Rexanne Becnel

by Where Magic Dwells

  “Wynne,” Druce called in a loud whisper. “What are you doing?”

  She glared over her shoulder at him. She did not plan to forgive him anytime soon. “I’m tired and hungry. So are the children. We’re stopping here.”

  He hesitated for a moment and glanced at Barris for support. But his brother only shrugged and turned to follow Wynne. In short order the Englishmen also followed her lead.

  She had them spread rugs for the children in a shady spot and urged her charges to continue their naps while she prepared them a meal. But once disturbed, the twins could not doze off again. Before very long all five of them were wide awake and curious about their new environs.

  “Look at these rocks,” Rhys said as he kicked at the edge of the road.

  “They look like coins, so flat and round,” Madoc said.

  “Let’s play market day,” Bronwen suggested as she squatted down and began to place the newfound coins one by one onto her lap.

  “I’ll sell medicines and herbs,” Isolde said. “And love potions and magic spells,” she added with a grin.

  While the others busied themselves with their newfound sport, however, Arthur only frowned and looked around their little campsite.

  “Where’s Cleve?” he asked, directing the question to no one in particular. When he received no reply, he tugged on Wynne’s skirt.

  “Where’s Cleve?” he demanded suspiciously.

  “He rode on ahead,” Wynne answered in an even tone, though she, too, wondered where the man had gotten to.

  “He hasn’t left us, has he?”

  Wynne turned at the panicked sound in Arthur’s voice and at once put aside the knife and loaf of bread she held. She took the child’s hands in hers and looked earnestly into his eyes. “He’ll be back, sweetheart. Don’t worry. He’s probably just scouting ahead to make certain we don’t go the wrong way.”

  Arthur sighed in relief. “Yes, that must be it. He’ll be back soon.”

  He scampered off after that and joined the other children at their play. But his new contentment only increased Wynne’s concern. It was plain that Arthur adored Cleve. What had begun as simple hero worship seemed to have grown now into a much stronger emotion. But instead of putting an end to it, her failed attempts to discourage Cleve in his cruel mission had somehow served only to strengthen the bond between him and Arthur.

  She concentrated on preparing the simple meal, dividing bread and cheese into five child-sized portions, but all the time she worried. In the end Cleve and Arthur must part. Whether she kept all her boys with her or—God prevent it—any of them remained in England, Cleve would not stay a part of Arthur’s life. Yet with every passing day the connection between them seemed to grow stronger.

  By the time she had them settled at their meal, she knew that she must speak to Cleve about Arthur. Though she considered the arrogant Englishman the most hateful and selfish man alive, he did seem to care for the boy. Perhaps if she appealed to that side of his nature, he would recognize the harm he did by befriending Arthur.

  Her chance did not come until evening. Though she caught a glimpse of Cleve several times during the long afternoon ride, he stayed a good distance ahead of them. Once Druce rode up to confer with him, but Druce was soon back with the rest of their party, a thoughtful expression on his face.

  “Well, and what has that Englishman to say for himself?” Wynne had asked, unable to disguise either her irritation or her curiosity.

  Druce had shrugged. “He’s thinking, was all he said.”

  “Thinking? Hah. More than likely he’s plotting some new and nefarious scheme to convince this Somerville that one of my boys is his son.” She glared at the empty road ahead, trying to spy the object of her ire, but when she failed, she turned her anger toward Druce. “But I forget myself. You no longer care which of my boys goes to this English rapist, do you? So long as the lad becomes heir to the man’s wretched lands. No doubt you’d call him father yourself if it would gain you a castle or two!”

  Druce had not replied to that. He’d only slowed his horse and let her go ahead so that she rode alone. And so she’d ridden the whole day, her anger and fear festering inside her like a bitter and untended wound.

  Now, as she turned her mare over to the English soldier called Derrick, she plotted her next move. Poisoning would not work, at least not at the moment, for though she might not balk at killing the Englishmen, she knew she could not endanger Druce or Barris that way. And as long as Druce and Gwynedd supported Cleve’s quest, her children would not be made safe by such actions. No, the only way left to her was to make all of the Englishmen fear her and her powers and, in their fear, hesitate to take one of her children into their midst. It was a weak plan, she glumly realized, but it was all she had.

  Meanwhile, however, she and Cleve must discuss Arthur’s inappropriate affection for him.

  Cleve was standing with his back to her, deftly removing the saddle and sidepacks from his tall gray destrier. She knew, however, that he sensed her, for his broad shoulders tensed when she drew to a halt but three paces from him.

  “I would have a word with you.”

  He did not respond to her demand at once, but only slid the sidepacks to the ground, then squatted on one knee to unfasten the girth strap.

  “I would have a word with you.” Uffernol cnaf, she silently added.

  He pulled the saddle free, then turned slowly to face her. For a moment he didn’t answer, but simply stared at her with the most intent expression on his face. His eyes slid down the entire length of her, from her sunburned cheeks and nose, down along her dusty traveling gown to where her muddy boots peeked from beneath her skirts.

  For the merest fraction of a second she felt the oddest and most inappropriate emotion begin to unfurl within her. From belly to breasts to the very tips of her fingers and toes, the feeling raced, and she found herself wishing she did not always look so bedraggled in his presence.

  But as quickly as those unreasonable emotions flared, so did she beat them down. He, too, seemed to reconsider the boldness of his gaze—no doubt because she looked so wretched—for he scowled and heaved his saddle to the ground between them.

  “What now?” he barked as he once again turned his back to her and began to tend his horse.

  Uffernol cnaf, she thought with even more vehemence than before. Hellish knave. She adopted her iciest tone. “There is a problem with Arthur.”

  He twisted his head to meet her glare. “What do you mean, a problem? Is he hurt? Or ill?”

  Wynne felt an edge of her tension ease. At least in this she was correct. He did care for the boy. Now, if she could only convince him that the attachment between them could come to no good.

  “No, he is not ailing. But I fear …” She clasped her hands nervously. How she hated making this appeal to him. “I fear he becomes too attached to you. And no matter the final outcome of this … this quest of yours, one thing is certain. You will not remain a part of Arthur’s life. Whether he resides with me or with this … this Englishman who seeks a son of his own, you will not long be around.”

  He studied her for a moment, but his face revealed no hint of his thoughts.

  “If Arthur is the one that stays in England, I will see him. I’ll make it a point to check on him.”

  “You will be too busy with your own wife—and children,” she threw back at him. “If you marry this Edeline, you’ll probably reside in another place and will soon forget about Arthur. But what of him? He would be left all alone in a strange place, surrounded by strangers.”

  “He may not be Sir William’s son. It might be the twins.”

  “Perhaps,” Wynne conceded. “And perhaps none of them is his son. But even so, Arthur will be hurt the most. For when we return to Wales, you will be out of his life. Forever. The fact is, this affection you show him now will only hurt him later. You think to comfort him, but when you are gone from his life, he will be left with a new and painful emptiness.”

  Cl
eve frowned. “What would you have me do, then? Cast him aside? He’s but a lad and in urgent need of a father.”

  “But you can never be that father, so don’t pretend to be,” Wynne snapped in a rising tone. She glared at him, her hands clenched into fists. She was prepared to fight for Arthur—for all the children—in any way she had to. But Cleve’s next words took all the wind from her sails.

  “What if you stayed in England—with all of them?”

  She blinked, not understanding in the least what he meant by such an outrageous suggestion. “Stay in England! Me?” Then she frowned. “You are truly addled, Englishman. Have you perchance eaten of the black mold? For your mind does twist in fanciful directions. Stay in England, hah! I’d rather reside in hell.”

  He stepped over the forgotten saddle. “England is not so unlike Wales, but you will see that soon enough.”

  Her gaze narrowed at the odd, almost coaxing tone in his voice. “I’ll not stay. No, not even one minute beyond what I must. Once this matter is done with, we shall take our leave from there, even though the skies fall upon us and the winds threaten to blow us away. Nothing could keep me there.”

  She stared challengingly up at him. But in the short silence she grew uncomfortably aware of his nearness. She swallowed once and started to step back, but he caught her by the arm.

  “You could stay with—” He broke off and cleared his throat. “I could find you a place to live. Someplace where you can see Sir William’s son—or sons—as often as you like.”

  Wynne felt a sudden rush of blood through her. Whether it was caused by his touch, as had so often been the case, or by the very thought of leaving one of her children behind—or by the idea of staying in England and being near to Cleve—she could not be sure. All she knew was that all of her logical arguments seemed to fly right out of her head.

  With a movement that was rooted more in self-defense than in any lingering anger, she jerked out of his grasp and stepped safely away. But there was no safety to be had merely in keeping her distance from him, for Cleve’s gaze followed her, and she was unable to break the hold of his mesmerizing gaze.

  “Give it some thought,” he said in a voice low and far too soothing. Seductive. “Give it some time, Wynne. We’ll cross the Dyke tomorrow and be in England. You’ll see then that the forests are as thick and green as your own. The birds and beasts are familiar. The land but becomes a little gentler, and you’ll see more roads and villages. Give it time—”

  “No!” She shook her head adamantly. “A hundred years would not be enough time to sway me to your way of thinking.”

  “Listen to me, Wynne.” He stepped forward as if he meant to take her in his arms and convince her in the same way he’d managed to convince her in the past. His kiss made his words seem not so misguided. His intimate caress dissolved all her protests every time. Yet knowing that, Wynne was nonetheless unable to prevent the erratic leap of her heart, nor a hot surge of the most unwarranted feelings from deep within her belly. But he stopped before he reached for her, and though the sudden arrival of Arthur made it clear why he’d halted, Wynne was consumed by the most acute sense of disappointment.

  “Cleve! Where were you all day?” the child asked. He smiled up at the man in a way that clearly revealed the depths of his affection, and Wynne at once berated herself for becoming sidetracked from her original goal. She sent Cleve a speaking look, willing him to somehow rebuff Arthur. Gently, of course. Just firmly enough so that Arthur did not invest even more of his emotions in the wrong man.

  But Cleve ignored her. He knew precisely what she wished him to do, but he very deliberately refused to comply. Wynne watched as he squatted down to face Arthur on the child’s own level.

  “Hello, my boy. How did you enjoy this long day in the saddle? Still convinced you wish to be a knight and spend your life astride?”

  “I didn’t get tired at all,” Arthur boasted. “And my bottom doesn’t hurt either.”

  Cleve grinned, glancing up at Wynne as he did so. “Just wait until tomorrow. Then we’ll see if you sing the same song.” He looked back at the boy. “Tell me, did you see any new types of birds?”

  Wynne wanted to stalk away in anger—to hide her pain from Cleve’s probing gaze. How could he be so cruel to Arthur? She understood that he might wish to punish her, but not Arthur. So why was he courting the child’s affection in this way? It would only make their separation far worse for the child.

  Then, however, she recalled his odd suggestion that she stay in England. Even though she’d turned him down, she’d been very close to succumbing to his sensual appeal. Oh, how very, very stupid she was, she realized as complete understanding came to her. He wanted her to stay in England for his own personal reasons. For his own very intimate and physical reasons. That was what this was all about. He was going to make it as hard for her to leave him as possible, and he was not above using the children to help him do it.

  Her mouth gaped open at the realization, then snapped shut when she recognized how easily—how willingly—she’d been playing into his hands. What an absolute fool she was. What a complete and utter goose.

  It wasn’t as if she’d not been approached by well-favored men in the past. She’d been pursued by two or three handsome and eligible lads from the village. But she’d been smart those times and she’d kept both her heart and her wits well in hand. Why couldn’t she be as smart with this man?

  “… but if Offa’s Dyke is so easy for us to cross, I don’t understand. How does it keep the English on their side and the Welsh on theirs?” Arthur was asking when Wynne focused once more on their conversation.

  “Well, it’s not so hard for a few men on horseback to cross it. But an army, well, that would be more difficult. The carts, the wagons of supplies, and also the siege engines can’t be brought across a steep-sided ditch nearly so easily.”

  “Oh.” Arthur pondered that a moment. “A bridge would have to be built.”

  “That’s right. Or else the Dyke dug down and used to fill in the ditch.”

  “But then both armies could go back and forth.”

  “Bright lad.” Cleve grinned at Arthur and then again at Wynne. “You’ve got the makings of a true soldier here, Wynne. One who will think with his head before he strikes with his sword.”

  Wynne only frowned more fiercely at his words. If Cleve meant to irritate her endlessly, he was succeeding very well, for Arthur was beaming under the attention and praise from his idol.

  Yet anger was but one of the emotions roiling within her. More and more she was feeling trapped. Outfoxed. Defeated by this bold Englishman with his handsome face, seductive words, and breath-stealing kisses. Her defenses were becoming weaker, and her own plans to defeat him appeared nigh on to impossible. Only one hope remained for her, and that was to prevent him from proving that any of her boys were sired by this English lord of his.

  No, that was not her only hope. She must also hope and pray—and struggle against any temptations to the contrary—that she could continue to resist his ever-bolder advances.

  He did not mean to cooperate where Arthur was concerned. Indeed he clearly meant to use Arthur in this struggle between the two of them. Well, so be it, she sighed. She could accept any adversity so long as she still had hope. And she did still have hope. She did.

  “Arthur may have all the makings of a soldier,” she said, dismissing Cleve with a haughty lift of her head. “But for the moment he appears more suited to fetching water. Gather the other children, Arthur. I have chores for all of you.”

  Cleve ruffled the boy’s brown hair and rose to his feet. “Aye, lad. Do as Wynne says. I, for one, am hungry enough to eat a bear. We must all help her prepare the meal.”

  Wynne waited until Arthur raced away before she fixed Cleve with a carefully aloof and appraising eye. “So you expect me to prepare your meal. I commend you for your bravery, Sir Cleve. Or do you intend to let Arthur test-taste your food before you partake of it?”

  His
dark eyes gleamed with devilment. “You will not try the same trick again, witch. Too many of us are watching you now.”

  “How smug you are.” She laughed. “I need but a pinch of witch seed to lay you low. No more than I could easily hide beneath my thumbnail. Are you so certain you wish to take that chance?”

  She noted with pleasure that his smile wavered just a bit, and a shadow of uncertainty showed in his eyes. “You are more talk than anything else, woman. We shall all of us eat from the same pot. You cannot take the same chances here that you did at Radnor Manor.”

  He might as well have thrown one of his steel-and-leather gauntlets at her feet, so blatant was the challenge he put before her. Her eyes narrowed and glinted with a fiery blue light of their own. “I shall enjoy bringing you low more than anything I have ever done in my years as Seeress.”

  He grinned as if her threat did not faze him in the least. “Lay me low? I would like nothing better, my sweet Welsh witch. Perhaps tonight?” he finished with a hopeful tone in his voice and a hot gleam in his eyes.

  Wynne, however, was not amused. Ignoring the disturbing warmth in her belly, she glowered at him.

  “Gloat now, Sir Fool. But we shall see who gloats in the end.”

  “Yes,” he replied to her stiff, retreating back. “We shall soon see.”

  14

  THEY CAMPED THE SECOND evening just beyond Offa’s Dyke, on English soil. Cleve and his men were relaxed and boisterous that night, lighting a huge fire to celebrate their homecoming, though they were still three days’ journey from Kirkston Castle. Even Druce and Barris joined in the high spirits, and the children were hard-pressed to stay in their beds, given the gay songs and rowdy laughter coming from the fire.

  “England is a very merry place,” Arthur said from his end of the tent they all occupied.

  “Everyone does seem very happy,” Isolde agreed.

  From her position, seated on a rug just inside the tent opening with her arms wrapped around her knees, Wynne could see the dark silhouettes around the dancing flames. “I suppose anyone—even an Englishman—is happiest on his own homelands. Though were they to live any length of time in Wales, they would fast change their opinion,” she added.