Rexanne Becnel

by Where Magic Dwells

  Once they were seated on a plain wooden bench, worn by years of exposure and devoid of either back or arms, but sheltered and secluded against the rear of the armorer’s shed, Wynne faced the sullen Edeline.

  “Will you speak as you had planned, or shall I be forced to guess what it is that troubles you?”

  Edeline raised her chin and stared resentfully at Wynne. “I think you would keep them both for yourself. Cleve and Druce. ’Tis not fair.”

  “I? Oh, but you are most truly a youngest daughter. Spoiled and willful, thinking only of yourself.” She glared at Edeline’s pale face. “I have neither of them—as you so badly state it. Nor do I want either of them. Druce is my friend—the nearest I have to a brother. But no more than that. And as for your Sir Cleve—well, he is plainly yours, not mine.”

  Edeline swallowed, and averted her eyes. When she looked up, her gaze was less accusing, but still miserable. “Sir Cleve’s eyes follow you everywhere. I have seen it and I know what it means. He wants you, not me.”

  “Do you want him?” Wynne countered, for she was unwilling to address Edeline’s statement directly.

  Edeline fiddled with the embroidered length of her girdle and restlessly braided the loose tassel at its end. “I am promised to marry him.”

  “But do you wish it?” Wynne prompted, driven by a perverse need to know.

  Edeline slowly shook her head. When her eyes met Wynne’s, they were devoid of all hope. “I dreaded it before, because I knew he valued my dower lands more than he valued me. Though I have known all my life that such is to be expected in any marriage, still I did pray that it might not be my lot. And now that I have met Druce … I think I should rather die than be given to any man but Druce.”

  Despite the girl’s dramatics, Wynne could not help but be moved by her sincerity, “You’ve known him but one day, and not spoken with him at all. Oh—” she broke off when Edeline’s fresh blush proved her assumption wrong. “You have spoken. Well, even so, ’tis still awfully soon to tell.”

  “How long after you met Cleve did you know that he was the one for you?”

  Wynne shrugged. Not long at all, she feared. Then she jerked her head up and met Edeline’s watchful expression. “He—that is … I know no such thing. He is not for me.”

  Edeline did not look convinced. “We are both in the same fix, you and I. It does not help your cause to be less than honest about it.”

  Wynne stiffened. “If you wish to pursue Druce, so be it. But do not think to involve me in your schemes. I have no designs on the man to whom your father has betrothed you, nor on Druce either. If you would gain your heart’s desire, I suggest you confer with your father. Now, if you will forgive my rudeness, I have my children to see to.”

  Wynne’s heart hammered an unsteady rhythm as she fled her interview with Edeline. Pity the man who married that schemer, she fumed, dabbling in matters not of her own business. What right had the girl to question her about either Druce or Cleve?

  Yet Wynne knew that her anger at Edeline was misplaced. The girl was guilty only of speaking a truth that Wynne did not wish to hear, and of longing for a future that Wynne feared to hope for. Even if the girl managed to maneuver her father into accepting Druce’s suit—which was impossible given Cleve’s standing with Lord William—what good would that do for Wynne? Cleve wished to wed a well-landed Englishwoman. A noblewoman. Would he ever turn to Wynne? And even if he did, it would only be as a second choice. Wynne knew she could never resign herself to that.

  As she hurried past the stables, she spied Druce loitering beneath one of the lean-tos. As soon as she passed, he was on his way in the direction whence she’d just come. Well, then, let the new lovers have their brief moments of heaven in each other’s presence, she decided. Too soon would they face that bleak hell of separation.

  With that dreary thought uppermost in her mind she entered her chamber to be greeted by a most unhappy crowd of children.

  “ ’Tis our castle, and we—”

  “—wish to have the biggest bed,” Rhys finished Madoc’s demand. He and his brother stood upon the one high bed in the room, daring by their belligerent stances any of the others to advance nearer. Arthur was busy tracing the pattern of seams in the stones that formed the outer walls of the room. How to build the castle itself seemed a far more immediate problem to him than how to claim the softest bed from his brothers. Isolde, however, was in a high temper.

  “Just because your father is rich doesn’t mean you can order us about. Nor does it mean this bed is yours.” She glared at the smug pair. “Just you wait. When I get home to Radnor Manor, I’m going to tear your old pallet bed to shreds and then … and then I’ll throw it in the pigsty!”

  “Oh, Isolde,” cried Bronwen in true distress. “You can’t do that.”

  “Actually it makes very good sense,” Arthur interjected, though he stared now at the rough beams that supported the floor above them. “Rhys and Madoc won’t be sleeping there anymore.”

  His words, so straightforward and logical, silenced them all. Even Wynne was taken aback at the thought of their empty beds in the sleeping loft above the hall at Radnor. When Bronwen spied Wynne, she dashed to her and grabbed her skirts. “Do they have to stay here? Can’t they come home with us and sleep in their old beds?” She sent a fierce look about the spacious chamber. “I hate this old castle. It’s … it’s too big. And too ugly. I hope it all falls down.”

  “It’s very well constructed,” Arthur remarked. “I don’t think anything could make it fall down.”

  “Oh, do be quiet, Arthur,” Isolde snapped, tossing her sleep-tangled hair. “You always get everything confused.”

  “It won’t ever fall down,” Madoc vowed. He jumped up and down on the bed as if that somehow verified his statement, but a quick frown from Wynne stilled him.

  “Down, you two. And before you think to order others about, I think we should have a long talk with Lord William—with your father,” she amended. “If my discussion with him this morning was any indication, you shall both be kept far too busy to find time for giving orders to anyone else.”

  When they appeared adequately subdued, she relented and gave them all a smile. “Come, now. Let’s prepare for the day. Lord William promises a celebration. I think, too, that perhaps he might like a little time alone with his new sons.”

  When they finally descended to the hall to break their fast, a vast assortment of eyes followed them. The servants clucked and whispered over the identical twins, newly found and known now to be heirs to the master’s vast fortune. The outraged expressions of the displaced sons-in-law and their equally dispossessed wives had mellowed over the course of the night, Wynne noted with some relief, replaced, it appeared, by a mingling of irritation and resignation.

  Conversation was low during the brief meal, just a murmur of voices rising and falling. When Lord William came down the stairs, however, leaning on his cane yet nonetheless projecting an aura of good spirits and hearty vigor, all discourse died away. Here were father and sons united at last, and in the sight of all.

  Though Bronwen and Isolde shrank from the sight of the man they perceived as taking their brothers from them, Rhys and Madoc stared at him in frank curiosity. The night’s rest had clearly restored their natural ebullience. Lord William stared at them just as boldly, but his widespread smile softened his otherwise intimidating figure. His faded blue eyes were lit with new color, and his step seemed light despite his ample girth and lame leg.

  “Well, lads, and how would you celebrate this first day in your new home?” Lord William began, enunciating slowly so that his sons might more easily understand his words, so foreign to them. “The kitchens shall prepare whate’er you like best. The minstrels and jongleurs shall entertain as you demand. Would you ride? Or play games?”

  Wynne saw the look that passed between Rhys and Madoc, and despite the well of sadness in her heart she could not keep from smiling. The pair understood, all right. Lord William was in for a
rough ride with these two. By the time he finished indulging them, as he so obviously intended to do, they would be well in command of their father and every other adult who thought to control their mischievous natures. God pity their poor tutors.

  “Could we see jousting—”

  “—and hawking?”

  “Have you hounds for hunting?”

  “May we have hounds of our very own—”

  “—and our own horses as well?”

  Lord William’s gaze leaped from one dark-haired son to the next, and slowly his grin began to fade. “How shall I ever tell you apart?”

  “I’m Rhys—”

  “—and I’m Madoc,” the pair responded after only the briefest pause. Still, it was enough hesitation to alert Wynne. She rose from her chair to approach the two. But as she reached their side, so did Cleve, and she stumbled to a halt. His eyes swept over her, at once devouring and accusing, setting her heart racing in an uneven rhythm. Oh, why couldn’t she put him out of her head and out of her heart?

  His cool gaze left hers, and with each of his hands he tilted the twins’ faces up to him. “This is Rhys,” he said to Lord William, indicating quite the opposite of what the boys had stated. “If you will notice, milord, he has a scar on his left eyebrow. Here. ’Tis tiny, but telling.”

  Lord William’s own brow lowered in annoyance with his sons, but when the dark-eyed pair turned their sheepish gazes upon him, that emotion fled. “Clever boys, my sons. Brave, loyal, and quick-witted.” He began to laugh and fondly rumpled the boys’ hair. “Jousting, you say. And hawks and hounds. All right, then. So be it. Harold. Thomas. Reginald,” he called his sons-in-law. “See to it. Arrange for the joust and any other sporting events. Anne, Bertilde, Catherine. See that a day of feasting is arranged for one and all. We shall have a fair in the low meadow beside the river.”

  “Shall Edeline have no chores?” Bertilde complained, tugging upon her father’s sleeve. But he waved her away.

  “Edeline is to be officially betrothed this day. She and Sir Cleve will be feted before one and all.” He spread his arms wide, causing the disgruntled Bertilde to catch his cane before it fell. “Ah, but life is good to me,” Lord William expounded as his eyes swept the crowd in the hall. “God is good to me, and I would have one and all share in my blessedly good fortune.”

  But for Cleve’s disturbing presence beside her, Wynne might actually have shared in that sentiment. After all, she had negotiated as good an arrangement for her sons as any a mother could have wished, short of seeing to their everyday lives herself. And even she must now admit that Lord William’s parentage offered the pair myriad benefits, far beyond her ability to provide.

  However, Cleve did stand beside her, and it was his betrothal that Lord William boasted of almost as happily as he did the presence of his sons. Under the circumstances Wynne was hard-pressed to maintain even the semblance of a civil expression on her face. Her gaze avoided Cleve entirely. But seeking Edeline’s grave features was nearly as awful. Edeline stared wide-eyed at Cleve, then her gaze slid to another, and when Wynne followed the direction, she found the equally stricken Druce.

  Life was good to Lord William, she acknowledged as she watched him lead his young sons off for a leisurely tour of the castle and grounds—belatedly gesturing for Arthur to come along as well. Life was good for Lord William, but for others in the hall it was wretchedly unfair.

  Edeline disappeared, white-faced, up the stairs to her own chamber. Druce kicked over a chair, then stalked off in frustration. Cleve turned to confront Wynne, but she had anticipated that and was too quick for him. She herded the two girls toward Barris, not heeding by word or posture Cleve’s call. Though Barris gave her a searching look and she knew Arthur yet sent a plaintive look back at Cleve, she ignored them all.

  “The day is bright,” she stated firmly. “Let us walk about and see what herbs may spring from this English soil.”

  And perhaps she would come upon some magical herb, one that would leap into her hands, proclaiming itself as a true love potion, one that could compel another’s will to one’s own and truly command another’s love and eternal devotion.

  Yes, and perhaps the sun and moon would collide this day in the heavens. The one was as far-fetched as the other.

  22

  ACROSS THE NARROW DRAWBRIDGE and a little north of the castle, past where the river water was diverted to form the moat, the meadow gave way to a damp woodland. It was here that Wynne steered her young charges. The castle bustled with too much activity; the overflow spilled out into the meadow, and from their place near the riverbank they could still hear the shouts and laughter of the workers.

  The castle folk were in a high good humor, preparing for the unexpected day of recreation. A line of men swung scythes in remarkable harmony, creating, step by step, a wide cleared area suitable for any sort of play that Lord William desired—or, more accurately, that Rhys and Madoc desired. A constant stream of carts made its way out of the castle, bearing tents for shade, planks for tables, great barrels of both ale and red wine, and every manner of food the kitchens could produce on such short notice.

  Even Wynne couldn’t restrain the tiniest spark of excitement, which drew her eyes back again and again to the meadow. She’d never attended a fair of this sort. She’d been to several town fairs—three in all. She’d gone twice as a girl with her parents and sister, but only once in recent years. She’d not had the time to make the three-day round trip to Brecon. And the meager market day at Radnor hardly counted. But this … this was something. A fair not part of a market but meant only for celebration. If only it were to celebrate something she was truly happy about.

  “Oh, look. There is parsley fern here too. Just like at home,” Isolde called.

  “And dragonflies too. All colors and—oh, just see how big that one is. All green and red!” Bronwen cried, clapping her hands gleefully.

  “There’s a prince heron,” Barris whispered, pointing out the stately water feeder as it stood, still as stone, wary about these noisy visitors.

  Wynne stood knee-deep in some spiky grass of a variety unknown to her. But the trees that soared high around her were the same familiar oaks of her home, and the low, pointy-leaf plants that circled their dark-gray trunks were common wild strawberry. This long distance had they come, into another land with a different language and altogether different ways from their own, yet the forest and all its creatures were not so foreign as she would have thought. Even the flock of raucous birds that rose in a cloud at their approach were the dark-winged ravens of her own woods.

  “I see a buzzard nest.” She signaled to the girls. “There, above the second branching of that tree. Just to the right. The right.” She tapped Bronwen’s right shoulder.

  “Oh, yes,” Bronwen breathed, once she’d turned her head in the correct direction. “ ’Tis so large. Are there any nestlings within?”

  “No, not at this time of year,” another voice answered. To everyone’s surprise Edeline materialized from beyond a thicket of holly. “That particular nest has been in use at least seven seasons. The young birds flew off a fortnight since, perhaps two.”

  Bronwen was the first to reply. “Do you like birds? Arthur likes birds as well. He wants to fly just as they do.” The child crouched in the undergrowth, her fair hair brushing the tips of the tall grass. As she looked up at Edeline, Wynne was struck by how very English Bronwen appeared, very near to Edeline in her coloring and fragile build.

  Edeline smiled at the little girl. “Flying. Now, wouldn’t that be something fine. Perhaps if he learns how to do it, he will teach the rest of us as well.” Then her gaze shifted to Wynne, and her easy manner drained away. “May I confer with you?”

  “I cannot help you,” Wynne replied. “I told you that before. Speak to your father.”

  “I will. I will. But I need something, and, well, you are a Seeress, or so I am told.”

  “Oh, by everything that is holy!” Wynne muttered in exasperation.
She eyed Edeline uncharitably. “Here, give me your hand. I shall foretell your future.” When the girl dutifully stuck out first one palm and then, nervously, the other as well, Wynne snorted in disgust. “I need not see your pale, uncallused palms to foretell what lies in your future. You shall marry an arrogant, though handsome knight and have three or four children. Perhaps five or six. And you shall never want for anything.”

  “Save for happiness!” Edeline cried, clasping her hands into a knot. “I shall want for happiness, as shall you.”

  “Aye, Wynne, she makes a very good point,” Barris put in. “You and she—and Druce—mope about till I feel as if a heavy cloud hovers above us all. For the love of God, help the girl. Druce is your friend, is he not? Will you ignore his misery as well?”

  In frustration Wynne thrust one hand through her thick hair. “And just what is it you expect me to do? I have influence with neither Lord William nor Sir Cleve, and those two are quite firmly set upon their chosen course.”

  “But Cleve loves you,” Edeline cried. “I’m certain of it.”

  Wynne started to respond, but abruptly closed her mouth. How was she to reply to such an outrageous remark, especially when she wished so to believe it was true?

  “He does love you,” Bronwen echoed in her solemn baby’s voice. “I know he does.”

  “I can make a love potion for you,” Isolde added with an earnest bob of her head. “Probably it would work better if I made it instead of you making it for your own self.”

  Wynne pursed her lips in rueful consideration. “Yes, my little darling, it probably would. But for now why don’t you two go on with Barris while Edeline and I finish our discussion.”

  By the time the two children reluctantly headed off with the grinning Barris, another figure came cantering across the meadow. When Druce spied the two women, he urged his steed straight toward them, and before the animal could properly come to a halt, he threw himself down from the saddle.