Rexanne Becnel

by Where Magic Dwells

  Wynne halted before the doorway, surveying the slumped and snoring form of a man half in and half out of the building. How was she to find Cleve among all this excess of drunken male forms?

  “He is here,” a young voice called, answering Wynne’s wordless query.

  “Arthur? What in heaven’s name—”

  “Here, Wynne. I found him.”

  Wynne stepped over the oblivious drunk in the door, and once her eyes had adjusted to the dark interior, she spied Arthur. “You should not be here,” she whispered as she hurried toward him and the hulking shadow she assumed was Cleve.

  “His head is hurting real bad,” Arthur replied, unmindful of her scolding words, and his worried tone touched Wynne’s heart. Arthur suffered for his idol now. Later it would only be worse.

  “I shall mend his aching head,” Wynne said, giving Arthur a reassuring hug. She started to urge him away from this place, but then thought better of it. With Arthur there, Cleve would scarcely try anything untoward. Not that he was likely to, given the aftereffects he was now suffering. Still, there was no sense taking any chances.

  ”Here, my sweet lad, hold my purse for me,” she instructed the child. Then she turned her attentions toward Cleve. “Are you able to stomach a remedy?”

  He looked up slowly from his place on a sturdy bench, his head hanging low between his hands. Had ever a man appeared so wretched? She had to physically restrain herself from reaching out to stroke his face.

  “You had a hand in this,” he stated in a low, thick voice.

  Wynne heard Arthur’s quick gasp of comprehension and immediately regretted allowing him to linger here. What would he think of her now? This was the third time she’d turned her special knowledge against the boy’s idol.

  “ ’Twas for Edeline that I did it,” she retorted defensively. “The girl would delay the betrothal announcement.”

  Although Arthur’s stiff posture eased at that, Cleve’s did not. “ ’Twas a useless gesture,” he grunted. Then his eyes narrowed, and he watched her closely. “Did you truly do it for her? Or was it for yourself?”

  Wynne knew the honest answer to that question, but not for the world would she reveal as much to him. Her love for him would forever remain her secret.

  “Why must you marry Edeline?” Arthur piped up. “I think you should marry—”

  But Wynne interrupted the child before he could put into words her own thought. “I would have a favor of you, Cleve. A promise,” she said.

  “You poison me, then request a favor?” he asked sarcastically, glaring at her through bleary eyes.

  “Not for me,” she retorted tensely. She swallowed hard and willed herself to remain calm. “For Rhys and Madoc. Will you keep a watch over them? Safeguard them? I know now that Lord William loves them well. But his family … well, they will surely resent them, and I … I …” she trailed off.

  “No harm shall come to them, Wynne.” He pushed himself upright and faced her in the shadowy barracks. “I promise you that. But if you would only reconsider—”

  “Here.” Wynne thrust a small vial at Cleve, interrupting him before he could repeat his impossible offer for her to stay. She could not bear to hear it, nor did she want to put any ideas in Arthur’s head. “Drink this. Half now and the remainder in an hour or so. ’Twill ease your symptoms enough that you can rest.” Then, before he could respond, she grabbed Arthur’s hand and hurried the two of them away.

  Arthur sat on the high bed he shared with Rhys and Madoc in the chamber Lord William had granted his new sons. Rhys and Madoc yet tussled and rolled about, mimicking the wrestlers they’d watched during the afternoon.

  “I win!” Rhys crowed from his position atop Madoc.

  With a grunt Madoc pushed his brother off him. “You cheated. And anyway I can best you at the targets.” He pulled back an imaginary bow string and let fly with an invisible arrow. “I’m Druce and I’m the best of all the archers!”

  Arthur watched as Rhys fell down, clutching his stomach in an appropriate display of agony. “You know, it’s too bad Druce can’t stay here and teach you how to use the longbow.”

  The twins both looked over at him. “Perhaps our father will let him stay,” Madoc answered.

  “Yes, he’s the best archer of them all. He really showed them. He could be the captain of the archers.”

  Arthur nodded. “That would be a very good idea. Only I don’t know if he’ll stay.”

  “Yes, he would,” Rhys stated. “If we all begged him to, he would.”

  Arthur gave them a considering look. “I think Druce likes Lady Edeline.”

  “The one Cleve is to wed?”

  Arthur nodded gravely. “I don’t think Druce will stay unless he can marry Edeline.”

  The twins stared at him. “Why?” Madoc asked.

  Arthur exhaled in exasperation. “Because Druce and Lady Edeline love each other, just like Cleve and Wynne do. Only your father has promised Lady Edeline to Cleve, so … so everything is all mixed up and nobody is happy.”

  Rhys and Madoc shared a look. “So if Lord William changes his mind and Edeline could marry Druce—”

  “—then Druce could stay here. With us.”

  “But what about Cleve?” Madoc asked.

  “He could marry Wynne and come back to Radnor Forest with us,” Arthur said with a hopeful smile.

  “I thought he wanted to marry the Lady Edeline.”

  “Well, he sort of does. But he loves Wynne best. And she loves him,” Arthur replied. “Besides, you already have a father. It’s only fair that I have one too. And I want Cleve for my father.”

  The twins glanced again at each other, then shrugged in unison. “All right, then. What do you want us to do?”

  The day dawned as gray and dismal as Wynne’s mood. Over the entire castle a subdued mood prevailed. Too many aching heads and unsteady stomachs made for a small group at the morning meal. Only the children and a few of the older servants seemed unaffected by the previous day’s excesses. Wynne was as perversely affected as anyone, though not due to any overindulgence in either food or drink. Through the long hours of the night she’d examined her predicament and had come to the unhappy conclusion that it was time for her to return home. It was painfully clear to her that Rhys and Madoc would not long suffer in her absence. Together they would take very good advantage of all Lord William’s parentage could offer. But she and Arthur, the two girls and Barris, and even Druce had been in England long enough. She intended to plan their departure this very day.

  To her dismay, however, before she could search out Lord William’s manservant to request an audience with him, Cleve FitzWarin blocked her path.

  “A word with you, Wynne. If you please,” he added with exaggerated courtesy.

  Wynne stared up into his face, noting the lines of weariness around his mouth and eyes. He, too, had passed a long and restless night, it seemed. But at least his color was good. She forced herself nevertheless not to care whether he was well or ill. Mimicking his polite tone, she replied, “I’d rather not speak with you, if you please.”

  “Why?” He shifted to block her again when she would have sidestepped him. “Why avoid me now? First you seek to poison me, then you heal me. One day you seek me out, the next you avoid me at all costs. Christ, Wynne, you do drive a man to madness!”

  Wynne stared up at him, first in dismay, then in frustration. “I am not the perverse one here. You are. And I am hardly the one who has sought you out. I’ve but tried to protect myself and my family from your unwanted attention. And furthermore, if I wished truly to poison you, you would not look nearly so hearty this morning!”

  He gave her a long, assessing look, as if he did measure the depths of her emotion and gauge his own response accordingly. Then he sighed and raked his fingers through his uncombed hair.

  “Come ride with me. We can talk.”

  Wynne shook her head. “No. I’ve other plans, and besides, we’ve nothing to discuss.”

 
“Don’t turn coward on me, Wynne. You’ve been a most worthy opponent up to now. You know we’ve much yet to discuss between us. Why do you fear it so?”

  She could hardly give him an honest answer to that question, so Wynne wisely kept her silence. But she feared his dark, intense stare stole the answer from her heart, for she could not tear her gaze from his. Once more she was overcome by that creeping magic of his, that numbing yet exhilarating sense of connection he managed so easily to forge between them. The time had come to part from him, yet she could not bring herself to say good-bye.

  “Come ride with me,” he repeated as he reached for a flyaway tendril of her waist-length hair. He tugged on it playfully, but his eyes were earnest. “Come ride with me, Wynne. I’ve something to show you that you will want to see.”

  Wynne shook her head again, but more weakly. A self-conscious blush colored her cheeks as her vivid imagination pictured precisely what he meant to show her.

  Why must he of all men affect her so? Why couldn’t some straightforward Welsh fellow do to her heart’s pace what this difficult, devious Englishman did? A practical woman such as she should be drawn to an uncomplicated man with honorable intentions. Yet here she stood, succumbing once more to his potent gaze and magical touch. He wanted but one thing of her, and fool that she was, she wanted to give it to him.

  “You’ve nothing at all that I want to see,” she lied as best she could. But he only smiled.

  ”I fear you do misread my words,” he replied. “I wish only to show you a quiet glade near here. It is very like your own glade at Radnor, damp and overgrown with a wealth of plants. Come ride with me there, Wynne. ’Tis not too far. Come ride out to that glade with me.”

  She wanted to say no, to insist that other tasks awaited her. She had no time to ride about the countryside and no wish to be with him, under the circumstances. But she was suddenly assailed by the terrible knowledge that this would be her last time with him. She would leave tomorrow, never to see him again. That realization was so unbearable that her words of denial died unsaid.

  She reached for her amulet, unaware that she did so, then stared up at him through eyes misted with emotion. “Why are you doing this to me? Why?”

  “Because I must,” he muttered in a voice gone low and husky. He released the lock of hair he’d wound around his finger and let his knuckle slide ever so lightly along her cheek. “Ride with me, Wynne.”

  She did not fight him when he steered her toward the stables. His hand held her arm in a manner no one would have considered less than absolutely proper. Only she and he sensed the tension that crackled so intensely from that slight contact.

  This ride would be their good-bye, Wynne told herself as she let him guide her. She stood silently as he called for two horses, then watched as he assisted the stable boy with their harnessing. In some private glade, away from prying eyes, they would take their leave of one another. He no doubt thought to convince her to stay, but she knew that was impossible. She would take him to her one last time—take him to her heart and to her body. But it would be in farewell.

  And perhaps … perhaps she might get a child of him, the thought came unbidden to her.

  She gasped, and clasped one suddenly shaking hand to her stomach at the very idea. He looked up at her then, not smiling at all, yet nonetheless conveying a wealth of emotion to her, and she knew without a doubt that it was meant to be thus. She could not have him, at least not on terms acceptable to her. But she could have a child of him.

  There was a bittersweet satisfaction in that. Her terrible sorrow, her impending sense of loss, were not assuaged, yet there was a certain solace in knowing she could at least keep that portion of him for herself. And know it she did, in the same inexplicable way she’d first known of his presence in her forest.

  He was the one love of her heart, and their child would be her sole comfort when Cleve was gone from her life.

  More than one set of eyes watched the two of them depart on horseback from the castle.

  “You see,” Arthur said to the other children who crowded silently at the deep window of the twins’ chamber. “I told you they should get married.”

  “You see,” Druce said to Edeline from where they lurked behind the kitchen. “I told you Wynne would not let us down.”

  Only Lord William frowned blearily from where he stood just within the propped-open door to the great hall. Yet even he understood that a man had certain needs. Better that the fellow ease himself on a pretty wench like the Welsh girl than to soil his bride before the wedding ceremony took place. Edeline was his last daughter, his sweet and amenable favorite, who resembled her fragile mother more with every passing day. Better for her virile bridegroom to dull the edge of his lust on another woman. And after all, like her mother, what Edeline did not know would not ever hurt her.

  He only hoped Cleve did not get a bastard on the Welsh girl. Best that a man’s sons sprang from his wife’s belly and no other. He better than anyone knew the truth of that.

  24

  THE GLADE WAS COOL and damp, shaded by a circling ring of towering beeches and softened by a floor of creeping fern and carpet moss. A sparkling pool lay at its heart, and even Wynne could not deny the beauty of the place. A young doe raised her wet muzzle at their entrance, then with a dismissive shake of her tail, bounded away. A flock of crows raised raucous welcome, but they quickly tired of that. By the time Cleve dismounted, only the buzzing of several industrious bees and the croak of a hidden toad broke the ethereal quiet.

  Wynne remained on the gentle palfrey Cleve had selected for her. During the hour-long ride their conversation had been stilted. He’d pointed out landmarks of interest—the distant spire of Saint Mary the Virgin in Derrymoor; the ruined castle at Balingford, one of the many adulterines of King Stephen’s time; the ancient road that led north to Manchester, Lancaster, and the wild country of the Scots far beyond. But Wynne’s replies had been little more than nods and shrugs. What cared she for England’s vast resources? She wanted only one thing of this land now, and that was a child sired by a certain English knight.

  Though she knew her rudeness was foolish under the circumstances, Wynne was nevertheless unable to control it. She’d contracted a dreadful case of nerves, and now as she watched him approach her mount, her heart pounded so violent a rhythm, she was certain he must hear it.

  “ ’Tis … ’tis indeed a lovely spot,” she stammered as he drew to a halt beside her.

  “Aye, but there is even more I would have you see.” He rested one hand on her left knee while he studied her face with sudden uncertainty. But Wynne barely recognized that unexpected emotion in him, for she was too overcome by her fiery reaction to his touch. Anticipation was surely a more potent aphrodisiac than ever the most powerful herb, she dimly realized. If he only knew how sensitized she was to his touch, how eager she was for his caress.

  When he reached his other hand to her, she leaned into his grasp. In an instant he had her down from the saddle, standing before him in the soft, springy earth. For a lingering moment they stared at each other, not speaking words yet conveying nevertheless a world of emotion. Wynne stepped nearer, expecting his hands to slide from her waist to around her back, expecting him to lower his face to meet her upturned lips.

  But Cleve instead tightened his hands on her waist and held her awkwardly at arm’s length.

  “I … I have something for you. There.” Nervous again, he gestured with his head.

  Wynne swallowed her disappointment, then followed the direction of his gaze. At first she did not see the cottage, so hidden was it beyond a pair of apple trees. In addition its stone walls blended into its setting, for it was grown up with vines and mosses, and sheltered beneath a widespread oak growing at its near corner.

  It was clearly abandoned, for no kitchen garden bloomed, nor did the chimney reveal even a trace of smoke. As he urged her toward it, she saw that the thatch was old and the wooden door long removed. But it was a sturdy place and large e
nough for two rooms, not simply one. Had he prepared a pallet for them here?

  They paused at the entryway, and peering in, Wynne saw that the place had recently been swept clean. A pile of leaves and dust and animal leavings mounded just beside the stone stoop, and a broom rested yet against the doorframe.

  “ ’Tis humble, I know,” Cleve began. “But it is large and well built. I’ll have the roof repaired, as well as whatever else is required.” He captured both her hands in his, then backed into the cottage, pulling her along with him. “There’s water nearby, the woodlands you love. And I would not be far away. Plus, you would be near to the twins.”

  Wynne halted in the middle of the fair-sized main room. She’d expected him to try one last time to tempt her to stay. But she’d anticipated a well-planned seduction, a sweet, physical enticement, meant to soften all her objections. On the ride over she had steeled herself to enjoy the seduction, yet not succumb to anything more than that.

  This, however … this was far worse than what she’d prepared herself for. It seemed he’d come to know her so well, for this lovely glade was one she could almost picture herself in. The children would adore it, and she could clearly imagine herself, standing on this very front stoop, watching as Cleve rode up. Waiting for his return to her arms.

  Yet how often would that be? she wondered as reality returned with unpleasant force. Where would he and his wife reside, and how frequently could he spare time for his … his mistress?

  She took a shaky breath and swallowed the lump that had formed so quickly in her throat. To hide the sudden mist in her eyes, she made a slow circuit of the room. Strong walls, broad hearth. Even the floors were good, flat boards laid over a stone base.

  But no matter how fine the accommodations, they were missing one essential. This house would always lack a husband. Cleve did not offer her love and marriage. He offered her lust and a well-constructed cottage. Though he thought it enough—and a part of her was willing to accept it as enough also—she knew it was not. She already had a cottage—a manor house in fact. And as for lust, she feared that was a far too common emotion. Love was far the rarer, and it was love she must have.