Rexanne Becnel

by Where Magic Dwells

  That was one more reason why he should abandon this mad pursuit of her.

  Yet the uncomfortable tension in his loins was too insistent to ignore. He shifted, trying to find a more hospitable position. But as the moon wended across the sky and the clouds followed, growing heavy and threatening, he couldn’t help cursing the perverse God who’d offered him the wife and lands he’d always hungered for, then turned around now to tempt him with a woman the likes of which he feared he might never find again.

  When he finally slept, it was to toss fitfully beneath the gathering storm clouds, dreaming of a field of the sweetest roses. But when he sought a resting-place amid them, he was ever held back by their thorns.

  11

  WYNNE HAD NO EASY answer for Isolde’s question. “I don’t know why the English king wanted to make Wales a part of his country,” she finally replied.

  “Because he’s a bloody English bast—” Madoc broke off when Rhys elbowed him in the ribs.

  But Wynne was too troubled by what she must tell the children to be concerned by Madoc’s language. She sighed and reached out to rub Isolde’s foot. “I suppose King Henry felt Wales was a threat to his people. If he could make the people of Cymru his own, well, I suppose he thought he wouldn’t have to worry about us anymore. We would be English then.

  “But that’s not what I want to talk about,” she added. She glanced at Arthur, and her nerve almost abandoned her. Though he’d done as asked, and all five of the children had been gathered in their sleeping loft waiting for her to come up, Arthur kept himself aloof. Like the others he was dressed only in his oldest shift, the one reserved just for sleeping. But unlike his brothers and sisters he sat apart, his knees drawn up to his chest. The others sat in various poses around her, all curious and bright-eyed about Wynne’s odd behavior. She usually made them go to sleep long before now.

  A single rush-light illuminated the low-ceilinged space with a warm glow, yet from Arthur’s corner there came only an ice-cold chill. Wynne cleared her throat.

  “War is more than two armies battling with swords and battle-axes. It’s more than just men fighting against other men. Other people get hurt too.”

  “Even little children?” Bronwen ventured.

  Wynne nodded. “Sometimes even little children.”

  Madoc and Rhys shared a slightly alarmed look. “Are we going to have—”

  “—another war with England?”

  “Oh, no, sweetheart. That’s not going to happen. At least not anytime soon. And not here,” Wynne hastened to add. “No, you’re all very safe in Radnor Forest.”

  “Then why are you talking about war?” Isolde asked.

  “Well, I’m trying to explain about your fathers.”

  “They were soldiers, weren’t they?”

  Wynne looked up at Arthur’s belligerent question. “Yes, they were soldiers.”

  “I knew it!” Madoc crowed. He jabbed at Rhys with an imaginary sword.

  “And we’ll be soldiers too.”

  “Listen to me,” Wynne pleaded, reaching forward to still the irrepressible pair. “Listen to me,” she repeated urgently.

  Perhaps it was the sadness in her eyes that finally registered on them, for Rhys and Madoc grew silent, and Isolde and Bronwen leaned nearer one another. Even Arthur finally met her gaze, and she saw both the fear and longing in his eyes. He wanted to know, but in his wise-old-man fashion, he knew the truth would be unpleasant. Otherwise she would have told them all of this long before.

  Wynne took a fortifying breath. “You are all Welsh-born. Never forget that. And though I am not your true mother, I am your mother in every other way. Your birth mothers were Welsh also. But your fathers … your fathers were all English soldiers.”

  Complete silence seemed to envelop every corner of the low-ceilinged loft. Only the dancing flame of the solitary rush-light gave any indication of movement. Not sure how this news affected them, Wynne plunged on. “Seven years ago the English overran our portion of Wales. They were here off and on for several months. Many of us hid from them. Others resigned themselves to the invaders’ presence and simply tried to make the best of it.”

  Isolde frowned and bit her lip, trying to understand. “Well, if the English soldiers married our mothers, how come—”

  “They didn’t marry them, stupid!” Arthur jumped up with a furious expression on his face. “They didn’t marry our mothers! That’s why that bully Renfrew called us little bastards when we went to the village with Druce. That’s why Druce got so mad at him. He didn’t want us to hear and figure it out. But I figured it out … I figured it out, didn’t I, Wynne?” He trailed off in a frightened voice.

  She stared at him through eyes filled with tears. There was such pain in his voice, such hurt on his young face. Then she nodded and held her arms out to him.

  In an instant Arthur had barreled into her lap, sobbing against her chest. Isolde and Bronwen began to wail and squeeze against her, and even the twins began to sniffle and edge nearer. When she extended a hand to Rhys and Madoc, they, too, burrowed into the heap of weeping children.

  They didn’t understand, not really. But they understood enough to realize that things were not as they should be. Wynne knew she had to tell them everything—at least as much of it as they could make sense of.

  As usual Arthur understood far too much for a six-year-old. She’d often thought that was why he was so sensitive. His quick mind was so logical that he easily reasoned things out. But his little-boy emotions did not so easily accept. After all, he was but a little child—they all were. It was not right that they should have to deal with such difficult facts at so tender an age.

  “Oh, my sweet babies,” she crooned, rocking back and forth with them. “I love you all so much. Everyone at Radnor Manor does. You must ignore bullies like Renfrew. What does he know?” she added, smoothing Arthur’s fair hair with one free hand.

  Isolde lifted her head and looked up at Wynne. A tear trickled down her cheek to hang trembling on her tiny chin. “But … but what’s a ‘little bastard’? I don’t understand.” She began to cry again.

  Wynne forced down the lump in her throat. Arthur met her gaze, and she saw in his teary face no trace of his earlier anger. Time to explain, she reluctantly admitted to herself.

  “Here, let’s all dry our eyes first and catch our breath. All right? Then I’ll explain everything to you and answer all your questions.”

  It was a subdued group who faced her, once they were all settled down. “When a man and woman marry, they commit to living their lives together and raising a family. Usually the woman begins to have babies and … and they raise their children, and, well, that’s it. But you don’t have to get married to have a baby.”

  “That’s not what Cook says,” Isolde murmured.

  Wynne gave her a wan smile. “What Cook means, sweetheart, is that you should marry before you have babies. Both God and the Church prefer it, and it’s best for everyone concerned. But sometimes women have babies before they get married.”

  “Babies like us,” Arthur said solemnly.

  “Yes, babies like all of you. But don’t blame your mothers,” Wynne hastened to add.

  Bronwen shook her head. “But I don’t understand.”

  Wynne exhaled a noisy breath. How was she to go about this? “All right. We all know that birds and rabbits and deer have babies, don’t we?”

  They all nodded, their eyes steady on her, and she was reminded of a nest of magpies. “The mother and father bird—or whatever—don’t get married. They just decide to have babies. Well, it can happen that way with people too.”

  “But how?” Rhys and Madoc chorused.

  Arthur shot them an exasperated look. “Haven’t you ever seen the goats? You know, when the ram climbs on the ewe and … and wriggles all around?”

  The other four children all nodded, but their blank expressions told Wynne that they still did not understand. In frustration she tossed her hair behind her shoulders and
leaned forward earnestly.

  “People are like the animals. The man must plant his seed within the woman so that it may grow into a babe. The Church tells us that he must marry her before he puts his seed into her. But some men don’t wait. They put their seeds in women—”

  Wynne broke off, for the memory of her sister’s cries of terror and pain came back to her too clearly. The cries had eventually subsided to mere whimpers as man after man had taken her. “Planting his seed” was far too gentle an image for the bitter truth of that day.

  Wynne closed her eyes against the revulsion that filled her. Then Isolde lay a hand on her arm, and Wynne forced herself away from the past. She had been given Isolde, she reminded herself. No matter the terrible circumstances of her conception, Isolde was still precious to her. They all were.

  “Is that what our fathers did?” Isolde whispered the question.

  Wynne nodded. “Yes. That’s what they did.”

  “And then when the war was over, they left.” Arthur frowned a little. “Didn’t they even want to see us?”

  Oh, God, she thought. How could she hurt them this way? “They had to go back to England. They left before any of you were born.”

  The twins looked at each other. “Where are our real mothers?” Rhys asked.

  “Isolde’s mother fell on some rocks and died,” Wynne answered at once. They’d heard that abbreviated story before, she knew. But now to explain the others.

  “Arthur, your mother died a few days after you were born. Sometimes that happens. And Rhys and Madoc, your mother died too, when you were both only a year old. But all of your mothers are in heaven right now, watching over you all the time. They love you so much.”

  She felt a tug on her skirt and turned toward Bronwen. “What about my mother?” the sweet-faced child asked. “What about me?”

  Wynne sighed, and stroked a silky strand of blond hair back from the girl’s brow. “Your mother was very young. Too young to raise a baby of her own. That’s why you were given to Gwynedd and me to raise.”

  “You mean an English soldier planted his seed in a little girl?” Isolde asked askance.

  Wynne had to force herself to appear calm. But inside she seethed once more with impotent rage. Put that way, in the innocent words of a child, the crime seemed tenfold worse than it already was.

  “Yes,” she spoke the word tightly. “Yes, that’s what happened.”

  “But … but she wouldn’t want … I mean, did she want …” Isolde’s voice trailed off.

  “No, sweetheart. She didn’t want him to. None of your mothers wanted the English soldiers to plant their seeds in them. But the soldiers didn’t care. When that happens, it’s called rape, and it’s a very cruel thing to do to a girl or a woman.”

  “But how can he give her his seed if she doesn’t want it?”

  To Wynne’s relief it was Arthur who answered Isolde. “You’ve seen the sheep and goats. The ram is bigger and stronger. Even if the ewe doesn’t want him to, he can still do it.”

  “But most men aren’t like that,” Wynne hastily added. “Most men marry a woman first, and she agrees to have a baby with him. They love each other, and the man is gentle and kind to his wife.”

  “Are Cleve and the English soldiers going to do that to Isolde and Bronwen—”

  “—and you?” Madoc finished for Rhys. Both of their faces reflected their horror.

  “No! Oh, no, don’t worry. Cleve would never hurt any of us. Nor will his men.” For all her conflicting feelings about him, Wynne knew without a doubt that in this she was absolutely correct. Cleve FitzWarin might be an English soldier, but he was no rapist.

  Once again it was matter-of-fact Arthur who tied their discussion of the past back to the reality of the present. “Well, then, why did Sir Cleve come here?”

  Wynne averted her eyes and stared unseeingly at her tightly clenched hands. Why indeed? She forced herself to show no emotion. “Sir Cleve FitzWarin is a knight. He was sent here by his English overlord to find a child whom this lord thinks may be his child.”

  The children stared at each other curiously. “One of us?” Arthur asked.

  Wynne nodded. “He thinks maybe one of you is this man’s child, and … and he wants to take whichever one of you it is back to England with him. To live there with this man.”

  Bronwen shrank back in fear. “But … but I don’t want to go.”

  Isolde, too, clung tighter to Wynne’s side. “You won’t let him take us, will you, Wynne?”

  Wynne forced a reassuring smile for the children’s sake. “I’ll never let you go. Don’t worry. No one can take any of you away from me.” But inside she was not nearly so certain as she sounded.

  Arthur shifted and rubbed his foot, which must have gone to sleep. “I wouldn’t mind if Cleve was my father.”

  Wynne saw again the painful longing on the child’s face. “Cleve is not searching for his own son, Arthur, but for someone else’s,” she gently explained.

  Arthur shrugged. “I know. But still …”

  Much later, when the rush-light had been doused and all five of them were asleep in the curved truckle beds, Wynne sat at the edge of the loft contemplating Arthur’s last words. He wouldn’t mind if Cleve were his father.

  That was not really surprising. Cleve had touched something in Arthur that no one else had. Even before Cleve had saved him from that dreadful fall, Arthur had already begun to look up to him. Now it was a powerful case of hero worship.

  And why not? she wondered disconsolately. The man was certainly everything a boy would look up to. Tall and handsome; strong and in command. He rode a powerful destrier like one born astride, and carried his weapons with a confident air. He was not overtly threatening, and yet anyone could see he was not a person to dismiss lightly. To top it off, he was patient and generous with each of the children, free with both his time and his good humor.

  Only with her did he display the darker side of his temperament.

  A shiver snaked through her, and Wynne sighed. The dark side of his temperament. He certainly brought out her dark side as well. So much so that if she were not more careful, she might soon be the one carrying his seed to fruition in her belly. Only it would not have been planted there against her will. That she could not deny.

  “Dear God,” she groaned as she pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms about them. What had she done to deserve such a curse be sent down upon her? Why did he have to come here?

  But she knew why, and the answer chilled her anew. He wanted one of her children—not her. He had a maiden awaiting him in England. Edeline was her name. Oh, but the man was a completely selfish bastard. He wanted his English bride. He wanted one of Wynne’s own children. And now he wanted her to grace his bed. The man wanted what he wanted, and when he wanted it, no matter who was hurt in the taking.

  Yet that was not precisely true, she had to admit. He was indeed bastard born—he’d admitted as much to her. As a result he seemed truly to care that this English lord’s bastard child receive the full portion of his due. She grimaced in frustration. If only he could see that lands and castles were not everything to desire from life.

  But how could he? He himself clearly longed for those very same sorts of possessions, so he assumed everyone else must as well. To be fair, most people did. But not her children, Wynne vowed. Not hers. They were Welsh, and they would reject everything English, as did she.

  Only they didn’t. And if she were honest, she would admit that she didn’t either.

  “Lleidr,” she muttered under her breath, picturing in her mind Cleve’s smiling visage. The man was indeed a thief in every sense of the word. He’d stolen her confidence and thereby weakened her reassuring hatred of the English. He’d stolen kisses and more from her. Now he’d stolen her children’s loyalty—especially Arthur’s.

  He’d even stolen her heart—

  No. That was not true, not even close to true, Wynne decided angrily. He’d fired her ardor perhaps. B
ut only a little. Her heart, however, remained untouched.

  Troubled by her thoughts, Wynne forced herself to rise. It was long past time for her to seek her own bed. As she made her way down the sturdy ladder from the loft, with one last look at the sleeping children, she realized it was raining. Good, she thought as the wind thrust belligerently against the shuttered windows. If it rained and blew hard enough, the Englishmen might be washed away. A tent was not too hospitable a lodging in such a storm as appeared to be brewing outdoors. Nor would the tiny lean-to stable afford any better shelter.

  She made her weary way across the shadowed hall. The embers of the evening’s fire glowed hot. Cook had banked it well before retiring to the stone cottage she shared with her husband, Ivor. Gladys and Enid were bedded down in Gwynedd’s small antechamber.

  Wynne looked over at the heavy wooden doors that led outside. How were Druce and his fellows faring in the storm? she wondered. She should invite them to bed down in the hall.

  As if attuned to her niece’s thoughts, Gwynedd’s form materialized from the entry to her chambers. “Bid the men to sleep within,” she said in a voice muffled by sleep. She pushed a long gray braid over her shoulder and moved as if to return to her bed. Then she paused. “Invite them all, nith. Cymry and English alike. ’Tis not a night fit to sleep without.”

  Wynne did not respond. She knew her duty as hostess well enough. Besides, Druce’s friendly attitude toward Cleve would probably make it impossible for her to leave the English outside anyway. With a frown on her face and a strange and fearful anticipation knotting her stomach, she found her mantle and working clogs, then made her way to the door.

  The wind was in fine form tonight, she thought as she forced the door closed behind her. It tore at her skirts and pulled violently at the full mantle. Like a living thing it was, strong and vital, and angry too. And yet somehow aimless in its direction.

  How fitting. It mirrored her mood precisely.