Rexanne Becnel

by Where Magic Dwells

  She nodded deliberately at him, holding her smile steady.

  Had she simply turned then and left, she would have come out the clear victor in their silent battle. But she hesitated too long, and through the long hours of the night she was to regret it most dearly.

  For Cleve FitzWarin had not nodded back at her as she had anticipated. Instead he’d let his dark, unfathomable eyes slip down the length of her, slowly and thoroughly measuring her with his impertinent gaze, not as a foe to be reckoned with but as a woman to be desired, pursued, and then mastered. It had taken her completely off guard, and when he’d finally finished his rude appraisal and returned his gaze to her face, she knew her shocked expression had given her away.

  She’d snapped her gaping mouth closed, and her expression had turned furious, but it was too late. He’d seen her moment of uncertainty and discomfort, and no doubt he’d marked it well as her vulnerability.

  She had whirled and stalked away, silently cursing him with every step she took and trying to convince herself that she’d not really lost anything in this first round. If anything, he would only grow more confident, making it easier for her ultimately to make a fool of him.

  But in the end the only comfort she found was in reassuring herself that he could not possibly know how profoundly that one look had affected her. He could not know that her entire being had responded to him. Her breath had come shorter. Her stomach had tightened somewhere deep down and low. Even her breasts had tingled and her nipples had grown small and hard, as if from the cold. Only she hadn’t been cold. Anything but.

  Yet the fact that he could not know of her physical response to him was in truth small comfort. For no matter how she tried to rationalize her reaction, she could not. She’d sensed the danger of this man since yesterday. Now he was here, and her fear of him only increased. Only it was not precisely fear—at least not the sort of fear she’d experienced in the past when Englishmen had come to Wales. Then she’d feared for her safety, for her physical safety and even for her life.

  Now, though it was completely illogical … now she feared for her soul.

  4

  THE ENGLISHMEN HAD CAMPED in the cedar grove just beyond the kitchen. They’d kept their own guard posted all night, two men to watch over their horses. Wynne smirked at the sight of the hunched-over figures, barely visible in the cold, misty dawn. For all their professions of friendship and peaceful intentions, they clearly trusted the Welsh no better than Wynne and her people trusted them.

  But this wary sort of truce, as unpleasant as it was, was still better than the inhuman cruelties of war.

  Inhuman cruelties of war. Wynne sighed and turned away from the window. The problem was, the cruelties of war were entirely human. She, who was so familiar with the mountains and forests, with all the wild places and wild creatures of Wales, knew better than most that no animal was so cruel as was the common foot soldier.

  In her more charitable moments she could understand it. Fear was the most powerful of human emotions. It drove a person beyond ordinary strengths, beyond the ordinary boundaries of civilization. Yet even blind, terrifying fear could not justify all the horrors inflicted in the name of war, for it was invariably those most unable to strike back who received the worst treatment. She’d seen helpless prisoners tortured in the most vile and unbelievable fashions. She’d seen infants and children garroted by drunken soldiers.

  And she’d seen terrified women—some not even old enough rightfully to be called women—raped repeatedly by men gorged on both their fear and their power. Her own sister … No amount of charity or understanding could ever justify such sickening behavior.

  She shuddered and wrapped her wool knitted shawl tighter around her shoulders. She didn’t want to think about it. She didn’t want to remember that monstrous time when Radnor Forest had been overrun by the English. Those had been days of violence and horror and never-ending fear. Though she’d been but a girl of twelve, she remembered it in chilling detail. How could she ever forget? The day of the attack, then the long weeks—the endless months—of the English occupation.

  And what had come of it in the end? she wondered now as she’d wondered so many times since then. What had resulted from all the misery they’d lived through during that most dreadful of years?

  In the end the English had left, withdrawn by a sullen king who’d been soundly defeated at some distant battle in the north. Slowly life had been restored to a modicum of its previous normalcy. The ordinary cycles of life had returned. The sheep were shorn in the spring. The fields were prepared, and eventually the barley and peas and corn were reaped. But life had never truly been the same since then. How could it be? So many dead. So many maimed. She’d lost her own parents.

  And then there were those whose lives had been destroyed in far less visible ways.

  She sighed, then looked up as a slight noise came from the loft. Her melancholy lifted when a rosy face peeped down and, upon spying Wynne, broke into a sleepy, gap-toothed grin. On silent feet Isolde made her way backward down the steeply slanted ladder, and as Wynne watched the child’s slow descent, she smiled to herself. The only good thing to come of those times was the children, no matter the violent way in which they were conceived. For her they were the only proof that a God did indeed watch over the world from His heavenly throne. Without them she would gladly have reverted to the pagan ways of the beasts, worshiping only the wind and the rain and fire, respecting only what affected her life in a real and lasting way.

  But her five little children restored her faith in God, for God had truly blessed her when He’d sent them to Radnor Manor. Though He’d taken her parents and sister from her, He’d given her these five orphans to take their place.

  She smiled as Isolde padded on bare feet over to the fire, then perched on a stool next to the hearth and basked in the warmth of the strengthening flames. How like her mother, Wynne’s sister, she looked.

  “Do you want a mug of warmed milk and honey, love?” she asked, reaching over to rub her niece’s back.

  Isolde shook her head, and her thick black hair stirred softly around her face. “I’m still too sleepy,” she murmured.

  “What woke you so early?”

  The child yawned, then sighed. Her gaze was clearer when she looked at Wynne. “You said we could go down in the Devil’s Cleft with you today.”

  Wynne’s fond smile widened as she stared at the little girl. She was such a lovely child with her wealth of hair and vivid green eyes. Though it would probably have been better for all of the children if they’d had the coloring of only their mothers—the dark hair and eyes of the Welsh people—it was hard to begrudge Isolde the rare beauty of her unusual eyes. Even the others—Arthur with his English coloring of brown hair and hazel eyes, and Bronwen with her flaxen tresses and dark brown eyes—were lovely in their very uniqueness.

  At least Rhys and Madoc appeared thoroughly Welsh with their more typical coloring and sturdy builds. They would not suffer the same insecurities of being different that would plague the other three all their lives. She, of all people, knew how hard that could be.

  And yet hadn’t she turned that very difference to her own advantage? Her visions were real enough. Her knowledge of plants and herbs and all the wild creatures was vast. But had her eyes been an ordinary brown or black, her position as Seeress of Radnor would not be nearly so strong. It was her eyes—the strange clear blue of the sky, she was told—that lent credence to her predictions and spells.

  She had her father to thank for that. He was from the far north, but had been beguiled into staying in Radnor Forest by Wynne’s mother. Though her mother’s powers had never been strong, her oldest daughter, Maradedd, had been blessed with the Radnor vision. Wynne’s own talents had not been as strong nor as important. But when Maradedd had died, everything had fallen to Wynne.

  She sighed and bent toward Isolde and turned the child’s face up to hers. Yes, those green eyes had the same possibilities, she decided. Whether or no
t the Radnor visions would affect Isolde was not yet known. But she was Maradedd’s daughter, notwithstanding the tainted English blood that also ran in her.

  “What’s the matter?”

  Wynne started from her deep thoughts. “Oh, nothing. ’Tis nothing at all. Only this hair caught on your cheek.” She smoothed the child’s hair back, then rose with a determined smile.

  “Will you help me with the breakfast porridge? Then we can rouse all those lay-a-beds up there and get on our way.”

  “Can I stir the pot? I promise I’ll be very careful of the fire. I’ll be really careful this time. And even if I get splashed like last time, I won’t cry,” Isolde added. “I’ll just get the goatweed oil like you did and spread it on the burn.”

  Wynne smiled once more at her sweet, innocent niece and stroked her head again. “Very good. You remembered that very well, Isolde.”

  The child beamed. “I’m going to remember everything you show us today. Everything. I’m going to learn all about the plants and the forest, just like you. And when I grow up, I’m going to be just like you.”

  As they began the morning routine, Wynne couldn’t help but wonder if Isolde’s words would prove an accurate prediction. And if they did, should she be pleased for the child or worried for her? Being Seeress brought such responsibilities. Sometimes Wynne wished she could simply be an ordinary maiden looking forward to a perfectly ordinary life. She wouldn’t have to preside over the court held four times a year in the three villages within the forest. She wouldn’t have to meet everyone’s expectations of what being Seeress meant. But an ordinary life was not what fate had in store for her. As for Isolde, well, what was meant to be, would be.

  Mist still lay on the land when they started out. The ground was wet and the sun but a blurry yellow-orange ball on the horizon. With the five children trailing her like bright-eyed little ducklings, Wynne led them around the manor, carefully avoiding the English encampment.

  In the dark comfort of her bed last night she had decided to leave the English knights to Gwynedd and Druce after all. It would be best for her simply to follow her normal routine, to care for the children, give them their lessons, and see to her herb gathering. Today’s journey to the Cleft would accomplish all three of those tasks, and if it also thwarted the Englishman, so much the better. That man’s interest last night in the children still troubled her. Keeping them well out of his way seemed the best choice open to her. His disturbing interest in her as well gave her reason to avoid him at all costs.

  She heard a giggle and glanced back at the straggling line of children. “Everyone must keep up,” she admonished. “Remember, we’re practicing how to walk silently in the forest. How to avoid stepping on twigs and dried leaves. How not to alarm the creatures or leave a trail. I want all of you to concentrate on every single step, all right?”

  “But what about the dew?” Rhys called to her in a half whisper.

  “It sticks to our shoes and leaves a mark in the grass,” Madoc finished.

  “Once the sun comes up, it won’t matter,” Arthur explained. “All the dew will be gone then.”

  “Very good, Arthur. And it was very observant of you two to notice it,” she added to the twins.

  “Stay in line, Rhys,” Isolde scolded.

  “Don’t be so bossy,” his brother scolded right back “We have a lot more to carry than you do.”

  “Well, my stuff is more important,” she retorted.

  Wynne turned to face them, her hands planted on her hips in frustration. “Every squirrel, every rabbit, badger, fox, and deer will flee long before we approach anywhere near if you keep up this chatter.” When they all stared at her with the proper expressions of chagrin, she nodded. “That’s better. Now, let’s begin again. And this time I promise a reward to each of you who remains silent and walks carefully.”

  “What kind of surprise?” Madoc ventured in a hushed whisper.

  Wynne shook her head in exasperation, though a smile struggled its way to her lips. “Extra stew of cooker pears tonight,” she finally relented. Then, before any of them could question her further, she turned and resumed their trek.

  Though the morning was cool, by the time they reached the dense thorn wood that protected the Cleft, Wynne was well warmed. The children were too preoccupied by their exertions to do more than follow her instructions and try to keep up with the demanding pace she’d set.

  “Shall we take a little rest before we climb down?” she asked, hiding a grin as best she could.

  “Yes,” Arthur answered at once.

  “I’m tired, and my feet hurt,” Bronwen added.

  “I’m not tired,” Rhys boasted.

  “Me neither,” echoed his twin.

  Isolde glared at them. “Don’t tell such fibs! You are tired; you just don’t want to admit it.”

  “We are not!”

  “We could climb down there right now,” Madoc retorted.

  “Or even swing down on a long vine—”

  “Rhys and Madoc!” Wynne’s sharp tone drew everyone’s attention. “If I hear even one more word about swinging on vines over the Devil’s Cleft, your confinement to the sleeping loft the other day will seem like nothing at all compared with the punishment you shall have this time. Is that perfectly clear?”

  Amid much shifting of both feet and eyes, the two adventurers mumbled their understanding. Wynne was just congratulating herself on her success when another voice joined in.

  “Had I a mother like you, I’m certain I would not be possessed of nearly so many scars as unfortunately I am.”

  Wynne pivoted around at the words, her heart pounding a sudden, fearful rhythm. When she spied a man in the shadows beside a thick oak trunk, she reached instinctively for the dagger that hung in a sheath from her girdle. But then she recognized the man, and her emotions made a quick and inexplicable change from fear to an unnerving panic. The Englishman. How had he followed her so easily? Why hadn’t she heard him or at least sensed him?

  Her gaze narrowed as he moved nearer, and she willed her heart to slow its thunderous pace. She did not have to fear physical harm from him. He had startled her, that was all. He had taken her by surprise. But she couldn’t help remembering the slow, assessing gaze he’d slid over her last night. Only the quick flare of her anger prevented her from succumbing to the same stunned silence as on that previous uncomfortable occasion.

  “You followed us,” she began in an accusing tone.

  “Hello. Remember me?” Arthur interrupted her excitedly. “Where’s your horse?”

  The Englishman squatted on his heels as Arthur came up to him. “I decided to walk. I’ve been trying to catch up with you, but you’ve all been walking so fast.” He glanced up at Wynne, not trying in the least to disguise the gloating expression on his face.

  “Yes, we’re very fast walkers,” Bronwen agreed, moving up alongside Arthur. Wynne stared at the girl in surprise. Shy Bronwen speaking up so eagerly, and to a complete stranger? In a moment the other three crowded forward as well, all chattering and bragging, asking questions and cautiously fingering his odd English clothing.

  “Can I ride on your horse when we get home?” Isolde asked as she elbowed Madoc aside to get nearer the man.

  “Why did you come to Radnor Manor?” Arthur interrupted before the Englishman could answer her.

  “Can we—”

  “—hold your dagger?” Rhys finished for Madoc as the two of them eyed the man’s finely carved bone-handled weapon.

  “Are you married?”

  It was Bronwen’s inquiry, so innocently stated, that brought the questioning to an abrupt end. Rhys and Madoc started laughing. Even Arthur, who was not one to take sides in boy-girl arguments, joined in.

  “Knights don’t have time to get married, Bronwen,” he explained importantly. “They have to go riding around, fighting fights and doing other … well, other knight stuff.”

  “As it happens, I’m not married,” the man said, chuckling. For an ins
tant his eyes met Wynne’s, but although the moment was fleeting, a sharp jolt of awareness passed between them. She felt it all the way to her toes.

  “But I do plan to marry one of these days,” he continued, addressing Bronwen. “Don’t you?”

  “Oh, yes,” replied the child, breaking into one of her rare and beautiful smiles. “I want to have lots and lots of babies.”

  “Me too,” Isolde broke in. “I want lots and lots of babies too.”

  The man chuckled again. “With such a large family as you already have, I would think you’d get tired of being around so many brothers and sisters all the time.” He studied them all with a more watchful expression. Then he looked back at Wynne. “How did you come to have all these children under your care?”

  Wynne hesitated. He already knew the answer to that; she was sure of it. So what was he up to? Her eyes narrowed, and she squared her shoulders. Two could play at these cat-and-mouse games of his. With a careless shrug she turned away from him and sat down on an exposed shelf of limestone.

  “The children are all orphans.”

  “They all appear to be the same age,” he prodded her.

  “We’re all six,” Arthur announced.

  “But we’re—”

  “—the oldest,” the twins announced.

  “They were born on the very same day,” Bronwen explained. “They’re twins.”

  “But just because they’re the oldest, that doesn’t mean they can order us around,” Isolde stated quite firmly.

  Wynne could not restrain herself any longer. Enough of this friendly chatter. “I’m the only one who does any ordering about,” she interjected. She sent the children a cautionary look, then addressed the Englishman directly. “Is there a reason that you followed us?”