His fervent words so took her by surprise that Wynne was forced to brush an escaping tear from her cheek.
“I will keep my vow,” he added. “About the twins’ education and about their marriage prospects. They’ve just been reminding me that they are to wed by their own choice—for love, as Rhys says. I promise you that I shall not forget. And you, of course, shall be well informed of every aspect of their lives.”
He smiled, then shifted awkwardly on his bad leg. Arthur was quick to hand him his cane, and Lord William tousled the boy’s head fondly. “You are, every one of you, always welcome at Kirkston Castle or any other of my houses and demesnes. Should you ever need help, I hope you will count me as your ally. Your friend.”
Wynne watched through misty eyes as he moved ponderously away. She was doing the right thing to leave Rhys and Madoc with their father. She knew that now. So why did it hurt so terribly?
She fell to her knees with arms outstretched, and at once five small bodies hurtled into her embrace.
“Why can’t you stay?” Rhys cried, all bravado gone in the face of their impending separation.
“Don’t go, Wynne. Don’t,” Madoc sobbed against her neck.
Rhys and Madoc so seldom wept, Wynne thought as misery washed over her. They never wept, nor did she used to either. But as she clung to them, she cried, weeping as if her heart had broken, never to be mended again. She held to them and they held to her, a small, fragile family formed against all odds, then broken apart when it had seemed they’d already gotten past the worst life could throw at them.
But nothing was as bad as this. Nothing.
“Now, boys. Listen to me, sweetlings,” she managed to say in a choked voice. “We part today, I know. But not forever. For we shall visit. You to Radnor Manor, and we …” She paused, fearful to promise to return to this place. What if Cleve should be here too?
“You will come back to visit us—”
“—won’t you, Wynne?” the two boys pleaded.
She nodded. “Yes. Yes, of course I will. I love you both too much not to visit you. Now.” She took a shaky breath and forced a smile. “Let’s dry our faces, shall we? Here, use the lining of my mantle.”
Once they were all dried and standing upright again, Wynne looked over her little brood. Such a varied lot: fair and dark; delicate and brawny. “We must leave you now. But in our hearts we’ll still be together. We’re still a family and … and I love you so much.”
She pulled Rhys and Madoc into a smothering embrace. “I love you so much,” she whispered against their dark curls, breathing in the familiar scent of them, sweet and sweaty. Earthy. It would be so long before she could again do this. “Never forget how much I love you.”
It was a solemn group that made its way from the garden to the castle yard. The horses stood ready. Lord William’s men who were to accompany them relaxed as they waited, saying their casual farewells to family and friends. Though Barris stood among them, Wynne saw at once that Druce was not there. Nor was Edeline.
But Cleve was.
When Arthur saw Cleve, he broke into a run. Though Wynne would rather have looked anywhere but at their emotional farewell, her eyes would not be forced away. As if they anticipated the long days of their impending fast, her eyes feasted upon Cleve, seeing all the good things—his strength, his vitality. His gentleness. He would make a wonderful father, the unbidden thought came once more. A wonderful father and a good husband—that is, if he did not take a mistress, as he’d meant to take her.
That thought sobered her, and she was able at last to tear her eyes away. Though she heard him take his leave of the girls, and Barris as well, she concentrated on her placid mare, settling herself comfortably upon it. Then Barris put the children into the wagon Lord William had provided for their journey, and they were ready to go.
Still the call to depart did not come, and Wynne knew with a sinking certainty why. Cleve crossed the yard, before Lord William and his various daughters and sons-in-law and everyone else, and halted beside her left knee.
“Safe journey, Wynne.”
She didn’t want to meet his gaze, though courtesy demanded it. Still, it was not courtesy that turned her eyes toward him. It was her insatiable need to look into his eyes one last time. Despite all that lay between them—his need for lands and a title; her need to have him want only her, for herself and nothing else—at that moment she could not see him as anything but the man she loved.
She opened her mouth to speak, then consciously had to force the words to come. “Ffarwel,” she whispered as her eyes drank in this last sight of him. “I … I wish you well, Cleve FitzWarin. You and … and Edeline.”
Then she jerked her horse about and, because tears blinded her, trusted the animal to find its way through the crowded courtyard. She heard the wagon start forward, and the restless shuffling of the other eager animals. But they were simply background sounds. In her ears she heard only Cleve’s low and rumbling voice. He’d said once that he loved her. But today he’d just said good-bye.
26
RHYS AND MADOC STOOD in the narrow stairhall, pressed against the rough stone wall with stick-swords clutched in their fists. “It’s that door,” Rhys pointed at a solid, closed portal.
“What if it isn’t?” Madoc asked. “What if she’s not there?”
“Then we’ll keep on lookin’ till we find her. We’re spies, remember? We have a war to win.”
“A war to win,” Madoc repeated, his face brightening. “All right, then. Let’s go.”
They crept toward the door then, and when it seemed safe—no one was about at all this hot afternoon—they pressed their ears to the cracks around the door.
“I don’t hear anything.”
“Maybe she’s asleep.”
As one they pushed the door, then jumped when the old hinges creaked in protest.
“Go away,” the muffled words came, thick and petulant. “Go away, I said!”
The boys stared at each other, gathering courage. Then they pushed the door fully open and ventured into Lady Edeline’s chamber.
Because the room faced the courtyard instead of an outer castle wall, the window slits were wider and the chamber was well lit, though no candles burned within. It was simply furnished save for the fine bed that dominated the low-ceilinged space. The bed was huge with four massive posts and generous drapings of forest-green bed linens. All in all, just the thing to capture two small boys’ imaginations. That bed could easily become a mighty fortress or a storm-tossed ship. Or it could be a hidden mountain hideaway.
The twins advanced forward as one, diverted from their task by the vast possibilities of this high, enclosed bed. But when Lady Edeline sat up abruptly, they stumbled to a halt. Their fortress was already occupied. What were they to do now?
“I said go away,” Edeline demanded, glaring at them. But when she spied only two small boys staring up at her with twin faces reflecting both guilt and determination, she let out a frustrated sigh and slapped at the deep, down-filled mattress. She’d expected her father, but these two were almost worse. “What do you want?” she asked, flopping down on her back to stare up at the knot of gathered fabric above her head.
She heard them shuffle forward but did not bother to look over at them. One of them cleared his throat. “We … uh … we think you should marry Druce, not Cleve.”
With a jerk Edeline sat up. “What? No—” she cut off the other one when he would have repeated his brother’s words. “I heard what you said. But … but why do you think that?”
The two glanced at each other, then both turned their almost-black eyes upon her. “Can we get up on your bed?”
“It’s much nicer than ours.”
“Yes of course. Get up right here. Now”—she faced them on her knees—“why do you want me to marry Druce?”
“Because you love him.”
“And Druce loves you.” One of them jabbed his stick at a thick fold of drapery. “Wynne said we only have to marr
y who we want—”
“—only we don’t want to marry anybody,” the other one added. Then he tackled his brother, and they began to roll around, balling themselves up in her rumpled bedcovers amidst much giggling and shouts of glee.
“Wait. Just wait a minute,” she protested, catching them in her arms. She forced them to face her. “You may play in my bed all afternoon if you like. Only first explain something to me. Did Druce tell you to talk to me? Or … or Wynne?”
“Arthur did,” they chorused. “He said you love Druce, not Cleve, and Wynne loves Cleve. So you should marry Druce.”
“Arthur? You mean the other lad?”
“Arthur is very smart,” one of the boys replied sagely, while the other nodded agreement.
“That may very well be true, but Father will never agree to let me marry Druce. Nor will Sir Cleve step aside,” Edeline added morosely.
“Arthur says we have to change their minds,” the one with the scar on his brow said.
Edeline pursed her lips. “Which one are you?”
“I’m Rhys—”
“—and I’m Madoc.”
“And just how does Arthur expect us to change my father’s—our father’s mind?”
“Well, he says we can talk him into anything—”
“—’cause he’s so glad to find us—”
“—and because Isolde said he really loved our mother—”
“—a lot.”
Edeline sat back on her heels. “He was married to my mother. He should never have—” She broke off in mid-sentence and for a moment only stared at the pair before her. Though she resented them on many levels, she could not deny that they were a rather appealing pair, with their dark, curling hair and sparkling eyes. She’d not been able to understand her father’s obsessive need to find them. But now, facing them, her resentment began to fade. Maybe it was true. Maybe her father had loved their mother. She was certain he’d never truly loved hers.
“How does Isolde know he loved your mother?”
“Because she’s got the vision—”
“—just like Wynne.”
Edeline let that sink in as she mulled things over, until the boys began to get restless once more. “Rhys. Madoc. Just wait a moment. Tell me, does Cleve love Wynne?”
“Bronwen says he does,” Madoc answered. He leaped up and whirled about, then collapsed on top of his brother.
Druce had said the same, she thought as the energetic pair began to wrestle in earnest. If that was true, perhaps Arthur was right. Maybe if she played on her father’s sentiments …
That would still leave Cleve, of course. But if he was offered some other reward, one that might not include a wife but was nevertheless generous … And of course if she acted the shrew toward him. If he was to find her the most unappealing of wives …
Cleve pushed Ceta as hard and fast as the gallant steed could go. Wynne had headed west, so he rode east. The more miles between them, the better, he thought bitterly. The farther she was from him, the less he would feel this cruel tearing of his heart. It was as if he were being ripped into shreds, as if a part of him were drawn, despite his will, to the misty hills of Wales, and especially the dark, mysterious forest at Radnor.
But that was an absurd thought. Wales held nothing for him. He would be just another poor, landless knight there. Hadn’t he struggled the past fifteen years to do better than that?
He rode until he was exhausted and Ceta could go no farther. Behind them the sun had dipped beneath the topmost branches of the forest, and long fingers of shadows crept forward, covering everything with impending darkness.
He dismounted, then leaned his head against Ceta’s heaving flank. “Sorry, old fellow. Sorry,” Cleve muttered, cursing his recklessness for pushing a valuable animal so hard. He forced himself upright and began to walk the weary animal, following the narrow road blindly, just walking ever eastward until a light in the distance caught his eyes. Only then did Cleve look around, gaining his bearings. He was near to Purvis, he realized. There was a stream ahead where he and Ceta could refresh themselves, and he could seek shelter at Purvis Castle. After all, once he wed the Lady Edeline, Purvis would become their home. Lord William’s retainers there might as well meet their new master now, and he could ascertain how well they maintained the place in between visits from their liege lord.
With that task in mind, he increased their pace, and after a short interlude at the trickling beck, they approached Edeline’s dower castle.
Though night had well and truly enveloped the land, a brilliant quarter moon lit the fields before the castle. Cleve paused on the road, examining the small stone keep set high upon an open mound. A stout stone wall would be needed, he decided, perhaps built upon the existing ring mound, if that proved sufficient space for the other buildings he envisioned. A granary. A stone kitchen—not the wooden lean-to that abutted the keep’s farthermost side. Stables. A chapel.
He urged Ceta forward, then just as quickly reined in. Inexplicably he couldn’t bear the thought of sleeping at Purvis. Not tonight.
But that was idiotic, a rational voice countered, urging him toward the keep. If he did not sleep at Purvis, then where? The open fields or forest? On the hard ground with neither food nor drink to fill his belly?
Yet still Cleve could not do it. Ceta danced in a tight circle, sensing an end to the hard day’s ride and a generous portion of feed, but Cleve kept him in rein. He did not want to sleep at Purvis. It was the last place in the world where he could find comfort this night.
With a vicious oath at his own perversity he drew the protesting destrier about. What a maudlin fool he’d become. And all on account of one impossible woman. He would just have to find himself a mossy place to lie down, cover himself with his mantle, and his rumbling belly be damned.
Once he headed west, however, his destination became suddenly clear to him. He would find the cottage, the commodious abode he’d offered to Wynne.
This time it was the rational portion of his mind that rebelled. To enter that cozy place—to lie where he and Wynne had lain together—now that was truly madness.
Yet once fixed on his destination, Cleve knew he could not turn back. Wynne was gone from him forever, but her memory still burned inside his heart. He knew somehow that it always would. How much worse could it be to revel in those memories just this one last time?
Lord William remained in his chair once the last of the day’s business was complete. King Solomon had never done so well, Lord William thought as he rubbed his belly. He’d successfully negotiated an agreement between the two freehold tanners in his largest village, Chipping Way. He’d resolved a dispute about water rights, sentenced a pair of thieves to the stocks, and granted three men the right to marry.
When his belly rumbled hungrily, he rubbed the considerable expanse once more. But even as he wondered how long it would be before the evening meal would be served, another part of his mind lingered on the subject of marriages—more specifically on Edeline’s impending marriage to Sir Cleve.
What the devil was wrong with the girl? he wondered, not for the first time that day. She was pale as a wraith, hiding in her chamber the livelong day. And when she did come out, a skittish hart could not have been more wary, fearful of hunters at every turn. It was becoming more and more clear, however, that the only hunter Edeline feared was her bridegroom, Sir Cleve.
But why? The man was young and handsome. He had all his teeth, for pity’s sake, and all his hair. He even had a courtly manner—save with that Welshwoman. With her he was curt and demanding. Surly, even. And therein, Lord William feared, lay the problem.
“John,” he bellowed. “Refill my cup. And bring me a joint of meat from the kitchen.” While he waited for the refreshment that would tide him over until the evening meal, Lord William drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the grainy tabletop.
Cleve had disappeared yesterday, shortly after the Welshwoman had left with her three children. Edeline had taken to her bed shor
tly thereafter. Cleve had ridden off to the east. That had been verified by the midday watch. He’d ridden east while Wynne ab Gruffydd had headed west toward Radnor and Wales. Clearly he did not pursue her.
Yet that meant nothing. Hadn’t he himself once abandoned a woman he loved, angry when she would not leave her home and come to England with him? Lord William’s brow furrowed as he recalled that long-ago day, still so fresh in his memory. Could Cleve and this Welsh girl be as cursed as he and Angel were? Could they love and yet be unable to overcome their differences?
John filled Lord William’s goblet, then left the ewer close at hand. A serving wench placed a trencher before him bearing a fleshy joint of mutton, yet Lord William’s appetite had suddenly waned. He should not give a thought to the youthful yearnings of two people not under his care. Yet he did owe each of them a debt. The one had raised his sons into strong, sturdy lads, and the other had found them for him.
But there was Edeline to consider. Her first bridegroom had succumbed to a fever. Cleve would make a good husband to her and a strong addition to the Somerville family. Though the girl was anxious about her impending marriage to him, perhaps in time they would come to love one another.
He was sunk in thought, playing idly with his goblet, when Rhys and Madoc burst into the hall. At once Lord William brightened. With them at least he had no doubts. They were his sons, borne by his beloved Angel, whom he never should have left behind. But at least he had them now, and as so often occurred when they were with him, he had the sure sense that Angel observed him from her heavenly abode. And that she approved.
“Father, Father!” the irrepressible pair chorused as they charged across the slate-floored hall.
“What say you, lads?” Then he grimaced as he spied their begrimed condition. From head to toe they were both filthy, as if they’d rolled about in a muddy hole. And they stank. He wrinkled his nose at their rank odor.
“By damn, have you two taken up residence in the pigsty? What have you been about?”
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