Authors: The Bride of Rosecliffe

Rexanne Becnel (4 page)

BOOK: Rexanne Becnel

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“I see that you are well able to protect yourselves, and that is good,” Fitz Hugh answered her uncle’s challenging words, again in a tone that was mild and yet not yielding. “I hope you will think of us as your ally against any enemies that might threaten you with harm. For you will not be so threatened by our presence.”

Dewey had no sooner finished the translation than someone cried out in Welsh, “These are
our
lands!”

Dewey looked nervously at Clyde, who shook his head. Frustrated by her uncle’s caution, Josselyn did not pause to think. She shouted out the translation in Norman French.

At once the mood turned ugly. Her uncle’s head jerked around, searching for her, for she knew he recognized her voice. Someone’s hand took a hard hold of her shoulder. For the most part, however, her Welsh compatriots agreed with the message she’d passed on to the English. This was
Welsh land. They wanted no English overlords. Least of all this most arrogant and condescending Englishman.

Josselyn glared up at the man who had grabbed her. It was Dulas, and she smirked when he recognized her and hastily let her go. Since her uncle already knew she had disobeyed him, she decided there was no reason to hide herself any longer. Squaring her shoulders, she stepped past the others and marched purposefully into the circle of light.

Later she was to recognize that brazen move as her biggest mistake. Not because her uncle would be furious; it was already too late for that. Not because the English lord would see past her disguise, for she did not think he would.

Her mistake was in drawing too near Randulf Fitz Hugh, in stepping into the circle of power that emanated from him, like a light with a life all its own. In meeting his dark, piercing eyes. She glared her defiance at him. He deflected her dislike with an amused grin. Then her uncle drew the man’s attention back to the matter at hand, leaving Josselyn no recourse but to stand there, frustrated and furious. Worried.

“We have work to offer your people,” the Englishman stated. “And the coin to pay for their labor.”

“We have no use for English coin.”

“There are those among you who may feel differently.”

“I rule these people!” her uncle snapped.

The English lord paused before answering. “And who rules after you? You have no sons. But I say to you, Clyde ap Carreg Du, that I will keep the peace. I will not let your Welsh people turn on one another as a means to establish a new leader, as is their wont.”

“’Tis also our wont to unite to drive off our common enemy.”

“And after that to turn on one another again. I repeat. I will keep the peace in Carreg Du, for England and for Wales.”

They stared at one another, neither of them blinking. The English lord was not going to back down. Neither was her
uncle, Josselyn realized. Clyde’s only son had been killed years ago in a raid against the English, while fighting alongside Josselyn’s father. She knew her uncle would rather have a Welshman spill his blood than allow an Englishman to rule Carreg Du.

Behind her Josselyn felt the tension rise in her countrymen. The English lord’s men likewise sensed it, and the warriors among them began to crowd forward, faces hard, hands ready on their hilts.

In the midst of the escalating tension, a figure suddenly emerged from beneath the
domen
. As one, the Welsh and English soldiers gasped and fell back. An apparition? A spirit of Cymru’s druid past?

No. It was Newlin, albeit there were more than a few who believed him an apparition in his own right.

But not Josselyn, and apparently not the English lord either. He did not flinch when Newlin, casting long shadows with his beribboned cloak and sideways gait, clambered up on the top stone that covered the
domen.

“This discussion is done. ’Tis time for meditation. But know you this, English and Welsh alike,” he intoned in Norman French which Dewey translated from a safe distance. “There is a fate oft recited. A lullaby. A prediction. A truth we cannot escape.” He lapsed into Welsh, into the child’s song every son and daughter of the Welsh hills knew.

This time Josselyn translated it for the English lord and his men to hear—and to heed.

When stones shall grow, and trees shall no’,
When noon comes black as beetle’s back
,
When winter’s heat shall cold defeat,
Shall see them all ere Cymru falls.

When he was done, when his voice was merely an echo resounding in the chill, the bard subsided into a squat lump upon the
domen,
an ancient swaying figure that seemed to
draw all the light to himself. An early nightfall had thrust the countryside into darkness. But still within the brave circle of torchlight, Josselyn’s uncle faced the English lord.

“You will never rule Cymru,” Clyde said, not reacting when Josselyn did the translating. “Henry will never rule Cymru. These stones will grow before that happens. The day will turn to night, and winter to summer before any Englishman rules here.”

So saying, he turned and strode away, back to his men, with Dewey and Bower trailing in his wake. Josselyn was slower to react. For some reason she was not reassured by the age-old rhyme. Frowning, she stared at Randulf Fitz Hugh.

He was frowning too. Just a slight crease in his brow that caused the scar there to pucker. He did not like what he’d heard. Her doubts began to recede. But then his dark, assessing gaze turned on her, and a feeling very near panic overwhelmed her.

“I am in need of someone to teach me your language. Will you?”

She’d not expected that, and for a moment she could not find words to respond. Neither French ones, Welsh ones, nor English. Something about the man—or something perverse in her own nature—turned her mouth dry, and her brain to mush.

She shook her head no. It was the best she could manage. Then, fearing to linger a moment longer in his disturbing presence, Josselyn turned and fled to the safety of her countrymen.

So much for bravery, she chastised herself as they made their long, silent march home. So much for her foolish hope that the English would be easily routed and she could be spared a marriage to Owain.

She hated Owain. She hated Randulf Fitz Hugh. At the moment she hated Newlin too. What was his role in all this? Where did his loyalties lie?

Then Dewey fell into step beside her and her spirits fell
lower still. “Your uncle wishes a word with you when we reach the village. And I’ll thank you not to try and take over my role as translator in the future. Interferin’ wench,” he added under his breath.

Josselyn did not honor him with a reply. At that moment she hated him too, and every other man who’d ever crossed her path. Interfering wench, indeed! Wales would be a far better place if women ran things. Any country would be. No fighting. No need for weapons or shields or war animals. Just peace and prosperity and enough food for everyone.

Men! Who needed them at all?

Three

J
osselyn was not so glum come morning. The temperature had plummeted and a late snow had fallen. Despite the stern lecture she’d received from her uncle the night before—or perhaps because of it—she now felt cleansed and renewed. The world was fresh and pristine, its blanket of white unmarred by either man or beast. Likewise, her transgressions were behind her. She could start anew.

After briskly assembling a breakfast of hot mush and bread soaked in milk, she volunteered to distribute the previous day’s leftover bread to the needy. Aunt Ness’s joints ached in the cold so she never minded yielding outdoor tasks to her niece when the wind was this cruel and the cold this bitter. Today, however, Nessie watched Josselyn with unusual intensity.

“You’ll be a good girl, won’t you? You’ll do as your uncle asks, him bein’ like a father to you all these years.”

Josselyn smiled apologetically. “I’m mindful of my responsibilities, Aunt Ness. But I’ve a need to be outside for a while. I’ll be back by midday.”

Now, with only one more stop to make, Josselyn let her mind roam free. The snow crunched beneath her heavy boots. The air was sharp, freezing its way into her lungs. But the sun had burned away the clouds. The snow would probably not last the week. She squinted against the glare,
looking across the narrow valley, marking the path of the River Gyffin by its edging of white-fringed shrubs and heavily laden spruce trees.

How beautiful this valley was. In every season, whether cloaked in white, bursting with green, or emblazoned with gold and red, it was a magical place. Their place. She would never yield it to the English.

But what could she do, short of marrying Owain ap Madoc? She stood in the shadow of an ancient yew, letting the stillness seep over her. Into her. Then she blinked. The Englishman wanted workers, men to help build his castle. He also wanted a translator, she recalled, someone to teach him to speak the native tongue. Perhaps he had work for women as well, women to cook and do laundry, and mend both man and beast. Her breath quickened. What better way to undermine their enemy than from within?

She threw back her woolen hood and took a deep breath, then studied the path that led to Rosecliffe. She was dressed as a woman today. He would not connect her with the outspoken lad from last night.

Besides, she didn’t mean to converse with anyone right away. Most especially not with him. Today she would only observe them, and perhaps speak with Newlin, if she could get his attention.

Resolved, Josselyn hurried to the last cottage in the loose scatter of buildings that made up Carreg Du. The widow Gladys lived there with her three children, but no smoke wafted from the chimney. The place was little more than a hovel, a stone structure with a slanted roof. But its cramped size provided one benefit: it was easy to keep warm. So why was the fire out?

The answer lay sprawled across the single pallet. Gladys, widow of Tomas, was drunk, snoring in great frosty puffs, while her children huddled beneath a pair of ragged blankets. At Josselyn’s noisy entrance the eldest child peered out at her.

“Our mam is sick,” the girl explained. “She’s sick, that’s all.”

“Sick,” Josselyn muttered, laying the bread on the scarred table, the only piece of furniture in the frigid hut. She turned toward the fire. Thankfully a few embers yet glowed. “Did you bank this fire, Rhonwen?”

“Aye,” the child said. “But there’s no firewood left to keep it goin’.”

No firewood. No food. Of course, there had been enough spirits to make a grown woman neglect her poor, fatherless children. Furious with Gladys, yet mindful that the woman still mourned the loss of her husband, Josselyn funneled her anger into action. “Come along. I’m taking you home with me. Leave the bread for your mother,” she added when Rhonwen stared hungrily at it. “Aunt Ness will give you warm mush and cheese.”

Rhonwen shoved her tangled hair from her brow. The promise of a warm meal was enough for her. With a deftness a nine-year-old should not possess, she scooped up her three-year-old sister with one arm and her infant brother with the other. When the baby began to wail, the girl looked up at Josselyn and shrugged. “He’s wet. And hungry. D’ye have any milk?”

Josselyn’s lips pinched together in frustration. “We’ll find something to satisfy him. Come along, now.”

When the child sent a worried glance back at her snoring parent, however, Josselyn’s frustration dissolved. Poor motherless child. Rhonwen’s mother neglected her, yet she hesitated to abandon the woman. Before she could change her mind, Josselyn flung the blankets over Gladys. Then she herded the children out of the cottage, slamming the door as she went.

Aunt Ness would take them in, at least for the duration of this cold spell. After that they’d have to parcel the children out among their relatives. Someone had to mind them until their mother was once more up to the task.

The morning was almost gone before Josselyn could slip
away again. Aunt Ness had gathered the forlorn little brood into her arms like a mother hen too long without chicks of her own. The baby quieted under her ministrations, and the younger girl trundled along in her wake like a tiny, thumb-sucking shadow. Rhonwen, however, clung to Josselyn. She followed her now outside into the fenced courtyard.

“Where are you goin’? Can I come too?” the child begged.

“Not today,” Josselyn said. When the hollow-eyed little girl stared longingly at her, however, she almost relented. Then she reminded herself of her destination. The English encampment was no place for a child. “Not today,” she repeated, frowning to emphasize her words. “Mind little Cordula and Davit. I’ll return before long. And I’ll tell you a story after supper,” she added when the girl did not budge.

That got a response. Rhonwen’s eyes brightened and she backed toward the house. “A story. I like stories. Are there dragons in it? And faeries? And a handsome warrior to slay the dragon?”

“Of course there are.”

Satisfied, Rhonwen ran into the house without further comment. As Josselyn turned toward the path that led to Rosecliffe she was smiling. Dragons and faeries and a handsome warrior. How like a child. Now she’d have to think up some story to satisfy the girl.

Once beyond the village, however, and on the snow-shrouded path to Rosecliffe, she was struck by an unhappy thought. She was off to spy on a dragon even now, the English king’s castle-building invader. The faerie bard Newlin might help her. Or he might not.

But who was to play the part of her handsome warrior?

Randulf Fitz Hugh’s face flashed in her mind. A rugged face, scarred and limned by torchlight. Some might call him handsome. She might, were he not a hated Englishman. But he was English, an English dragon come to do her people
harm. She would not call him handsome. So who did that leave? Owain?

Frowning, she pushed on, climbing the hills, maneuvering up the slippery slope. Owain ap Madoc was not ugly to look at, but that was the only good thing she could say of him. He’d married young and sired a son, and had been widowed now almost a year. That much she knew—and also that he scared her to death. Had he killed poor Tomas? It could never be proven, but in her heart, she believed he had. She shuddered in horror and paused to catch her breath, leaning against the peeling trunk of a towering sycamore tree. The image of sad, drunken Gladys and her hapless brood preyed upon her mind. No, Owain was no handsome warrior to save Josselyn or anybody else from the threat of the dragon. If anything, he was worse than the dragon itself. So what was she to do? She was caught between the enemy English and the enemy Welsh.

She would simply have to be her own warrior, she decided. She would have to find a way to undermine the English presence in their part of Wales. Uncle Clyde might disapprove, but he could not stop her. And in the end he would thank her—and she would not have to ensure the safety of Carreg Du and her people through a marriage to Owain.

She pulled her shawl over her head and shivered with the cold. Or was it fear that sent an icy chill racing down her back? She stamped her feet, chasing away both the cold and her fear. She was almost there. She would not turn back now. She would spy on the English and plot a way to gain entrance to their camp. And somehow—somehow—she would rid herself of their presence on her lands.

And save herself from the Welsh bully as well.

When she reached the edge of the forest below Rosecliffe, the Englishmen were working despite the snow. Not digging though. The ground was probably too hard. Instead several gangs of men cut down trees, cleaned them of their limbs, and dragged them up the hill.

Josselyn settled herself behind a tree with a split trunk and studied the scene before her. Five stakes with red flags tied to them seemed to mark the corners of an immense structure. Surely that Fitz Hugh fellow did not mean to build a stone keep so large!

She’d seen two castles in her life, both of them heavily fortified keeps three stories tall. But they had not been one-tenth the size of this structure marked out on the crest of Rosecliffe.

And why had they begun another ditch so far from the castle? She’d heard of a moated castle but she’d not pictured anything remotely this big. Her gaze returned to the nearest knot of men. They’d cleaned a log near the edge of the forest and one of them now hitched a pair of draft horses to it. Another man knelt on one knee beyond the far horse.

When he stood, however, Josselyn’s breath caught in her chest. Randulf Fitz Hugh himself. And he labored beside his men. Were it not for his excessive height, Josselyn would not have recognized him at all, because he had shed any symbols of his rank and, like the others, wore rough hose and braies, and a plain chainse and sleeveless tunic.

She strained forward, trying to see what he did. Struggling to hear what he said. But the glare on the snow was too bright, and their voices muffled by the distance. He patted the horse once, then when someone hailed him, looked over his shoulder.

The red-bearded man was hurrying over to him, hunched into his flapping cloak, gripping a rolled parchment in his hand. At once Josselyn’s focus shifted to that parchment. If only she could see it.

If only she could steal it!

The two men walked apart from the others, and while the work crew urged the horses up the hill with their load, Fitz Hugh and Redbeard bent over the parchment. They were so intent on their discussion that Josselyn took a chance. There was a shrubby stand of hollies to her left,
forward of where she now hid. Perhaps from there she’d be better able to hear.

Slowly she crept forward, watching them all the time.

Redbeard pointed down the hill and Fitz Hugh gestured in Josselyn’s direction. At once she dropped to her knees, holding her breath while her heart beat a deafening rhythm in her ears. Both men stared. Did they see her? Then Redbeard made a sweeping gesture with his hand and stabbed the parchment once more with his mittened finger.

Josselyn was almost too frightened to move. Almost. Slowly she gathered her feet beneath her. Slowly she inched forward again.

“ … harder to dig. But the stones are better …” The wind carried Redbeard’s voice briefly to her, then away.

“How is the second well coming?”

That she heard clearly, in a voice she recognized well, though she’d heard it but one other time. Two wells? Her village used river water, but that was not good enough for the English. They needed two wells for their water. If only there was a way for her to sabotage their plans!

Then a shriek rent the winter quiet, a shrill child’s cry that made Josselyn’s blood run cold. Her head jerked around, searching for its source. She hadn’t seen any children among the English.

No sooner was that thought formed than she realized how stupid it was. And how dangerous matters had just become. For it was panicked Welsh cries that she heard.
“No! Let me go! Help
.
Help!”

It was a Welsh child they’d captured!

As one Fitz Hugh and Redbeard whirled about. The shorter man frowned at something beyond Josselyn’s right shoulder, while Fitz Hugh strode purposefully toward the contretemps.

Josselyn shrank deeper into the dubious protection of the hollies. What had happened? What should she do?

From somewhere behind her a man laughed, then let out a cry of pain. “The bloody brat bit me!”

“Keep your hand out of his mouth then,” Fitz Hugh replied as he passed not ten paces from Josselyn’s hiding spot.

“It’s a girl,” the other Englishman responded peevishly. “Too bad she’s not a mite older,” he added. “I could think of a good use for her if she was.”

Josselyn knew what that meant, and her fear trebled. English warriors had only one use for Welsh women. Everyone knew that. Then the child shrieked again and let out a string of curse words no child should know.

Josselyn recognized that voice. Rhonwen! The child had followed her!

“Give me the saucy little wench,” Fitz Hugh growled.

Without pausing to think of the consequences, Josselyn shot out of the holly stand. She would not let them hurt a child!

“Behind you, m’lord!” somebody shouted.

BOOK: Rexanne Becnel

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