Rexanne Becnel

by Where Magic Dwells

  “Leave it to you? Just hand over one of these helpless children to you and this … this band of thugs and runagates?”

  “Does Lord William look the thug?” he asked in a maddeningly calm voice.

  “He is old and infirm now, but seven years ago—What of seven years ago? He was a thug then. And a rapist!”

  It was at that inopportune moment that Lord William appeared from around the rump of Wynne’s mare. He was stiff with anger, and it was clear he’d heard her last words.

  “How unfortunate that she speaks our language so well,” he bit out angrily. “You would do well to put a guard on your tongue, wench. Here in England we do not condone such disrespect from our womenfolk.”

  Wynne rounded on him, her chin outthrust and her fists clenched, fully prepared to let fly with all the furious words that begged to be set free. She meant to flay him with them. But Cleve stood at her side, and he obviously guessed her intentions. Before she could open her mouth he jerked her roughly to his side.

  “She is tired, milord—”

  “I’m angry, not tired.”

  “She is distraught over this matter—”

  “I am outraged that someone could try to steal—”

  “She has raised these five children all alone.”

  “And not one of them bears a drop of your blood—”

  With that last of her interruptions Cleve clamped his hand over her mouth. Though she struggled and clawed, and elbowed him in his ribs as hard as she could, his hand did not give.

  “She has been mother to them all these six years past,” Cleve spoke as fast as he could. “She cannot yet resign herself to parting with even one of them.”

  “Then why did you bring her along on this journey? And why bring all the other children?” Lord William snapped. “Achh! I do not wish to stand here and argue like two dogs over a bone. Bring the wench inside.” So saying, he turned and limped away.

  Wynne’s gaze followed him, shooting daggers at his broad back, wishing she could strike him down with only her eyes. She would break his other leg. Or pluck out his heart from his chest, except that he had none.

  Her silent invective was cut short, however, by a furious oath from Cleve. He whirled her around and pushed his face almost nose to nose with hers. “Are you a complete fool? Or perhaps merely out of your head!”

  “Both, it appears! A fool to think anything good of you. Anything! And out of my head with fury. I should have poisoned the lot of you—”

  “Keep silent, woman.” He shook her so hard her teeth rattled. “Keep silent and do not speak again until you’ve thought out your words.”

  Inexplicably tears started in her eyes. Had she been able, she would have brushed them away. But his hold on her prevented it, so they spilled hot and salty down her cheeks.

  “Ah, sweet mother of God,” Cleve muttered. For a moment their eyes met and held, and she saw the conflicting emotions he felt. “Wynne, just … I don’t know. Just try to calm yourself. Speak to Lord William—No, let me do the talking. Just answer any question he directs to you and try to keep your emotions under control.”

  “Wynne?” Druce and Barris appeared, the children in a cluster behind them. “Shall we stay with you?”

  She took a shaky breath and tried to blink back her tears. “No. No, I … we … we shall speak a little while with this Lord William, and then I’ll seek you out.” She wiped her face with the backs of her hands when Cleve released her, then she turned to her friends and children with the ghost of a smile on her lips. “I’m all right, and so shall we all be. Go along, now.”

  Once they had departed, she took several slow, calming breaths. “Are you ready now?” Cleve asked.

  She refused either to answer him or to look at him. She was not ready. How could she ever be ready to lose one of her children? But she was as ready as she’d ever be to confront Lord William. Without a word she turned away from Cleve and strode stiffly toward the stone steps and the double wooden doors behind which her worst enemy awaited.

  The great hall at Kirkston was easily three times the size of the hall at Radnor Manor. The ceiling soared high enough that a full gallery was fitted at either end. In the middle of one long wall was a huge fireplace, large enough to roast an entire boar, Wynne estimated. Lord William’s wealth was evident everywhere she looked. The display of plate upon the surveying board. The huge embroidered tapestry hanging above the wide mantel. Even the generous number of candle branches attested to it. His housekeeping, too, was well managed, if the freshness and abundance of the rushes were any indication.

  But the fineness of his abode only caused her to hate him all the more. He already had so much. Must he have one of her children as well?

  The lord of the demesne had seated himself on a substantial chair made of English oak and oxhide. Two servants hovered near him, setting pewter mugs and a ewer on the table before him, but at a sharp gesture of his hand they scurried away. Only when the hall was absent of all but the three of them did Lord William speak.

  “Which child is mine?” From beneath his thick, beetling brows his eyes jumped from Cleve to Wynne, then back to Cleve. “Which is mine?”

  “One of the boys, sire,” Cleve replied. “We’ve narrowed it down to either the twins or the other boy, Arthur. But beyond that …” He shrugged. “If you could remember some further detail. Perhaps something of their mother, or the circumstances of—”

  “The circumstances of what?” Wynne broke in. “Do Englishmen put to memory each time they brutalize a woman? Rape her? Do they commit the act to memory so they may trot it out to savor again and again—to boast and brag? Your victims’ suffering never ceases, yet fat old men like you recount their exploits—”

  Cleve’s harsh grasp on her arm put an end to her diatribe. But in truth Wynne could hardly go on. Too many awful memories of the past assailed her. Sweet Maradedd had saved her younger sister, but at what a cost to herself.

  Keeping a death grip on her upper arm, Cleve addressed Lord William. “Milord, I implore you not to judge her words too harshly. We have traveled long and hard, and she is not pleased to lose a child she has loved so long—”

  “So you said before,” Lord William barked. He leveled an angry glare upon Wynne. “Who are you, wench? How came you to have possession of a child of mine?”

  The very presumptuousness of his words chased Wynne’s overpowering sorrow away and replaced it with a burning rage. “They are all the results of English rape upon Welshwomen. Milord. Their mothers are gone—all except one who was but a child when she was so viciously raped—”

  “You?” he interrupted.

  That brought her up short, and she began to shake with impotent fury. “No. Not I. I was saved by my elder sister. She hid me. In my stead she was raped. Over and over. By more men than could ever be counted.”

  For a long moment her words hung in the air, ugly and cold, like an ominous storm cloud caught within the hall. Hovering. Waiting to destroy them all.

  “I did not rape my Angel,” Lord Somerville vowed in a voice gone thick with emotion. “No. Not ever.”

  A bitter smile twisted Wynne’s lips. “I wonder if she would say the same.”

  “Hear the man out,” Cleve whispered. His hand slid up and down her arm a fraction, as if he hoped to encourage her.

  “She loved me,” the old man swore, surprising both Wynne and Cleve with his vehemence. “And I loved her,” he added more softly.

  For a moment Wynne was hard-pressed to reply, for Lord William’s face was contorted in an agony of remembrance. But her brief stab of pity for him was swiftly replaced by the more comfortable emotion of contempt.

  “You loved her? You raped her—no, even if your claim not to have raped her is true, you still left her, alone and pregnant, shamed before her people. For seven years you did not care for her. Now you want any child of that union. Any son, that is. You will understand, of course, why I scoff to hear that you loved her.”

  Again Lord Willi
am surprised her. She expected anger and outrage at her impudent sarcasm, at her clear disgust. But he only stared at her, a haunted expression on his face.

  “Did she … did she ever speak of me?”

  The heat seemed to dissolve from her anger. Even Wynne could not ignore the abject misery she witnessed in the aging lord opposite her. She started to speak, then hesitated and shook her head in confusion. For an instant she met Cleve’s piercing stare, and once again his hand slid along her arm.

  Oh, but this was too illogical. Too confusing.

  She focused again on Lord William, willing away any softening of her feelings for this man. Toward both of them.

  “I did not ever meet any of the children’s mothers. Save my own sister, who was mother to Isolde.”

  He held her eye. “Where are they, then? Why do you have these children?”

  Wynne considered her answer. But in truth there would be nothing lost in speaking the truth. She’d done as much to Cleve, and still there was no proof of who fathered any of her children.

  “My sister is dead,” she began, keeping her explanation brief and her voice cool. It was the only way she could keep the horror of those times at bay. “She was never right after the rape. She flung herself from a cliff once the child was born. Bronwen’s mother was but eleven when she was raped. Her parents told her the babe died and they gave the child to me to raise. As for the boys, their mothers are dead.” She saw him wince, but pressed on. “Arthur’s mother died a few days after giving him birth. The twins’ mother died when they were barely walking. Her husband would not raise them once she was gone.”

  She took a deep breath, relieved as always that her dreadful tale was done. But her gaze never left Lord William. “I raised them all as my own. I am mother to them. They know no other than me.”

  If she’d thought to shame him, she realized right away that she’d failed. He did not bluster as before. His arrogant and possessive demeanor had been reduced to one more humble and beseeching. But he did not forget his quest.

  “Which child—which boy—is my Angel’s?”

  Once again her anger flared. But before she could respond, Cleve spoke up.

  “We cannot be certain, milord. That is why I brought all of them to Kirkston. Perhaps together we can determine the answer to that.”

  Lord William’s gaze remained on Wynne. “And shall you aid us in this task?”

  Slowly she shook her head. A lump formed in her throat, and she closed her eyes to avoid the man’s beseeching gaze. But that was a mistake, for she was at once overcome by a horrifyingly clear vision of the manor house in Radnor Forest. So vivid was the vision, she could have sworn she was back home. Only there was something wrong.

  Wynne jerked her eyes open when she recognized just what it was. There were no children in her vision. No childish voices or giggles. All was quiet and still, just as this hall was. Quiet as death. Empty of life.

  Lord William faced her with an almost desperate expression on his coarse, lined face. Cleve waited just at her side, yet she sensed his tension and his anticipation. It emanated from him and seemed to mirror her own confusing emotions. For an aching moment she wondered why he of all men must tap so deeply into her emotions. He tore at that part of her heart that was her very own. And now Lord William tore at the rest of it, that portion that so fiercely loved her children.

  Between the two of them they would surely kill her.

  Once again she shook her head, steeling herself to speak and behave as if she were not bleeding inside. “I cannot help you.”

  19

  THEY PARTOOK OF A sumptuous meal. The five children, Wynne, Druce, Barris, and Cleve all joined Lord William and his daughters and sons-in-law at the high table. But it was not a jovial meal.

  Lord William ate silently, staring alternately at Arthur and then at Rhys and Madoc. Cleve sat beside a lovely young maiden, fair-haired and blue-eyed, clearly the youngest daughter, Edeline. The other daughters, most notably Bertilde, were not shy about their dislike of Wynne and her “passel of brats,” as one of them had muttered outside of her father’s hearing. Their husbands reflected the same resentment on their ruddy English faces.

  Perhaps she should solicit their aid in returning all her children to Wales, Wynne thought as she pushed a thick piece of venison around her trencher with the point of her knife. Yet that would not help, for even if they could be trusted not to harm her boys—which risk she was not about to take—Lord William and Cleve, not to mention Druce and Barris, would never let this matter die. They were all determined to see Lord William’s heir identified and given his rightful place in the man’s household.

  She sent an aggrieved look toward Druce, then of its own accord her gaze slid to Cleve. Men were truly the most troublesome of God’s creatures. Their lands, their castles, their sons. That was all they cared about.

  No, she amended as Cleve’s gaze collided unexpectedly with her own and her heart began to thud in the most perverse manner. They also cared about women. But only insofar as women provided either pleasure or heirs. She had only to recall Lord William’s treatment of the long-dead Angel—or whatever her Welsh name had actually been.

  She stood abruptly, breaking the hold of Cleve’s dark stare. “Come along, children. ’Tis time we make our ablutions and find our beds.”

  “But … but what of the entertainments?” Lord William sputtered. “I’ve musicians at the ready. And acrobats.”

  Wynne stiffened, and her fingertips pressed against the heavy trestle table. “The children are tired and more in need of a good rest than such entertainment. They’ve had sufficient excitement for one day.”

  Even as she spoke, Rhys covered a huge yawn with one hand. She sent Lord William a challenging stare. “You will of course concede that I know the limits of these young children’s endurance far better than do you.”

  She saw a glitter of irritation in his eyes, but she did not budge. “Ach, then go ahead,” he barked. He waved her away with one sharp gesture, then drank deeply from his goblet. But his eyes followed the progress of the column of children as she herded them down from the raised dais. Had she been stronger and more in control of the circumstances, she would have been most amused by the various emotions that played across the faces of those others remaining at the table. Anger, suspicion, mistrust. Admiration and envy.

  She hesitated and peered more intently at the crowded table. Admiration and envy? But it was true. Druce was staring at the young Edeline with the most profound expression of admiration on his face. She’d never seen him so clearly captivated by any woman before. And the maiden in question—Edeline—why, she was gazing at Wynne with an unmistakably wistful look on her innocent face.

  Wynne could not make sense of it. Was this the young girl who wished for the deadly nightshade to deepen her eyes? She hardly appeared the coquette.

  Edeline lowered her eyes when Wynne looked at her. Then, as if the girl could not prevent it, she peered cautiously over at Druce.

  Had the situation been different, Wynne would have laughed. It was that ludicrous. Cleve’s affianced was casting longing gazes at the boyishly handsome Druce, while Cleve sent equally potent looks toward Wynne. Lord William gazed with paternal hunger at her sons, while his legitimate family glared at them all.

  She shook her head in disgust and pointedly turned her back on the lot of them. Perhaps Lord William should accept Druce as his heir. It would most assuredly please his unwed daughter.

  “Do we have to wash?” Isolde asked, sleepily rubbing her eyes with her fist.

  Wynne stared down at her exhausted niece and smoothed a wayward lock from her brow. “Just enough to get the road dirt from behind your ears and between your toes, sweetling. Once you’re all clean and have fresh gowns on, you’ll sleep better than ever.”

  “Will you sleep with us?” Bronwen asked, an anxious look on her slender face.

  “I’ll stay with you every single moment,” Wynne promised. “We’ll all bathe well, eat w
ell, and sleep well while we’re at Kirkston,” she continued, trying hard to sound encouraging.

  “Lord William says we shall ride out with him tomorrow,” Rhys began.

  “To view his vast estates,” Madoc finished.

  “And we shall have our own ponies,” Arthur added. “I shall have my very own pony. You know, Cleve says I have a horseman’s hands.”

  Wynne only nodded as she directed them toward the kitchen and the shed beside it, which held the bathing caskets. Bribing them, was he? And even Arthur was susceptible, thanks to Cleve’s earlier encouragements.

  Two maids hustled from the kitchen at Wynne’s approach. “Ah, milady. You’re a’ready here. An’ with the little darlin’s.” The older and stouter of the two beamed. Then she stopped and made an awkward curtsy. “I’m Martha. This here is Dagmar. Milord had us to heat water and prepare the linens. We’re to help you with the young’uns.”

  Though she would have liked to turn away their help, a quick glance at the five exhausted children changed Wynne’s mind. She gave the woman a curt nod. “I had laid out their clean gowns in our chamber. If you would fetch them. And my own,” she added.

  While Dagmar scurried away on that mission, Martha helped Wynne prepare the children for their baths. Like sleepwalkers each of the children reacted when nudged or prodded, raising their arms for their tunics to be removed, sticking out first one foot, then the other for stocking and shoes to be tugged off. Only when the boys were down to just their braies was there any objection raised.

  “Go out, now. We can climb into the tub ourselves,” Arthur demanded, clutching fast to his rolled linen waistband. When the maids only stared blankly at him, however, he frowned. Then he repeated his words in halting English.

  With his skinny legs and skinny chest he looked a meager fellow to be challenging the robust Martha, and a wry smile found its way to Wynne’s otherwise glum features. “Yes, Martha,” she interjected before Rhys and Madoc could chime in. “They are quite old enough to manage the rest on their own.”