Rexanne Becnel

by Where Magic Dwells

  “Edeline—” he began in a tortured tone. Then he turned to Wynne. “Wynne, you must help us!”

  With a cry of pure frustration Wynne threw her hands up in the air. “And what is it I am supposed to do? Why do you turn to me when ’tis clear—and has been for a fortnight—that I am the least able of us all to achieve my own aims! I did not wish to come to England, but here I am. I did not wish to lose a son—or two—to Lord William, but so has become my fate. Why do you now think that I can be of any help to you in your doomed romance?”

  “ ’Tis not doomed!” Druce countered, his face gone dark and shadowed. He pulled Edeline to his side with a desperate movement, yet within the roughness of his embrace there was the unmistakable touch of tenderness. He stared down at the English girl and she up at him with such a look of radiant happiness and yet abject misery that Wynne averted her eyes. She could hardly bear it. But even casting her anger and frustration—and envy—aside, what could she actually do to help the two of them?

  As their avid gazes clung, Wynne cleared her throat. “Have either of you considered going together to speak to Lord William?”

  Druce shook his head. “Cleve is the one we must convince first. If he agrees, it will be easier to convince Lord William.”

  “It will never be easy to convince Lord William,” Wynne countered. She kicked at a nodding seed head of cat’s-play. “Do you truly think he will accept a poor Welshman as his son-in-law when any number of noblemen court his pleasure and would love nothing better than to be related to such a wealthy and powerful lord? Even Cleve had to earn the right to her hand by first finding Rhys and Madoc.”

  Druce’s expression turned stubborn. “Leave that part to me, Wynne. All I’m asking is that you remove Cleve as an obstacle on our path to happiness.”

  “And just how am I to do that?”

  “You did it once,” he replied with a knowing look.

  Wynne’s eyes widened in dismay at his bold words, and her face burned a painful shade of scarlet. How could he say such an awful thing to her? Did he mean for her to offer herself to Cleve like some … like some … Her breath caught in her chest. To offer herself in the same wanton fashion as she’d done that first time?

  Wynne bit down on her lower lip and blinked hard, fighting back the sudden rush of emotions that threatened to overwhelm her. “It will not work,” she muttered hoarsely. She returned her reluctant gaze to the pair of them. Edeline did not appear scandalized by Druce’s revelation—perhaps, she’d not understood. But the girl’s next words dispelled that hope.

  “I do not feel about Sir Cleve in the same way that … that you do.” Edeline’s eyes turned up to Druce, and it was her turn to blush. “But Druce, well, he …”

  Her words trailed off, but Wynne understood. She feared she understood better, even, than did Edeline herself. When the heart pulled you and the loins contributed their own perverse longings also, well, there was little hope of opposing those two mighty foes. Logic failed in the face of their superior strength.

  She swallowed, then cleared her throat. “I will attempt to reason with Sir Cleve. And that is all,” she added with a scowl. “Though why the pair of you could not do so I cannot fathom.”

  “You will have more sway with him,” Druce replied.

  Wynne shook her head. “You delude yourself, Druce. And you as well, Edeline. He wants one thing only. Land and power. Power and land.”

  “That’s two things,” Edeline put in.

  “ ’Tis one and the same,” Wynne snapped. “Oh, just leave me. Leave me and let me think.” She spun about and marched to the riverbank and stood there, arms crossed and back stiff.

  “All right, then. We’re going, Wynne. But remember, you agreed. Today would be a good day,” Druce added.

  She sent him an icy glare. “If it is a miracle you wish, best you take yourself to the chapel to pray.”

  “But if Father makes the announcement today, it will make things even more impossible,” Edeline cried.

  “Oh, bother with the two of you,” Wynne swore. “Stay in your chamber, then. Claim illness. Whatever. Your father will be less likely to announce his glad tidings if the bride is not present. And as for the groom …” Her voice trailed off as a truly vindictive thought took hold. A bitter smile curved her lips ever so faintly. “If the bridegroom is too much in his cups to be present, well then …” She shrugged and gave Druce a meaningful look.

  “What do you mean—oh.” Druce straightened as understanding dawned. “You would drug him?”

  “Oh, no. Not I,” Wynne demurred. “You shall do the deed this time.” Then she turned away from them once more. “Now, leave me.”

  “Druce, what does she plot?” Wynne heard Edeline ask as the lovesick pair started back toward the castle.

  “You need not know, my sweet. But she will handle it. We may trust Wynne.”

  A sharp pain pulsed behind Wynne’s eyes as she stood alone on the steep bank of the river once they were gone. They could trust her. Indeed! She could not trust herself when it came to Cleve FitzWarin, yet they fully expected her to solve their problems with the man. Oh, how foolish were young lovers. And she had been the biggest fool of all.

  All she was doing was buying a little time for the moonstruck couple. They would gain a day or two together, but in the end … In the end Cleve would marry Edeline. It was his fondest desire, and no amount of reasoning or pleading or even seduction on Wynne’s part would alter that fact.

  She could only hope that Edeline’s brief romance with Druce was not too deeply rooted. As for Druce, he had been with any number of women. Surely he could recover from this broken romance without too much pain. After all, she planned to recover from hers. What other choices did the two of them have?

  At high noon the bells of Kirkston’s Chapel to Saint Peter began rousingly to ring, summoning castle folk and village folk alike to the hastily assembled fair grounds. Wynne saw Cleve once from afar, but she slipped off in another direction immediately. Her sole purpose for attending the festivities was to give Druce the small packet of herbs that he was to dissolve in Cleve’s wine. Barris had promised to shepherd the children with Druce’s aid once that one’s task was complete. Edeline already lay abed in a closed room with a damp cloth on her brow.

  Wynne had heard Lord William’s frustrated oath on hearing the girl was indisposed, but she had wisely kept her distance. How would he take to his future son-in-law’s inability to maintain his wits today? He would no doubt be furious with Cleve, but Wynne reassured herself that the man’s anger would swiftly pass. After all, he had his two young sons to occupy his thoughts.

  Despite the general disorganization of the hastily planned recreations, a gay atmosphere prevailed. Competitions were begun. Races. Wrestling. Even eating contests and drinking as well. The best of Lord William’s archers competed for a gold coin, and it was amid their numbers that Wynne finally located Druce. He and Barris had their heads together, and all five children clustered about them.

  “You can do it, Druce. You can beat that—”

  “—old gray-beard Englishman.”

  “His gray beard will not hurt his aim,” Arthur remarked to Rhys and Madoc. “And we are all at least part English.”

  “Not Druce and Barris,” Isolde threw in. “They’re all Welsh.”

  “So is Wynne.”

  “So I am,” Wynne agreed with Bronwen and drew the little girl fondly to her side. “Rhys and Madoc, I think you should cease considering this a competition between the English and the Welsh. ’Tis but a contest between very good archers.”

  Druce grinned up at her and plucked a resounding twang from the taut line of his longbow. “Aye, we are all but archers. But ’tis well known that the best archers are Cymry, and today I shall prove it to one and all.”

  “Especially to Lord William?” Wynne asked with one raised brow.

  Druce’s grin faded somewhat, but his cocky expression only displayed more determination. “Right you are, wise
Seeress of Radnor. Tell me, can you foretell the outcome of this day’s work?”

  Wynne met his dark gaze. That he would win the archery competition was more than a little likely. But whether he would win the prize he most desired—that was a future she could only guess at, and at this moment her guess was no.

  “Here,” she said, not answering his question. “Take this packet of herbs and use them in your quest.”

  “Will they make his aim truer?” Barris asked, wide-eyed.

  Wynne glanced at him, surprised that Druce had not taken his brother into his confidence. At that precise moment Cleve joined their circle, drawing Wynne’s thoughts away from Barris. So the beast approached the bait. Even should he take it, however, would it truly do any good? Again, she feared the answer was no.

  “Wynne’s concoction made my aim truer during our hunt at Offa’s Dyke,” Cleve said, watching her with his unsettling gaze. “Perhaps I should warn Lord William’s champion of the unfair advantage you have given Druce.”

  Wynne thrust her chin forward, for she would not reveal even one of her softer emotions to him. But her fingers tightened together with the effort. “If Druce’s competitors are desirous of my skills, they have but to request my aid.”

  He kept his eyes locked with hers. “If I were a competing archer, I would most assuredly seek out those extraordinary skills of yours.”

  On the surface his words were courteous and correct. But Wynne knew he implied something far more intimate than the mere administering of some herbal remedy. Judging from Druce’s shrewd look, he, too, knew. Relief flooded her when Arthur stepped forward, commanding Cleve’s attention.

  “ ’Tis good you will not test your aim against Druce,” The child stated in all seriousness. “He is the finest archer in all of Radnor Forest.”

  “No one can best him,” Madoc boasted.

  “No one,” Rhys echoed.

  Druce stared boldly at Cleve. Wynne recognized the battle that raged within her childhood friend’s chest—the normal male need to best even his closest friend at sport was aggravated by his real need to best this particular man in the struggle for one special woman’s hand. To make matters worse, however, Druce had to conceal the true nature of his competition with Cleve, at least for a while longer.

  Since Druce had taken possession of the herbs destined for Cleve’s wine cup, Wynne thought it best to lighten the conversation. “I for one shall toast Druce’s success when he wins Lord William’s coin. Will you do the same?” She posed the question to Cleve.

  He grinned at Druce, then turned the force of his smile on Wynne, causing her to swallow hard. “May the best man win,” he replied.

  Seeing his chance, Druce put a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Go refill our cups, Arthur. Here.” He signaled Rhys and Madoc to help. “If you would be knights someday, first you must learn to serve. Am I not right, Sir Cleve?”

  “Most assuredly. Here’s my cup.”

  Barris and Druce added their cups, and the three boys scurried off at once. When Cleve’s eyes returned most disconcertingly to her, however, Wynne shifted uneasily. “I think I shall take the girls to examine the weaver’s new loom. ’Tis a most cunning assemblage and produces a very fine cloth.”

  “But, Wynne,” Isolde protested. “I want to see Druce win—”

  “And so you shall,” Wynne promised. “But until the competition begins, he does not need to be distracted by our presence.”

  “ ’Tis no distraction,” Druce countered, sending Wynne a meaningful look.

  “Oh, but I’m sure it must be,” she insisted, a grim smile pasted firmly on her face. “Come along, girls, I promise we shall not miss seeing Druce compete.”

  All three men’s eyes followed Wynne’s departure. Barris was the first to speak, prefacing his words with an excessively heavy sigh. “She does not notice me. No matter what I do, she sees me only as a boy. I’m but a year younger than she.”

  Druce took up the ploy at once. “I have given up on her myself. Perhaps you will have better luck, though. And don’t forget, we have that lengthy journey back to Radnor. Who knows what may happen? And she shall need comforting, after all.”

  “I thought you would leap to fill that void,” Barris continued. He glanced at Cleve’s darkening face. “What say you, Cleve? You seemed well enough taken with her on the journey here. Should I vie against my brother for the fair Wynne’s attentions? Or shall she rebuff me as well?”

  “I would hardly say she rebuffed me,” Druce stated. When the three boys ran up, red wine sloshing from the pewter mugs, he took two of the mugs. “Where’s a rag to wipe these? And another thing, Barris, she did not precisely rebuff Cleve either.”

  “What do you mean?” Cleve challenged to Druce’s turned back. “Do you imply some impropriety?”

  Druce looked over his shoulder at Cleve, an innocent expression firmly in place. “No, no. You mistake my meaning. Here.” He turned and handed Cleve a cup. “Take your wine. What I meant was that you knew your betrothed awaited you in England. Your flirtation with Wynne was mild, not of a nature even to require a rebuff. Was it?” he added, watching Cleve over the rim of his own upturned mug.

  Cleve’s hesitation, followed by his full quaffing of the contents of the cup, described to Druce better than words the struggles that tore at the man.

  “Our Wynne has not yet found the man whom she will gift with her love—as well as with all her other lovely charms.” he added with a grin. “Who knows, Barris.

  Maybe it shall be you. By the by, Cleve, how do you find the sweet maid to whom you shall be wed?”

  “She is …” Cleve shrugged, clearly distracted by either guilt or worry. Or both, Druce hoped, warming to this task of goading Edeline’s betrothed. Though he liked Cleve very well, when it came to Edeline—and Wynne as well—they stood on opposing sides of a drawn line.

  “She is what?” Barris prodded.

  Cleve frowned. “She is fair and well-mannered. But she is … she is very young.”

  “Most men find that commendable,” Druce pressed on. “She may bear you many sons.”

  “ ’Tis not precisely her age,” Cleve replied. “Wynne is nearly as young. ’Tis more, I don’t know, something in her bearing.” He sat down, rather abruptly, on a three-legged stool. “Arthur, lad. Will you fetch me another cup of wine?”

  By the time Arthur returned, it was clear to Druce that Wynne’s herbs were taking effect. He gave Barris a quelling stare when that one began to look concerned. This was Druce’s chance to question Cleve, and he did not mean to lose the opportunity.

  “Wynne is an unusual woman,” Druce prompted.

  “Oh, aye,” Barris added. “The lads at home do trail after her as if she were some sweet dessert that they fain would take a taste of.”

  “Who?” Cleve demanded. “Say their names and I’ll teach them to keep their distance from her.”

  Druce grinned at the slurred sound of Cleve’s words. “You won’t be there to prevent it,” he reminded the befuddled man. “You will be well married to Edeline, remember? While Wynne is returning to Wales.”

  “I will not let her leave me,” Cleve stood up, then would have toppled over had Barris not propped him up.

  “Are you going to keep Wynne here?” Arthur asked, an uncertain expression on his young face.

  Cleve stared down at the boy, and Druce held his breath. He hadn’t meant to alarm the children by his questioning of Cleve. But Cleve seemed to retain some remnants of his wits, for he focused on Arthur and gave him a reassuring smile.

  “I wish all of you could stay, my lad. You and Wynne and all the children. Even Druce and—” His legs went out on him, and Barris laughed out loud.

  “Soused! He’s soused. Who would have thought him unable to hold his drink?” He lowered Cleve’s limp form to the ground and leaned him against a cart wheel. “Now what shall we do with him?”

  “It was not just wine he drank,” Druce whispered to Barris. “But do not speak of it. Just
help me move him to some quiet place.”

  As the three boys watched round-eyed, Druce and the curious Barris lifted Cleve between them and, with one of his arms draped around each of their shoulders, walked him—dragged him was a more accurate description—to a shaded spot beneath an ancient oak. There they laid him to sleep off the ill effects of Wynne’s concoction.

  As Druce returned to the archery field, he was buoyed up by an enormous sense of optimism. The betrothal would not be announced, not when both parties were equally indisposed. He would prove his merit before Lord William’s eyes. Then tomorrow Wynne would work things out with Cleve.

  That was the only sticking point in his plan. Wynne must work things out with Cleve.

  23

  TRULY DRUCE DID EXPECT miracles from her, Wynne fumed as she crossed the yard, making her way through the deep twilight to the lean-to barracks against the castle’s outer wall. First she dosed Cleve FitzWarin with enough of her sleeping potion to topple a destrier. Now she was to ease his pounding head and roiling stomach with an altogether different tonic. Not that she wasn’t up to the task. That was no real feat. Rather she was frustrated by the futility of it all. Plus, she dreaded being alone with Cleve. Somehow he always managed to turn such circumstances to his advantage.

  But not tonight, she vowed as she slowed near the barracks’ entrance. She would perform her task and leave. Besides, what did Druce think, that Cleve would renounce his well-dowered bride in favor of a Welsh maiden blessed with neither title nor riches? She shook her head in disgust. Truly Druce was too besotted with love to be in the least logical about the situation.

  Still, she could not begrudge Druce his desperate need to try something—anything—to achieve his heart’s aim. After all, Edeline returned his love. If Cleve only returned her love, Wynne, too, would struggle against all obstacles in order to win him. But what Cleve felt for her was not love, it was lust. And for her that simply was not enough.

  A heavy weight settled in her chest as she approached the barracks where the unmarried knights and foot soldiers lodged. Dark shapes spread about in random fashion attested to the potency of Lord William’s free-flowing ales and wines this day. Men slept where they’d fallen, crumpled into heaps or stretched out in vociferous slumber. The discordant harmony of their snoring was almost funny. Almost.