Rexanne Becnel

by Where Magic Dwells

  She stared up at the dark-beamed ceiling and reluctantly let herself imagine her worst fear brought to life: If they stayed and she left …

  The minutes passed. Outside, the storm howled against the sturdy stone tower. But inside her heart she faced a storm infinitely worse.

  Finally the tears ceased. Finally she accepted what the fates so unfairly decreed. But she would drive a hard bargain with that man—their father—she vowed. He would concede much if he would keep her boys with him. They would have every advantage—books, tutors, not just horses and weapons.

  And one thing more, she decided as Cleve’s image intruded once again, despite her best effort to keep it at bay. Since they would already be possessed of castles and demesnes, Lord William must vow to give them complete freedom to marry as they pleased. To marry for love alone, not for money or lands or political expedience.

  She took a trembling breath and willed away the emotions that threatened to swamp her again. Rhys and Madoc would never find themselves torn between two women, wanting the one for her fortune and the other for herself. Whosoever they eventually wed, at least Wynne would know it was for love and happiness.

  For she knew that they, like Cleve—like most men, she feared—could easily choose a wife for practicality and a mistress for love.

  Lord pity the women—both wives and lovers—hurt by such cruelty.

  But not her. Not any longer. Her heart was closed to Cleve now, and it always would be. And even if she should ache for him inside, she would never reveal it. No, not ever.

  21

  “WE NEED TO TALK.” Wynne spoke the words to Lord William in her haughtiest tones. The early-morning sun streaked through the narrow windows to illuminate a hall still redolent of the previous night’s celebrations, and the one who had celebrated the most vigorously was plainly the lord himself. He sat in his huge chair, his robes in disarray and his hair standing in erratic gray spikes about his haggard face. Yet despite what must have been an aching head and a foul-tasting tongue, he managed nevertheless to appear very well contented.

  “So we do. So we do.” He waved her to a chair at his left hand, then gazed about through bloodshot eyes. “Where is my ale? And bread? I’ll have cheese as well!” he bellowed to the few servants who stirred at such an early hour. Then he grasped his head between his hands and groaned. “You select a troublesome time to speak with me, mistress witch.”

  Before she could react to that impertinent term, he grimaced. “Pardon, mistress. Pardon. I did but repeat in an unguarded moment something I had last night overheard.”

  “From Sir Cleve, I’ll warrant.”

  Lord William shrugged under her irritated scrutiny. “Do not fault him for having found my two sons for me. If it had not been him, it would have been another.” His expression grew more watchful. “For I would have found them, no matter what.”

  Wynne lowered herself into the hide-covered seat. “Perhaps. Your determination is obvious,” she added, resolving not to antagonize him simply for the sake of vengeance for her own loss. She had a more important purpose this morning.

  A ewer of ale was placed between them along with two cups and a tray of bread, cheese, raisins, and almonds. Lord William took a long pull of his drink, exhaled a huge sigh, and wiped his mouth with the back of one heavily embroidered cuff. Only then did he appear ready to hear her speak. Her first words, however, would be the most difficult, and she cleared her throat nervously.

  “It appears that Rhys and Madoc may well be your—the result of—” She broke off.

  Lord William’s brow lowered. “They were not conceived in rape.” His eyes bored into hers, unflinching in their intensity. “My Angel was … she was everything to me.”

  “Then why didn’t you marry her?”

  He straightened, and she saw the pain in his face. “I already had a wife. But I asked Angel to come with me. I knew she bore my child—my children. Only she would not come to England.”

  How alike men were, Wynne thought as she fought back her own stab of pain. They considered the role of mistress to them almost an honor. She shook her head.

  Lord William must have taken her motion for commiseration, for he continued. “I would have been so good to her. Only … only she would not raise her children as English bastards.” His lips thinned as he said the words, and he passed his hand over his face as if he might scrub away the oppressive memories. “At any rate I left her with all the coin I had. I knew she meant to wed with a man she’d known before—if he returned from the wars—and it enraged me. Still, I would rather her happily wed to another than dead.”

  Wynne could not help responding to the plaintive note of loss in his aged voice. Though she would like to have seen him suffer, she found herself reassuring him.

  “She was happy while wed. And her husband loved her. It was just that after she died trying to birth his own son, well, the distraught fellow could not bear to raise someone else’s. Or so I was told by the two women who brought the twins to Radnor Manor.”

  Lord William nodded, and for a moment they were quiet together. A cock crowed somewhere without the castle, and one of the servants poked in the massive hearth, searching for embers to rekindle the flame. Then Lord William pushed his cup away from him.

  “Did my sons sleep well?”

  “Yes. All the children did. They sleep yet, for they were sorely tired by their journey.”

  “Today we shall celebrate the whole day long.”

  Wynne raised one brow knowingly. “Are you certain you are quite up to it?”

  The softness fled his face, and before her very eyes he became the stern lord of Kirkston. “Do not dare to doubt it. There is not the man in my vast holdings to best me at anything I choose to do.” At her disbelieving look he relented, but only slightly. “Riding is hard for me since I broke my leg. But nothing else,” he insisted.

  Wynne shrugged. “The day will come when Rhys and Madoc shall take pride in besting you at everything.”

  He grinned at that. “Aye, so they will. And I will take pleasure in ceding to them. Though I will not make it easy for them.”

  “I would have an agreement between us.” Wynne changed the subject without warning. He eyed her suspiciously, but she continued on unperturbed. “I have cared for these boys up to now. I know them best, and I know what is best for them.”

  “If you wish to remain here to be with them, I will not oppose it.”

  Wynne frowned. “I am Cymry. My home is not here.”

  “But Cleve said—”

  “Your Sir Cleve is a fool,” she snapped.

  He leaned back at that, saying nothing. However, Wynne did not appreciate the gleam that lit his eyes, as if Cleve had been telling him things about her that were better left unsaid. She continued, struggling to regain her composure. “The thing is, if you would keep the twins, then I would have certain concessions from you.”

  He eyed her noncommittally, “I have no need to make any concessions to you. However, I’m feeling generous today.” He paused. “Name your price.”

  Once again her anger flared. “God save me from fools! I do not wish your coin nor whatever other riches you may boast of. I speak of my children’s happiness, now and long into the future. You may not throw coins of appeasement at me and expect to have bought a clear conscience.”

  Lord William’s face mottled in shame, and she knew he realized she spoke as much of the boys’ mother, Angel, as she did of herself.

  “What do you want, then?” he bit out the words, glowering at her all the while.

  “They shall have tutors.”

  He waved his cup about. “Of course they shall have tutors. I am a great lord, and they are my sons.”

  “Tutors for Latin. For reading and religion. Music,” she continued, unaffected by his bluster. When his brows lowered as if to take exception, she only smiled. “I am reassured that you shall make of them fine horsemen. No doubt they will meet your rigorous standards for jousting, swordplay, and skill w
ith every other weapon yet devised by men. The management of your people and lands, and even the dispensing of justice, you will impart with a thoroughness I hope never to find fault with. But I, who have made of them the honest and inquisitive, wonderful boys that they are, I demand that they be tutored as I would have seen them done, in matters that shall make of them truly fine men.”

  He sat in silence when she finished her speech. Only the thoughtful drumming of his fingers on the sticky trestle table gave evidence that he considered her demands at all. Finally he gave a nod. She thought he may have smiled ever so slightly.

  “As you wish, Wynne ab Gruffydd. The boys are brave and loyal. You’ve given them as good a beginning as any children could have. I’ll see that they’re tutored by the most learned monk I can find.”

  “There is one more thing,” Wynne said, fearing to become too confident by her initial victory. Hiring a tutor was a small enough concession for so wealthy a man as Lord William. But denying him control of his sons’ futures—for that was how he would see it—that was another matter altogether.

  “Well? Out with it, woman. I would seek my bed awhile before the festivities begin in earnest.”

  “You must promise me—no, you must vow to your sons and God—that when the time comes, they will be free to select a bride of their own choice.”

  She held her breath, awaiting his angry retort. When it did not come, however, she thought he’d not heard her aright. “That means you may not betroth them for reasons of money or lands—”

  “Nor for political purposes,” Lord William added, nodding. “I agree to your terms.”

  Wynne stared at him, thunderstruck by his easy acceptance. Then suspicion set in. “Do not think to appease me, Lord William. I will demand the right to visit them—and have them visit me. I will know if you break your word.”

  “A Somerville never breaks his word!”

  His vociferous outburst caused heads to turn throughout the hall. Those who had slept now sat up. Those who’d busied themselves clearing away the previous night’s debris worked all the faster. But Wynne was not frightened by Lord William’s angry display. She was too surprised to be frightened. He meant to honor her request—her demand. He meant to allow her boys—his sons—the freedom to choose their own wives where their hearts lay. She didn’t even try to disguise her delight.

  “You will never be sorry that you have decided so,” she replied, her face lit both with gratitude and with happiness. “They are good boys, and when they wed, they shall surely choose good wives.”

  Lord William’s fierce expression eased under her sunny smile, and he reached for the ewer and filled his cup. He drank the entire portion, placed the cup carefully back on the table, then gave her a direct look

  “I wed once for money and lands. For opportunity. It gained me all I wanted—even more. But Angel …” He paused and cleared his throat. “Angel gave me love. It was worth all the rest.”

  He pushed away from the table and stood up abruptly. At once a servant appeared holding Lord William’s cane out to him. Wynne watched in amazement as the man limped away. The most perplexing emotions circled in her head, too convoluted to be made much sense of. That he’d loved his Welsh mistress was undeniable. That he would love her sons—their sons—was becoming more and more clear. Rhys and Madoc would have the best of everything. They would grow into men who could read as well as fight. Who would employ scribes for convenience, not for necessity. And who, most especially, would be at liberty to love freely.

  Quick tears stung her eyes, and she dashed them away before anyone could see. Aunt Gwynedd had been right. Rhys and Madoc were well served by knowing their father. Druce had believed it, as had Cleve.

  Her soft sentiments hardened, however, when she thought of Cleve. Lord William might have come around to believing in the value of a marriage based on mutual love, but Cleve FitzWarin would never do so. She’d been a fool ever to hope for such a thing, and as a result she’d almost made a dreadful mistake last night. If the storm had not prevented it, she would have promised him all he wanted. She would have become that lesser person, that shadow lurking beneath his wife.

  Even as she thought of Cleve’s future wife, the very girl moved across her line of vision. Wynne stiffened, as did Edeline also, when she spied her. The two stared warily at one another. Then Edeline drew herself up and turned purposefully toward Wynne. She stopped on the opposite side of the table.

  “Mistress Wynne,” she began cautiously. “I hope you will not take my father’s temper amiss. One of the maids told me he shouted at you.”

  Wynne smiled back at the girl. Although they were nearly the same age, she felt infinitely older and wiser. The girl’s very innocence made it impossible for Wynne to hold Edeline accountable for Cleve’s single-minded pursuit of her fortune.

  “Your father and I understand one another. There is no need for you to apologize for him.”

  Edeline chewed her lower lip, staring all the while at Wynne. For a moment Wynne wished she’d spent more time on her appearance before rushing to confront Lord William. Her hair was braided in one long plait hanging over her shoulder and tied with only a plain bit of cord. Her face was scrubbed clean but not whitened with rice flour as was Edeline’s. Her gown was simple, unlike the other girl’s fine raiments, and Wynne wore no jewels save the ancestral amulet that always hung around her neck. Still, she was not competing with Edeline for anyone’s attentions, so what did it matter?

  “Could we walk apace?” the girl hesitantly inquired.

  “Why certainly. Yes.” Wynne rose. “Is there something in particular that you wish to discuss?” she asked, fearing suddenly that the girl wished to speak of her betrothed, Sir Cleve FitzWarin. Wynne knew, despite her resolve, that she was not strong enough to do that. Not with Edeline.

  To her surprise a warm flush pinkened Edeline’s fair features. “Not here,” she pleaded. “Let me show you the gardens. We’ll be able to speak more freely there.”

  It was hard to say who more dreaded the coming discourse. Despite her own wounds Wynne was not blind to Edeline’s discomfort, and that helped her to bury her own feelings. As they crossed the yard, she saw Druce perched upon an upturned bucket beside the stable door. He hailed them, and she paused to await him. When she glanced at Edeline, however, she saw the girl’s face go scarlet. Edeline’s eyes were huge and glued to the young Welshman’s approach.

  That furious blush explained everything to Wynne. There was no need for Edeline to use drops of nightshade in her eyes when Druce was about. And judging from Druce’s avid gaze, he saw nothing but the slender English maiden.

  Would that Lord William would be so generous to his daughter as he was being to his new sons, Wynne mused. If Edeline could choose, it was clear where her heart’s selection lay. But there was Cleve to consider in this messy triangle. Even if Lord William were inclined to extend such generosity to his youngest daughter, he would not break his word to the man who’d brought him his sons. He would never deprive Cleve of his justly deserved reward, and Cleve would never give up his prize.

  “Greetings on the new day,” Druce said. He whipped his cap from his head and made a hasty bow. Wynne couldn’t prevent the shadow of a smile from curving her lips. Where was the masterful young man, so confident of his skills with the village maidens, the fellow who twisted their hearts about his smallest finger? The Druce who stood before her now, giving her a sheepish grin before he fixed his gaze on the trembling Edeline, was another lad entirely. Had the focus of Druce’s ardent pursuit not already been taken by another—and far beyond the reach of a poor Welshman anyway—Wynne would have been completely happy for him. As it was, however, she could only feel a sad heaviness for this misaligned pair. Druce and Edeline. She shook her head slightly as she glanced from one to the other. Their fledgling romance was doomed; that she knew. But she was just heartsore enough herself to wish it could succeed. Someone ought to find happiness with the one they loved. Lord William had not done
so, and she clearly would not either.

  Not that she loved Cleve. It was mainly a physical attraction. Nevertheless, they could not be together—nor could Druce and Edeline. But Rhys and Madoc would, as would all her other children. They would all marry for love and no other reason.

  “Might I walk with you?” Druce was asking when Wynne finally focused back on the conversation. Though he directed his question at Edeline, Wynne answered him.

  “Edeline and I have a matter to discuss. ’Tis private,” she added. Though she knew her obvious dismissal of him crushed his hopes, it was for the best, she decided when he sent Edeline a last, lingering smile. It was foolish for him to hope beyond his means.

  “Oh, but that was too cruel!” Edeline rebuked her once Druce was out of hearing range. “You’re every bit as hardhearted as my father!”

  The girl whirled to stalk away, but Wynne, despite her initial shock at such an outburst from the previously meek girl, stopped her with a hand on her arm. Wynne was inexplicably heartened by the spark of anger and defiance she saw on the girl’s face.

  “Perhaps it was cruel. But not as cruel as to delude him into thinking he might have what we both know shall ever be beyond his grasp. ’Tis you who, are cruel to encourage him in such a manner.”

  Under Wynne’s severe gaze Edeline’s temper dissolved, and quick tears flooded her eyes. “Oh, ’tis not fair. Not fair at all.”

  Once more Wynne felt infinitely older than the sheltered maiden before her. She sighed then and relented.

  “Come along. Let us adjourn to your garden and have that talk.”

  “ ’Tis useless. You have already made that clear.”

  “Dry your eyes and display some backbone,” Wynne snapped in irritation. How had she become cast in the role of confidante to the very girl who laid claim to Cleve? Edeline was right. It was not fair. No, not at all.