But if he wondered at her odd and unexpected smile, or suspected the wicked thoughts and plans that fostered it, his expression did not reveal it. He only nodded at her once, then rose to head toward the spring.
Let him wash, she thought, following his tall form with her vengeful glare. It would only soften the effects of the parsley fern, not banish it. Besides, that was only a taste of what she had in store for him.
They left the Cleft shortly after their meal. Wynne led the way up the rocky wall, followed again by the children and the Englishman. Once she clambered over the rim, she turned to help Isolde out, and then Bronwen. Rhys and Madoc insisted on climbing the last steep section unassisted. When Arthur peeped over the edge, he, too, declined her help.
“I can do it,” he insisted, panting from his efforts. He reached for the same exposed root the other boys had grasped, but when he pulled on it, it gave with a sudden snap.
“Arthur!” Wynne cried, grabbing wildly as he teetered backward. But she couldn’t get there fast enough, and as she watched in horror, he began to fall.
“Where do you think you’re going?” With a quick movement FitzWarin caught Arthur’s tunic. For a moment the boy dangled, arms and legs flailing in fear. Then the man pulled him against his chest, holding him safely next to the rough wall of the ravine.
“You’re all right now, my boy. Just catch your breath a bit.”
Wynne heard the labored rush of Arthur’s breath and was equally aware of her own relieved gasp for air. It had all happened so quickly, yet she felt now as drained as if she’d run a league and more. “Give him to me,” she demanded in a voice that shook.
The Englishman met her frightened eyes, and for an instant their gazes held. Gone was her anger, replaced now by an immense gratitude. How could she have been so careless? She knew Arthur did not have the physical skills of the twins. If this man had not been there …
She forced her gaze away from his and instead peered down at Arthur. “Are you all right? Here, take my hand.”
Once he was safely out of the Cleft, she pulled him into a smothering embrace. “Oh, Arthur, you frightened me so,” she murmured into his soft, wavy hair as she fought back a rush of tears. She breathed in the scent of him, of dirt and little-boy sweat and barley bread.
“Wynne!” He exclaimed, squirming away after a moment. “I’m not a baby, you know.” He slipped away from her, then glanced over at FitzWarin, and his pale face lit up with a smile of admiration. “It’s my good fortune that you were there,” he said, in his more usual adult phrasing.
“Yes, it was,” the Englishman answered gravely. Then he extended one hand to Arthur. “Do you think you could give me a hand up?”
Arthur leaped to the task, an eager grin on his face. Forgotten was that moment of terror, Wynne realized. Forgotten was everything in the face of this man’s easy way with the boy. In that same instant she reluctantly recognized how much Arthur needed a father. How much they all did.
Coming as it did on the tail of the Englishman’s revelation of his purpose in Wales, that admission was nearly her undoing. They needed a father, even the girls. No matter how hard she tried to mother them, she couldn’t change that fact. Yet giving up even one of them to their English father was not the solution.
Unable to deal with these new and troubling thoughts, Wynne rose abruptly to her feet. “Let’s be on our way then. Rhys, Madoc, come away from that vine. If you two think you’re going to try that foolhardy feat again—Here, I want you two separated. Rhys, you shall go with Bronwen. There, up ahead of me. And Madoc, you and Isolde stay behind me—”
“I’ll walk with Sir Cleve,” Arthur piped up.
“No, you shall walk with me,” Wynne retorted. She crossed to Arthur and took his hand in hers, pulling him clear of the Englishman. Sir Cleve, indeed! It seemed the English gave titles to baby-stealers now. What a godless race they were.
“You’re hurting my hand,” Arthur complained. He pulled hard against her. “Wynne!”
In sudden confusion Wynne stared down at the child. His eyes were wide and frightened. The other children, too, were watching her with expressions ranging from uncertainty to fear. She released Arthur at once, then clasped her own hands together. Anything to stop the awful shaking that had suddenly overcome them.
“Are you all right?” the Englishman asked in a quiet voice. When she didn’t answer, he turned to the children. “The five of you start up the path. You know the way. Go slowly and stay together. Wynne has had a little scare, that’s all. We’ll follow shortly.”
The children obeyed at once. Though Wynne would like to have called them back—to gather them all in her arms and draw strength from their very nearness—at that moment all she could do was stand there, trembling.
“Are you all right?” he asked once more.
Again Wynne didn’t answer. She couldn’t. The truth was, she was not all right. Her life, which had seemed so even and calm, so predictable, now was shattering all around her. And all because of this man.
He put a hand on her arm and turned her to face him, but at his touch she jerked away. Though she’d had a strong sense of his presence before she’d even laid eyes on him, that was as nothing compared with the effect of his touch. It was so strong, it shook her to her very core. Even as she backed away from him, she could still feel the individual impressions of each one of his fingers.
“Stay away from me,” she whispered, not sure whether it was her fear or the threat she intended that came through in her voice. “Stay away from me and my children.”
“Listen to me, Wynne.” He stepped forward, arms open in appeal. “Let me tell you everything, and then you’ll understand.”
“I understand all I need to understand,” she retorted. “You’ve come here to steal one of my children. That makes you my foe, and … and …” Her voice wavered, and she knew she sounded more like an emotional woman than an enemy to be feared. But still she plunged on. “And I’ll fight you with every fiber of my being.”
She started to step back and turn away. He was too close. He was too big and too intimidating. But before she could move, he had her by both arms. Once more that unexpected charge of energy shot through her, catching her off guard. Then he lowered his face to the same level as hers and glared back at her.
“I don’t want to fight you,” he snapped, giving her a slight shake for emphasis. “One of your children was very likely sired by Sir William Somerville. He’s a very powerful and rich man, and he wants to give his son all the benefits due him.”
“You can’t be sure it’s one of my children.”
“He left a woman here in Radnor Forest, a woman who was heavy with his child. He called her by the name Angel, and even though I’ve searched the whole forest, she’s nowhere to be found. But you’ve got five English orphans of those times.” He shrugged as if that were proof enough, and indeed it did give Wynne pause. But she would never give her children up to an Englishman.
“That proves nothing at all. Besides, the English hate their bastards,” she spat back at him. “Everybody knows that. Didn’t your father hate you?”
She knew at once she’d scored a blow, for his hands tightened around her arms. “You little witch,” he muttered through gritted teeth. “ ’Tis my very bastardy that guides me in this. Those boys—all of them—need their fathers. They need a man to look up to. To receive approval from.”
“They have men—real men who do not rape and murder and torture! Druce is there for them, and they look up to him.”
“He’s not their father.” He gave her another shake. “And you’re not their mother.”
Had her hands been free, she would have struck him for that. As it was, all she could do was glare bitterly at him. Perhaps she wasn’t their mother, but she was the nearest thing to it they had. Still, in the angry silence Wynne couldn’t help but recall her own thoughts of just minutes before. They did need a father, and not just the boys. But this Englishman was not the one to decide who
that father would be.
She took a deep, steadying breath and willed herself to be calm. Then she fixed him with a narrow, glowering stare. “I shall make you very sorry you ever came to Cymru—to Wales,” she began. “You think you may come here, dangle the thought of a title and lands before me, and thereby justify stealing one of these children from the only home they know. Do you honestly believe I will idly sit by?” She let out a harsh laugh, then shrugged out of his loosened grasp.
Fighting the urge to rub the spots where his hands had touched her, she went on. “I am not called the Seeress of Radnor for nothing. I am the Welsh Witch you spoke of, and I have powers at my command that you cannot begin to fathom. I sensed your presence in these forests long before you arrived. And I can predict already the tragedy that shall befall you and your men if you linger here. Sickness. Madness. Even death if you are not swift in your retreat,” she added for good measure, though at that moment she considered it no exaggeration. She would murder him with her own hands if that’s what it took to drive him away.
He studied her for a moment, then grinned. “You are a superstitious people. No doubt the folk around here believe such things of you—maybe you even believe some of it yourself. But you’ll not frighten me off with such wild tales.”
“Then you are more fool than I thought,” Wynne replied with a smug smile of her own. She was feeling stronger and more in control now, and he was playing right into her hands. She lifted her chin proudly and put her hands on her hips. “You’ve been given your only warning. I’ll not feel the least remorse for the hardships that shall plague you and your men now.”
To her dismay, however, he only smirked and let his eyes run boldly over her, lingering on her outthrust breasts and then her lips before returning to her shocked eyes. “If you would put the same effort into seducing me with your considerable charms as you put into scaring me away with your questionable powers, you would no doubt succeed far better.” Then he reached out and caught one long tendril of her loosened hair and wound it around his finger. “Have you a husband?”
Wynne hardly felt the sharp pain on her scalp as she turned and fled. She did not notice the path as she plunged headlong through the forest after the children. All she knew was that this Englishman possessed some awful power over her, one she’d never allowed any other man to have. She’d firmly rebuffed any man who approached her in that way, and none of them had ever thought to anger the Welsh Witch.
But this man … With only his slow, heated gaze he caused her mouth to go dry and her mind to go blank He turned her anger into a terrible burning in the depths of her stomach, leaving her unable to focus. Did he have powers of his own? Some ability that was stronger than hers? She’d heard of wizards and warlocks, but she personally knew of no men possessed of suet powers. Only women.
His chuckle followed her, but she determinedly shut it out. Let him laugh. At least she knew that it was only his touch and his potent gaze that weakened her. If she stayed away from him and never met his eyes, she would be all right. She would plot in private. She would devise all sorts of miseries for him, and eventually she would drive him away.
Yet even as she caught up with the children, she was not totally reassured. He was very determined. But then, so was she. And she was on her homelands, surrounded by people who would help her.
Then she breathed a sigh of relief. Gwynedd. Her aunt Gwynedd would help her. She would know what to do. Wynne chanced a glance back and saw him not far behind. He was watching her with a confident, assessing expression on his face. It was enough to destroy her recovering calm.
“Hurry, children,” she said, a false note of gaiety in her voice. “The first one back to the manor shall get a double serving of pears tonight.”
But she would cook up a special recipe for the Englishman, she vowed. And she would make him very sorry he ever heard of the Welsh Witch.
6
GWYNEDD AWAITED THEM IN a woven chair of rye straw draped with sheepskin, which had been placed outside in a pleasant, sunny spot. Her head tilted back against a down-filled cushion, and her eyes were closed.
How could she be asleep? Wynne fumed as she herded the children forward. How could she nap so peacefully, so unaware of the terrible situation they were in? Surely she should sense it.
“Children, leave your bags and pouches on the big table in the kitchen. Then go look for Druce.” She shot an angry glance at the Englishman, who stood so straight and tall, surrounded by the children. “And stay away from the English encampment.”
As one, the five children looked from Wynne to Sir Cleve, then back at her. To her enormous relief they did not question her words. She supposed even a group of six-year-olds could not mistake the pure animosity that emanated from her toward that man.
She glared at him in silence as the children trotted off to the house. Then, still not speaking, she turned and walked away. When she reached her great-aunt, she knelt down before her, sneaking a quick glance back at the Englishman. He was still watching her, but then the shivery sensation up her spine had already told her that. What was this disturbing effect he had on her?
“Aunt Gwynedd,” she whispered urgently, even though he was too far away to hear. “Aunt Gwynedd, wake up!”
“What? Ah, nith, did I doze off?” The old woman patted Wynne’s hand, which rested on her arm. “Ah, well, ’tis one of the pleasures of old age, I suppose. You gather the herbs while I rest in the sunshine.”
“Aunt Gwynedd, I know now why that Englishman has come. He wants to take one of the children away. One of the boys.”
Gwynedd pushed herself a little upright. “What do you say? He’s taken one of the children?”
“No, no. Not yet at least. But he will. He says one of them is the son of some English lord. And that this lord wants his son back.”
Gwynedd stared at her, all vestiges of sleep gone from her sightless eyes. “One of our lads is heir to an English lord? How can he be sure?”
Wynne shook her head in frustration. “I don’t know. I don’t think he knows which one it is. He’s probably not even sure it is one of our boys, he’s only hoping. You know how the English are.” She snorted in contempt. “ ’Tis only sons they value. Women are but chattel to them, little better than brood mares to give them more of their precious sons.”
Gwynedd’s gnarled hand tightened around Wynne’s. “There is a reason for all things, child. The English pass their lands to the eldest son. ’Tis but a device to avoid conflict among several sons. Here in Wales a man’s holdings go to his most powerful son. ’Tis a tradition that cannot help but promote warfare within a family. You’ve seen it yourself. Kant ab Fychen rules only because he broke his brother’s fighting arm. Were Anwyl able still to fight, one or the other of them would by now be dead.”
Wynne stared at her aunt in frustration. What had Fychen’s boys to do with anything? It was these boys she was concerned with. “Didn’t you hear what I said? That man—the English bastard—would take one of my children back to England with him! A son of Cymru forced to live in that godless land!”
Gwynedd sat in silence for a moment. Her very lack of emotion, however, only incited Wynne more. How could she be so calm? But before Wynne could speak again, Gwynedd turned her blind eyes toward her niece. “The English are not a godless people. Their ways are different than ours, to be sure. But they love their sons, their children. If one of our boys is heir to a title and lands, who are we to deprive him of it?”
“What?” Wynne sat back on her heels, stupefied by her aunt’s words. She could hardly believe her ears. She would have pulled her hand free of Gwynedd’s except that the old woman gripped it so warmly.
“They are not yours, Wynne, these children you were given to raise. You have tried to be both mother and father to them up till now, but they are not truly yours. You know that. You’ve always known. Children are a gift from the Mother—from God, if you will. But they’re ours only for a while. Some die young; the rest grow up and leave us.
” She gave a sad, understanding smile. “Perhaps it is the time for one of our five to leave.”
“No!” Wynne leaped up, hurt and angry and confused. Of all people, she would have expected Gwynedd to understand. She was certain her great-aunt would sense the same danger, the same threat that she sensed from this Englishman. Yet her aunt felt nothing. And now she was willing to give up one of the children to some English monster. What matter that he was a lord and possessed of lands and holdings? What matter if he were the English king himself! He was English and therefore a plague upon the face of the earth—or at least on the face of Wales.
“I will not surrender any of my children to this English lleidr,” she vowed in a voice that shook with emotion.
Gwynedd sighed. “Not even to the child’s rightful father? Every child deserves to know his own father.”
Too consumed with fury and a deep-rooted fear, Wynne ignored her aunt’s words, though they mirrored her own earlier thoughts. “They are all children of Cymru. Their mothers were Cymry, and so are they, no matter if all of their fathers come for them. Those despicable cnaf have no claim on them now. ’Tis too late.” She turned to leave but stopped when Gwynedd spoke.
“Nith, I ask only that you hear him out. Do not make this decision in pain and anger. You decide a child’s life here. Do not make a choice which that child shall someday blame you for.”
Wynne stood a moment, not willing, even in anger, to show disrespect to the great-aunt who had been so good to her these past seven years since her own parents had died. Only when Gwynedd sank back into her chair did Wynne give a curt nod, then stride away. Yet she could not hide from the new fear that the old woman had roused with her parting words.
These children would not always be children. The day would come when they would be men and women, capable of their own choices and decisions. She’d always dreaded the day that they must know the truth of their births. But she’d never imagined that they might wish to meet their fathers. In her eyes their mothers were saints, martyred one way or another at the hands of that devil’s horde—the English. Their fathers they would hate, just as she hated them.
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