Rexanne Becnel

by Where Magic Dwells

  “I will not go,” she swore earnestly, though the words came out faint and breathless. “No, I will not, and nothing you can do or say could ever force me to.”

  One of his brows cocked higher, and he stared at her in surprise. “How did you know—” Then his jaw tightened. “It doesn’t matter. Nor does it matter that you object. The boys will go with me. Would you have them travel alone? Would you choose not to be there to meet their father, to see the home that awaits them?” He leaned nearer. “To be certain that the right child becomes heir to all those lands?”

  Torn by both her concerns for the children and her own crushing fears, Wynne scrambled back, tangling her legs in her wet gown and falling into a pile of straw in her haste to put a safe distance between them. But what was a safe distance? Though his eyes were lost in the deep shadows of his face, his thoughts seemed still to reach out to torture her.

  Come with me, Wynne, the silent message came to her. I will have you one way or the other. We both know it’s inevitable.

  “No, no,” she muttered, still stumbling back into the darkened reaches of the barn.

  But like the devil himself, he was fast upon her, reaching out to catch her close to him, holding her effortlessly though she fought him with both arms and legs, flailing, using every bit of her strength. Only when she was exhausted by her efforts and her hands were firmly trapped between his chest and hers, did he catch the long length of her wet hair in one of his fists and force her face up to his.

  “Damn you, woman. If you would but listen to me!”

  “Why!” She practically sobbed the word. “So you may twist the truth to suit what you want to believe? So you may assuage your guilty conscience?”

  She felt his labored breathing and was acutely aware of the rapid rise and fall of her own breath and how their chests pressed ever closer together, the ancient crystal resting between them.

  For a moment she did not need the Radnor vision to know what thoughts ran through his mind. Her body sensed them on its own, and with a perverseness she could not fathom, it strained toward him in answer.

  At once he let loose a vicious oath. Then he thrust her an arm’s length away. “You will go, Wynne. If only to see that it is best for Sir William’s child. You will do it to make sure that either Arthur or Madoc and Rhys adjust easily to their new home. You will do it because it is best for your children.”

  With that last he thrust her even farther away and clenched his hands into fists at his side. “Now, begone from here, else I will not be accountable for my actions. Not to Druce nor to you.”

  Wynne did not wait to be told a second time. Unmindful of the storm and not caring that her mantle lay forgotten somewhere on the stable floor, she whirled and dashed for the door. Into the downpour she fled, though the rain blinded her with its fury and the winds tore at her drenched gown. She ran for the only shelter she knew, the only comfort she’d had in the past seven years.

  Aunt Gwynedd was her only hope. She bolstered herself as her bare feet fought for purchase on the muddy ground and slippery rocks. Aunt Gwynedd must help her in this. She must.

  Wynne stood as rigid as stone, staring toward Black Mountain, seeing its uneven twin peaks in her mind’s eye though low clouds yet obscured them. The muddy yard before the manor house seethed with activity. Horses were packed with provisions. Soldiers checked the saddles and straps on their mounts. The children shouted and ran, interfering with everyone in their excited attempts to be of help.

  Cook was weeping, dabbing her face with her apron even as she pressed another wheel of hard goat’s cheese into Druce’s hands. But she was the only one, Wynne bitterly acknowledged.

  Though Wynne kept her back to the frenetic activity in the yard, she did not have to see what was going on to know. Gwynedd no doubt was seated in her favorite chair, enjoying the meager traces of watery sunlight that occasionally broke through the early-morning clouds. She had called each of the children to her one by one and spoken quietly to them. Druce also and his brother, Barris, had received their instructions from Gwynedd.

  Now she awaited Wynne, but Wynne did not think she could force herself to an amiable farewell. How could Gwynedd expect it?

  Yet Wynne could not even muster anger anymore, not at her aunt, nor at Druce, though they well enough deserved it. She was too drained, both emotionally and physically, to do more than stand apart from them, wrapped in her loneliness and misery.

  She’d been abandoned by those she’d always thought she could rely upon. Both Gwynedd and Druce had sided with that black-hearted Englishman. Through the dark hours of the storm she’d argued with first her aunt and then her onetime friend. She’d sworn and shouted. She’d bullied and threatened, and then when that had not worked, she’d pleaded and cried.

  Yet throughout her emotional scene the two of them had remained firm—although Druce had more than once appeared hesitant. It had been Gwynedd who’d kept them fast to their position. This Somerville was willing to pass his considerable holdings to his son, though the child was but a half-Welsh bastard. What an opportunity for the child, Druce had argued time and time again. What a benefit to Wales, Gwynedd had pointed out repeatedly.

  Though Wynne had refused to agree, she’d nonetheless been overruled. What was one woman to do when faced with the combined might of both her enemies as well as her own people?

  She swallowed hard, stringently willing any hint of tears away as she grasped the Radnor amulet. She’d cried the very last of her tears, she told herself. From his place in the main hall Cleve FitzWarin had no doubt heard every angry word she’d said in her aunt’s chamber, as well as every tearful plea she’d made. But he’d not heard her tears this last night past. Those she’d shed in silence, muffled in her bed linens, until she was completely drained.

  Yesterday she’d seen little enough of FitzWarin, for she’d kept to the forests, hiding her pain and seeking solace in all her familiar haunts. But it had been for naught. Now the day of departure had arrived and she was no better prepared to go than she had been before.

  “Wynne?”

  At the tentative sound of Isolde’s voice, Wynne looked down to her left. She tried without success to smile and settled instead for taking her niece’s hand and squeezing it.

  “I … I think Aunt Gwynedd is waiting for you.”

  Wynne took a shaky breath, then nodded. “Yes. I know.” Then, determined to appear as undeterred as ever, Wynne proudly lifted her chin and turned toward her elderly aunt.

  The dozen or so horses were ready, she saw. The children were gathered together. English soldiers and Welsh alike stood waiting to mount. Waiting for Cleve to give the order, she thought. And he was waiting for her to take her leave of Gwynedd.

  For a moment she wondered how long he would wait. What if she refused to go to her aunt? What if she refused to mount her horse? But that was only a foolish hope. There was no putting off this moment any longer. With all the arrogance and pride she could summon, she gathered her plain caddis traveling skirts in one hand and stepped carefully across the muddy yard.

  “Good-bye, Aunt. I wish you good health in my absence.”

  When there was no response, Wynne’s resolve faltered a bit. From its determined focus somewhere beyond her aunt’s shoulder, Wynne’s gaze slid to meet Gwynedd’s sightless gaze. Only then did the old woman speak.

  “We shall be well enough. But it is your return we shall await every long day of your journey.”

  “Even though I return less one or perhaps two of my sons?”

  Gwynedd did not react to the condemnation in her niece’s low tone.

  “It could be that you will return with even more than you departed with,” the old woman said enigmatically.

  Wynne started to make a sarcastic reply, but then halted with her mouth still open. She bent nearer her graying aunt. “Have you had a vision?” she asked, all trace of hostility vanished.

  Gwynedd’s face settled into the familiar serenity Wynne had known and trusted eve
ry day of her childhood. “I am an old woman, nith. Both my eyesight and my visions have all but abandoned me in recent years. But some things are seen more clearly with the heart than with the head. This journey you begin in such pain shall end in joy. I feel it here,” she finished, pressing one gnarled fist to her bony chest.

  Wynne’s eyes widened, and a tiny spark of hope came to life inside her own heart. She knelt beside her aunt, unmindful of the mud upon her skirts, and grabbed one of Gwynedd’s hands. “Does this mean that perhaps … perhaps none of our boys was sired of this English lord? Perhaps once he sees them, he’ll know—”

  She broke off when the old woman began sadly to shake her head. “Oh, child. ’Tis you who are more blind than I, for you see only the solution you wish for. Haven’t I taught you that the Mother—and the Father as well—see far better than do we? Can you not trust them to guide you?”

  Wynne sat back on her heels. As quickly as she’d found hope, so now did it abandon her. “Trust them?” she scoffed. “They have sent the English here twice. Once they deprived me of my parents—and also my only sister. Now they seek to deprive me of my children. Trust them?” She shook her head. “No, I’ll not trust them again.”

  The old woman sighed. “The gods did send you these children to replace the family you lost,” she reminded Wynne in a voice that revealed some of her frustration. “If you would be Seeress here, you must feel beyond your emotions. You must learn to see with more than your eyes.”

  But Wynne was in no mood to listen. She rose abruptly and stepped back from her aunt. “Farewell, then. It appears everyone is eager to depart. Save, of course, me.”

  For a moment their eyes met and held, the one pair clouded with age, yet seemingly clear of purpose, the other young and bright, yet filled with uncertainty and fear. And pain.

  “Come kiss me, then,” the old woman said, holding one arm out.

  Wynne bent forward stiffly and brushed her aunt’s lined cheek with her lips. Despite her anger with her aunt’s obstinacy, however, she felt a sudden surge of love for her.

  Gwynedd, too, must have felt it, for she smiled as Wynne straightened. “Trust in the future, my child. Trust in the Mother, and the Father also. The fates, if you like.”

  But though Wynne tried to take comfort from her aunt’s words, it was impossible. She crossed the yard to mount the gentle mare that Druce held for her, avoiding both his gaze and that of FitzWarin. She looked instead at the children, who for once were quiet, and smiled as reassuringly as was possible at them.

  Then everyone mounted. Isolde and Bronwen rode before Druce and Barris. Rhys and Madoc sat before two of the Englishmen. She’d meant for Arthur to ride with her, but he’d insisted on riding with Cleve. Before she could object, Druce had interceded, reminding her that she’d not spent much time on horses and that maybe it was better this way, at least until she became a more confident rider.

  A lump formed in her throat; never had she felt so alone. As they filed from the manor yard, she heard the fond calls from those left behind—and the loud wailing of Cook. But Wynne stared straight ahead, blinking hard and fighting back tears.

  Trust in the fates. The sad fact was that there was only one person she could trust, and that was herself. If she was to save her children from the clutches of this heartless English lord, she must trust only herself.

  And what of saving herself from the clutches of Cleve FitzWarin?

  The oddest sensation shivered up her spine, but she staunchly beat it down. One of her hands slid to the heavy purse that hung from her waist. She carried a few of her precious store of coins in it. But more important, she had a veritable stillroom packed within its leather folds. Just let him try to confuse her with his devastating touch and mind-stealing kisses. She would be ready for him this time, for she’d selected carefully. The strongest powders. The most potent roots and oils. She could carry only the smallest portions, and she had to be alert for any opportunity. So she’d selected the most powerful and effective preparations from her vast stores. And there was also the forest to add to her choices.

  She lifted her chin and narrowed her gaze on the back of Cleve’s head. In the strengthening sunlight his dark hair glinted, and she was unexpectedly reminded of the way those long strands had felt between her fingers.

  Oh, but she was perverse!

  She jerked her eyes away from the accursed Englishman and instead focused on Black Mountain off to her left. They had four or five days’ journey ahead, Druce had told her. Four or five days to plot against this Sir William.

  But it was not just the English she fought any longer, she reminded herself. Druce and Gwynedd would not let this matter drop. Her task now must be to convince the English lord that none of her boys was his.

  And if that did not work?

  If that did not work, then the dangerous medicines she carried in her purse would not help her in the least—save for revenge.

  If that was all she could have from them, however, then that’s what she would take.

  13

  CLEVE FELT ARTHUR’S HEAD slump back against his chest. For the past hour the boy had been fighting sleep. Each time it had overtaken him, he’d struggled back, asking an endless stream of questions about the towering trees they passed beneath, the birds and creatures they flushed from their activities, and most of all about the place they journeyed to.

  But this time Arthur remained quiet, and Cleve smiled when he glanced down at the child. Fast asleep he was, with his little face peaceful and his limbs gone slack.

  He was a most astounding lad, Cleve thought once again. Far too intelligent for his few years. It was clear Wynne was responsible for encouraging the boy’s curiosity and strange imaginings. Then, as he too often did, Cleve found himself wondering about the thorny woman he was bringing to England with him.

  The situation could not have turned out any better—or any worse, he admitted with a frustrated sigh. She was coming to England with him, something that pleased him in the most inexplicable and perverse way.

  He resisted the urge to turn around to see her. No, it was not inexplicable. It was very clear and very basic. He desired her. He wanted her with an intensity that was overpowering—and exceedingly stupid. What of Lord Somerville’s youngest daughter, the one he would wed once his task was completed? How did Wynne fit into that situation?

  Gripped with a sudden frustration, he pulled his mount to a quick halt. When Wynne’s mare drew alongside him, he sent her an angry look.

  “Take Arthur,” he muttered. For a moment he met her wary gaze, and he became conscious of her lack of color and the shadows beneath her eyes. He was hurting her by what he was putting her through. That was obvious enough. And yet what else could he do?

  Muffling an oath, he placed Arthur before her, then abruptly jerked Ceta about. But though he sent the eager destrier bounding forward and was soon beyond view of the slower-traveling group, he was unable to outrun the guilt feelings that assailed him.

  He wanted her and he would do whatever was necessary to have her. Earlier this morning Druce had made him vow not to force Wynne in any way, but Cleve knew how easy it would be to seduce her. She could be made willing; that had been clear on at least two occasions already.

  “Bedamned!” he swore as he brought Ceta to a stiff-legged halt. If he did not curb his randy thoughts soon, this ride to Kirkston Castle would be the worse sort of torture for him.

  But every time he thought of her—so eager and soft in his arms, so warm and responsive to his kisses—his loins fairly ached. Then his mind would begin to imagine them finishing what they’d begun, and he could hardly bear it.

  With another vicious oath he slid off Ceta, then just leaned heavily against the beast, willing his raging passions away. By Saint Osyth’s soul, they were but two leagues gone on this journey. How was he to survive?

  Wynne’s fury knew no bounds when Cleve deposited the sleeping Arthur on her lap, then rode so abruptly away. What right had he to treat her in so
rude a manner? But then, why should she expect any better of him? He needed no reason to be cruel. It was a part of his nature.

  Yet even as she settled Arthur more comfortably between her arms, she was unable to cling to her righteous anger. Some other aberrant emotion seemed to worm its way into her heart, and she only ended up feeling even more alone than before. She hugged Arthur tighter than ever, praying she would not lose him to this English lord, then glanced back at the twins and prayed just as fervently that she would not lose them either.

  Men and their sons. Why could they not be as pleased with their daughters? Why couldn’t they be as content to pass their properties through their girl children?

  But they weren’t, not Englishmen, nor Welsh. Nor any other country she’d heard of either. Men invariably chose to pass their hard-won lands to their sons. It was as simple as that. Would her boys be as rigid when they reached manhood?

  She glanced over at the two girls who rode with Druce and Barris. They were both every bit as smart as the boys, though they were as different as night and day. What would become of them in the years ahead?

  Indeed, what would become of all five of them? What would they do; where would they live? For an uncomfortable moment she wondered if perhaps she was being selfish. What endless possibilities might this Lord Somerville’s wealth provide for one of her young charges? But just as quickly as it surfaced, so did she bury that weak thought. Her children did not need English wealth to be happy. Radnor Forest and the vast lands at their disposal would provide for them, as it had for so many others.

  Besides, the children clearly were not concerned with the future just now, for all of them were nodding and very near falling asleep.

  Arthur shifted, and Wynne felt a twinge in her left arm. She could not carry him this way for long. Her arms were not strong enough. A quick glance at the sky told her that it was near midday. Time enough to stop for a rest and something to eat. Without a word to anyone, she turned her mare off the ancient road and toward an inviting stand of young beeches.