of Radnor? The Welsh Witch?”

  If only Druce had not jerked to look over at her, Wynne was later to fret. If only he had not stared at her in alarm, the Englishman might have been satisfied with Gwynedd’s reply.

  As it was, the old woman’s rambling response, that she was indeed blessed with the sight and possessed of a darker knowledge than that given to most mortals, did not seem to convince him. Though he questioned Gwynedd with polite deference and even remarked in a friendly tone of caution that Norman priests would not countenance her claims, and indeed might even brand her a witch and subject her to the “trial,” Wynne knew he did not believe Gwynedd.

  He maintained their conversation out of curiosity and to ferret out whatever he could. But he knew Gwynedd was no longer the Seeress, and judging from the way his gaze wandered constantly back to Wynne, he guessed that she was.

  Well, what matter if he did? she thought vengefully. Gwynedd had relinquished that role to her long ago. Everyone within hailing distance of Radnor Forest knew that; there seemed no reason to hide the fact from these English. Both Gwynedd and Druce were too cautious by far. No matter the reason this Englishman had come to Radnor asking questions about the Welsh Witch, she was well able to handle him.

  A show of her power was what was needed here, she realized. Something to set him back on his heels. Something that would make him think twice about tangling with the Welsh, and remind him that the English had been sent fleeing from Wales seven years ago for a reason.

  She shifted on the rough three-legged stool and smiled faintly, anticipating once more how she might curtail this man’s threat. It never ceased to amuse her what a violent flux of the bowels could do to a person, and she knew just the portion of snakeroot required to get the job done.

  She lifted her gaze to the Englishman, and this time she didn’t even try to hide the smug expression on her face. The fact that he was staring at her with an equally triumphant expression hardly bothered her at all. Men were always smug in their dealings with women, especially Englishmen. Well, she would just see how long his arrogance lasted in the face of her
“witch craft.” She’d not had a cause to make any mischief since she’d frightened old Taffydd from trapping hares in her special part of the forest. An oil of fireweed soaked into his trap lines had burned his hands with two days of itching. She had not kept her actions secret from the old man. He knew now that her warnings were not to be taken lightly. Now also would this Englishman be forced to admit as much.

  The Englishman was talking, something about tin mines and the special properties of the black wool of Builth Wells, but Wynne knew it was just part of the farce he played. She stood up abruptly, drawing everyone’s gaze.

  “As much as I enjoy this company, I fear I must check on the children. Also, since tonight is the quarter moon, and it didn’t rain today, nor was there even a dew, I want to check the shutters again.”

  Neither Gwynedd nor Druce reacted to her words other than to watch her and wait. As she expected, however, the Englishman looked around as if for some explanation. Then he asked her directly.

  “The quarter moon?”

  She inclined her head slightly toward him, then casually shook out her full kersey skirt. “When the rain does not wash the air clean on the day of the quarter moon, there are often strange occurrences in our forests. Not always,” she hastened to add, as if for reassurance. “But sometimes …”

  FitzWarin frowned at the sudden restless shifting of his men, but when he looked back at her, she saw the glint of comprehension in his eyes. He knew what she was trying to do.

  For an instant her resolve wavered. Her confidence weakened. In the wildly flickering firelight his dark features had taken on a decidedly wicked cast, as if it were he who was possessed of some secret powers over her and not the other way around. He knew she was preparing to fight him, but he was not in the least concerned.

  But Wynne was no weak-willed female, nor one to fold at the least sign of difficulty. Maybe that was what he was accustomed to in England, but he was in Wales now, and women here were afforded far more rights than in other lands. She especially, as Seeress of Radnor Forest, had been raised to expect a position of importance and respect in her society. This fool of an Englishman had no idea with whom he had chosen to tangle.