The smile on his face changed ever so slightly. He’d been amused and charmed by the milling children; now he seemed equally amused by her question, but in a somehow more challenging way. Wynne, however, had decided to take control of this game of his, and she waited patiently, vowing to play the role of cat today, not of mouse.
He cleared his throat. “I don’t often have the chance to take a ramble in the forests just for the pleasure of it. It’s a welcome change from the company of men and horses.”
Wynne did not even try to disguise her skepticism. “You’ve come all the way from England to take a walk down a woodland path with a Welshwoman and five children?”
“Maybe he came to find the dragon,” Arthur suggested helpfully. “To slay the fire-breathing dragon Druce told us about. The one that lives in the caves of Black Mountain.”
Arthur’s expression was so serious that Wynne was no longer certain she wanted the man to answer her question. At least not while the children were around. For whatever perverse reason, the children all seemed to like him. Especially Arthur.
She should take heart at that, she knew. She’d always noticed an innate ability in both children and animals to distinguish between good and evil, so the children’s unrestrained acceptance of this man should ease her worries. He did not mean to harm them. But there was still something he was hiding.
“If the Englishman seeks the dragon of Black Mountain, we can point out the cart track that leads that way.” She stared pointedly at the man. “ ’Tis just beyond the moor you crossed. On your way back you’ll see it off to your right.”
He nodded slightly, not saying a word, but only studying her until she grew decidedly uncomfortable. “For today I’ll forgo the dragon. And I’m Norman, not English.”
Wynne lifted her brows. “Really? Tell me, why is it English nobility still identify themselves with Normandy? ’Tis at least a hundred years that you’ve been in England, yet you refuse to call yourselves English.”
“We’re Cymry. Welsh,” Isolde boasted. She moved nearer her aunt, and Wynne drew comfort from the child’s loyalty.
“Perhaps then I should term myself Norman English,” he conceded. “And I have a name,” he went on. “I’m Cleve FitzWarin. I’d like you to call me Cleve.”
Wynne gave him a contemptuous look. “Well, Sir Cleve, the children and I have a purpose for being here today. As interesting as this conversation has been, we must be about our work.”
“May I be of any help? Wynne,” he added with subtle but still obvious emphasis.
She bristled at once. “I have enough help.”
“Then perhaps I can help you shepherd the children,” he replied smoothly, not at all affected by her simmering anger. “I’m certain they won’t mind.”
“We don’t—”
“—mind at all!”
The other three children looked less sure than the twins, for they’d obviously sensed the animosity between the two adults. Arthur in particular appeared distressed by the tension between Wynne and the Englishman, and Wynne was immediately sorry that she had let this man bother her so. What had happened to her plan to be the cat and not the mouse?
She gave him a tight, even smile. “If you wish to join us, you may.” Then she turned abruptly away, unable to pretend to a calm she hardly felt. “Let’s be on our way. The trail down into the Cleft is very near.”
As they made their slow and careful descent along the rocky face of the Devil’s Cleft, Wynne reluctantly admitted to herself that FitzWarin’s presence was useful. She’d known the climb down would be awkward with five children. She could safely shepherd only two or three at a time. But with the Englishman’s presence they could all go down together.
She led the way, followed by the children, with him bringing up the rear. Though the trail was not difficult for a careful adult, she knew that the children might be too excited to be as cautious as they should be. It was almost a relief, then, to have another far more stern voice to instruct the rambunctious quintet.
“Rhys, don’t crowd your brother. Arthur, keep your eyes on where you’re going,” he ordered from somewhere behind her.
“Oh, look! Look at the big butterfly!” Bronwen exclaimed. “It’s as yellow and orange as a fire.”
“Catch it. Catch it!” Rhys and Madoc cried.
“No! Leave it alone,” Isolde said, hurrying toward the two boys. “You’ll hurt it, and if you do, then I’ll hurt you!”
Wynne turned to stare up at the trio. “Isolde, I’ll handle this. Rhys and Madoc, we’re only collecting what we need. Nothing more. If we can’t use it for food or medicine or something else, then we leave it where it is. You know my rules.”
At once they became contrite, and she nodded approvingly, then smiled at them. “I know you’re excited. There’s so much to see down here. But we want to leave it here so we can come back to see it again and again.”
It was in that unguarded moment, when she was thinking only of the children and the land that sustained them all, that her eyes met the Englishman’s. To her surprise his expression was actually approving. Then he smiled at her—a mixture of admiration and camaraderie—and she felt the oddest reaction in her stomach. This was not the bold, assessing gaze of last night, and she was hard put to be angered by it. But dismayed …
She was unnerved and put off balance by his steady stare, and with an uncomfortable swallow she turned away.
Once they had reached the lush green floor of the narrow ravine, Wynne purposefully set the children to their separate tasks.
“Rhys and Madoc, I want you to scrape away as much of this soft dark-gray stone as you can. See how it flakes off if you drag a piece of sharpened granite on it? That’s right,” she said as the boys mimicked her action. “Put what you scrape into this leather sack.
“And Arthur, you need to pick the youngest, smallest fern fronds. Here’s one. See how the end is still curled? Only take the ones that are about as long as your hand. Here’s a cloth you can lay them on. Afterward I’ll wrap them up for you.”
“What about us?” Bronwen and Isolde chorused.
“Let’s see. Oh, I know. I need spiderwebs. Can you collect them for me? Or, no. Maybe I’d better do that. Why don’t you girls dig for skirret. Here’s a spade. You can take turns. One of you can hold the leaves aside like this while the other one digs for the roots.” She pulled free several of the white, fleshy tubers. “Just pull some of it off, then pat the rest of the roots and the plant back into place.”
“So they can grow more of those fat things for us for next time,” Isolde reasoned.
“Precisely. I’ve been taking skirret roots from this bed of plants for years.”
She brushed the moist earth from her hands as she stepped back and surveyed her industrious brood. Although she could probably collect everything she needed in less time than her five helpers could, she was glad she’d decided to bring them along. Six years old was not too young to be contributing to the welfare of the family. Every child needed to learn responsibility, as well as to know that they were important to the family, even when it was not the most typical of families. That lesson could not begin too soon, especially for these orphans who must eventually know the difficult truth of how they came to be and how unwanted they once were. But they were wanted now. Very much so. She couldn’t love them more if they were truly her own.
“Have you no task for me?”
The Englishman’s low voice just behind her caused Wynne to jump in alarm. She nearly trod in a bed of young Olympia fern, so startled was she.
“You … I … no.” She fought to compose herself. “No, I have no task for you. You may leave anytime you like.”
He raised one dark brow at her brusque remark, and Wynne was immediately embarrassed by her rudeness. He had, after all, aided her and the children in their precarious descent into the Cleft.
Still, he’d followed them here uninvited. She owed him no more than the minimal courtesy.
“Thank yo
u for your help, but I’m sure you’ll find our activities extremely boring. We’ll be gathering plants and minerals the entire morning. You need not linger to help us.”
“Ah, but ’twould be my pleasure to do so,” he answered, mocking her forced politeness with an excessive display of courtliness. “If you would but direct me, I’m certain I can be of some assistance to you.”
Wynne’s eyes narrowed in frustration, to be rewarded only by the faintest shadow of amusement in his warm brown gaze. He was laughing at her, and it galled her to no end.
“Perhaps there is one task,” she said as a truly wicked idea came into her head. Though she knew she should not be so unkind, even to this Englishman, some devil seemed to drive her. She consoled herself with the reminder that he had no business being here in the first place. Nor even in Wales. He’d brought this trouble down upon himself.
“I need to replenish my stores of parsley fern. Only the leaves, mind you. I’ll find a plant, and perhaps you can fill this pouch with the newest leaves. Just the tiny pale-green ones.”
“What do you use them for?” he asked as he followed her.
For causing a severe rash on those who think to cross me, she thought spitefully. But her answer was more evasive. “Oh, for medicinal purposes.”
“For coughs? Or bleeding?” he prodded.
“No.” She searched her mind for an answer that was not precisely a lie. “ ’Tis invaluable for expelling worms. Here.” In relief she pointed toward a plant. “Here’s what I’m looking for. And there are more over there.” Then she turned and hurried back toward the children.
Perhaps his reaction to the irritating juices of the fresh leaves would not be too severe, she rationalized as she searched for the sturdy webs of the tree queen spider. Perhaps the itching would only last a day or two. But even as she began to carefully remove one web from the limbs of a young elm tree, Wynne could not escape the feeling that she would somehow come to regret the devious trick she was playing on him. He had the look of a man who could be as ruthless and vengeful to his enemies as he had proven to be kind and patient with the children. It would not take him long to determine what she’d done, and then he would surely group her among his enemies.
She glanced back at him, biting her lip doubtfully. At the same instant he looked up and met her eyes. For a long moment their gazes remained locked, and she was assailed with that strange and vital awareness of him that had affected her long before she’d ever laid eyes on him. There was some link between them, she realized with a sinking sense of dismay. What that link was remained a mystery to her, but it did not change things. They were connected by fate. She was certain of it.
Yet she feared that by this casting down of the glove, as it were, she had irrevocably directed that fate down the path of outright warfare.
Still, she knew there was no other way. Her hand went to the ever-present Radnor amulet that hung between her breasts. He was English; she was Cymry. They were destined to clash.
5
THE MORNING SEEMED TO stretch out forever. Though the children were surprisingly diligent in their efforts, and the linen bags and leather pouches she had brought were swiftly filled, Wynne could take no pleasure in it. She kept stealing glances at the Englishman and veering between regret and righteous anger. She should have warned him to wear gloves with the parsley fern; he would be furious with her and was bound to find a way to retaliate. And yet he would at least recognize that she was a more than worthy opponent. He would think very carefully before tangling with her again.
“I’m hungry,” Isolde announced as the midday sun began to find its way into the deeply shadowed ravine. “Can we eat now?”
“What did you—”
“—bring to eat?” the twins asked.
Wynne looked up, relieved for a break from her warring emotions. “We’ve Gwynedd’s barley bread, cheese, herring, and dried raisins. There’s a small spring beyond that hanging vine—right up in the wall. Why don’t all of you wash up there? Wash especially well and get any grit or plant stains off your hands,” she added with a guilty glance at the Englishman.
Cleve FitzWarin was sitting back on a thick carpet of moss, and the sun shining through the tree branches above dappled him with light. Wynne was uncomfortably aware once more of the vital strength of him. What was worse, however, was that he watched her now with the most discerning of gazes. The leather pouch she’d given him was filled, but she couldn’t help wincing at the sight of his green-stained fingertips.
“You’d better wash too,” she muttered reluctantly. “Here, use this soaproot.”
He caught the stringy bit of root mass she tossed him, then handed it to Arthur. “Go along, lad. Do as Wynne says. I’ll wash in a bit.”
When Arthur scampered off, FitzWarin turned his disturbing gaze back on her. He scratched the back of one hand idly, and Wynne swallowed uneasily. It was just a matter of time before his skin reacted to the irritating sap. She wanted to be back at Radnor Manor before that happened.
“I’d like to know more about the children,” he began, surprising her with his directness.
All her mixed feelings fled, and she gave him a wary look. “Why? What concern are they to you?”
“They’re the offspring of English soldiers, are they not?”
Wynne’s jaw clenched. “The bastards of a vile and cruel army,” she hissed, though not loud enough for the children to hear. “The forgotten by-blows of a heartless invading people.”
For once, he was not able to completely hide his reaction. She saw a faint flush cross his jaw, and his throat worked as he swallowed hard. So she had made him uncomfortable. Good.
“I am told your people do not hold a child’s parentage against him,” he responded, his tone low and mild in comparison with hers.
“And I’m told your people do,” she snapped back.
His gaze did not waver under her furious glare. “There are those of us born on the wrong side of the sheets who yet manage to rise above it.”
“You?” she exclaimed. “Are you saying that you were bastard-born?”
He nodded once, and for a moment Wynne stared at him in ill-disguised shock. She could see his admission had not come easy, and that fact touched her with unexpected sympathy. How foolish were the English, she thought. To blame a child for his parents’ actions was so unfair. The pain of it clearly lingered long after the child grew to adulthood.
Yet she knew that she could not afford to let this man’s own troubled childhood affect her judgment. She forced herself to sound firm. “Be that as it may, your similarity of situation in no way gives you the right to pry into the lives of these children.”
“Perhaps not. But the expressed wishes of one of their fathers does.”
“Their fathers?” Wynne stared at him, not quite understanding what he meant. “What do you mean, ‘their fathers’?” Then she gasped, and her hands tightened into fists. “They have no fathers,” she snapped, hardly able to believe that anyone, even an Englishman, could believe that those men’s wishes mattered in the least to her.
“One of them has a father who wants him,” the English knight countered with maddening persistence. “I’d like your help in determining just which one it is.”
“A father who wants him?” she sputtered, still in shock. “A father who wants him? If that were not so poor a joke, I’d laugh in your face!”
“ ’Tis not a joke. I have good reason to believe one of these children you raised was sired by my liege lord. He but wants the child of his loins.”
“The child of rape, you mean. He gave up all rights to any child when he joined the godless horde that stormed across this land, killing, raping, and pillaging!”
He had the good grace to pause at her angry words, but then he pushed on. “What’s done is done. Would you punish the child now by denying him the rights of his parentage?”
At that very moment Rhys and Madoc came tumbling back toward them, racing to see who was the faster. Only by the
most stringent effort was Wynne able to bury her burning emotions. But her hands balled into fists and her jaw tightened painfully as her eyes glared her bitter feelings at him. Though she held her tongue, however, her mind seethed with vengeance.
Deny the child his parentage. What a fool this man was. Did he truly believe that anyone of Cymru would ever consider an English heritage valuable? Only the arrogant English would see it that way. And now this most arrogant of all Englishmen had come to her, wishing to take one of her children back to England with him!
Had she all the abilities attributed to her by the gossips, she would have turned him into a viper then and there, or at least struck him down with an affliction of the gut. Maybe blinded him or caused his tongue to swell and thicken, then rot and fall out. But she did not possess such dark powers, and she’d never thought it such a pity as she did now.
“Wynne, Wynne. Madoc didn’t wash with soaproot,”
Isolde shouted as she, too, ran up. “He only wet his hands a very little, then wiped them on my skirt!”
With a last cutting glare at FitzWarin Wynne turned to the children. “Madoc, go back and wash up properly. And if any others of you have done a poor job of it, back you go as well.”
As Madoc turned reluctantly back toward the spring, Wynne remembered the parsley fern and felt a quick glimmer of satisfaction. This Cleve FitzWarin thought he could simply ride his tall destrier into Wales, pick out some child, and return to England with it, did he? Well, he was in for a bitter lesson, and she was only too happy to be the one to give it to him. By the time she finished with him, he would consider the uncomfortable itching of his hands nothing at all. She would see him and his men retching from the food they ate, purged by the drink they took, and made dizzy by the smoke they breathed. Their skin would itch and their bowels would burn. Even sleep would not give them peace, for she knew where to find the black mold that caused dreadful dreams to both the waking and the sleeping.
She turned to look at him, and a thin, gloating smile lifted her lips. He would rue the day he ever crossed her path, thinking to steal one of her children from her.
Rexanne Becnel Page 5
