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Authors: The Bride of Rosecliffe

BOOK: Rexanne Becnel
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“I planned to wed you to Josselyn, and in that way ensure the peace here.”
Jasper digested that in silence. “’Twas a logical plan,” he finally said. “Though I would not have agreed to it.”
Rand sent him an irritated look. “You would have if I promised you control of Rosecliffe upon its completion.” He watched his brother weigh that momentous pronouncement.
The younger man shrugged. “Mayhap I would have married her at that. She was not unpleasant to look upon. And Welshwomen are said to be a lusty lot, though I’ve not had one yet myself. How was she?” He grinned at Rand.
Rand held his temper in but barely. Jasper wanted to rile him but he would not succeed. Besides, Rand did not wish
to discuss that devious wench with this whelp. “’Tis a moot point. She is lost to us and will no doubt wed some Welshman.”
“You say that as if you think she will not wed Owain. God pity her if she does,” the boy added more bitterly. “He wanted to sever my entire hand, you know.”
“Clyde stopped him?”
Jasper stared at his bandaged right hand. “He did not know I am left-handed, so meant to cut off what he thought was my sword hand. Clyde argued against it, saying the small finger was adequate proof of their intent. But Owain would have none of it. It was a child, a little girl, who swayed the man.”
“A little girl? His daughter?”
“No, a child of Carreg Du.” He shook his head and grimaced. “She was a bloodthirsty little wench. She swore she would be content to see me hacked to pieces and sent to you in two willow baskets strapped to a donkey’s back. But only if Josselyn were safe. She feared you would retaliate in kind against Josselyn if my hand were cut off so she insisted on only the little finger.”
Rand could not believe such a tale. “Owain listens to a child? He accepts the commands of a tiny maid?” Then he shook his head. “How would you know what was said, anyway? They are Welsh.”
“I have not been idle these last months,” he answered hotly. “When I learned you would come to Wales, I made it my business to learn the tongue. After learning Latin, it was no difficulty at all. As for the girl, she held her own hostage.”
It was Osborn’s turn to express his doubt. “A child holding a hostage?” He smirked. “That blow you took has addled your brains, boy.”
Jasper leaned forward, intent. “She held Owain’s son hostage somewhere in the woods. There was a terrible row over it. Owain struck the child down, then Clyde struck him down. I thought they’d kill one another and me as well.
But in the end I was returned with my hand still attached, and all on account of this girl child.”
Rand stood, crossed to the hearth, then stared into the spitting embers. He remembered a brave little girl, first in the woods that day he met Josselyn, later in the trees beyond the wall, throwing rocks at him in a vain attempt to gain Josselyn’s freedom. Could she be the same one Jasper spoke of? No doubt it was. She’d been brave then, but she was even braver now to incur Owain’s wrath, brave and loyal and foolish in the extreme. Owain was not a man to forgive anyone who bested him, least of all a girl. She’d made him a laughingstock and he would not soon forget it.
Would he vent his rage upon Josselyn as well?
Rand suppressed a shudder, afraid for her and for the girl. He should not feel that way. After all, they were his enemies. He should rejoice at the dissension among the Welsh, for it only did him good.
He turned away from the fire, banishing any concern he felt for either of them. Josselyn had made her loyalties plain. She’d wanted to escape the English camp, and so she had. Now she would have to live with the consequences, as would they all.
T
he first day of Josselyn’s return, the people of Carreg Du rejoiced.
The second day they cowered beneath Owain’s rage.
The third they watched silently as marriage united their village to that of Afon Bryn.
It would not be an easy union, every last villager knew that, and the celebrations were subdued. For her part, Josselyn vowed to be a good wife and loyal to her new husband.
Madoc ap Lloyd was the only one who appeared well pleased with the situation. Owain did not even attend the wedding. But his soldiers did, for they were Madoc’s soldiers first, and with his assertion of authority—and Owain’s humiliation at the hands of a child—they had all been reminded who still ruled the Lloyd holdings.
Let Owain rage that his father had wedded the woman he’d thought to make his wife. Madoc reveled as one who’d rediscovered his youth. He laughed. He ate. He toasted his beautiful young wife.
He drank too much and fell asleep in his marriage bed, and did not even attempt to consummate the union.
Josselyn lay beside him, listening to his snores, desperately preparing herself to do her duty. What he’d not done last night he was certain to do upon waking, and if not
then, then tonight once they returned to Afon Bryn.
She was his wife now and she should be glad, for he would make a far better husband than would Owain. Still, her skin crawled at the thought of lying naked beneath him. She sickened at the idea of his tongue inside her mouth, his mouth feasting on her flesh, his manhood thrusting inside her.
With a strangled cry she rolled from the bed and huddled in the farthest corner of the room. Though she knew she should not, she thought of Rand. She would not feel this revulsion were he her husband.
But that was no comfort. Rand was the one that should repulse her. He was her enemy, and she should be revolted by her easy acquiescence to him. But the truth was, she wanted him. She wanted him in her bed, just as he resided already in her heart. It was not that Madoc was old. It was that she was besotted with Rand. Even Rand’s brother, young and virile, had not appealed to her. He was not Rand. No other man could be.
But Rand does not want to marry you,
she reminded herself. He might have solved his woes by doing so, but he’d chosen not to.
She was a fool to mourn his loss when he clearly did not mourn hers.
Did he know she’d not wed Owain?
 
Rand learned Josselyn had not wed Owain when Newlin appeared, seated on top of the
domen
one misty morning a week later. The bard had been absent, as had all the Welsh people. They’d stayed close to their village, venturing out only into the forests and hills away from Rosecliffe. Rand knew because he’d posted a discreet watch on Carreg Du.
His men had strict orders not to accost anyone, save in defense of their own lives. But they were to report every movement, and what little they’d seen had depressed him mightily—and angered him as well.
A large party had left Carreg Du, a woman amongst
them. They’d traveled under a heavy drizzle, so little else could be noted. She’d ridden beside a man, both of them mounted on the finest horseflesh, and he’d known at once that the deed was done. She was wed. With that single act the Welsh had united against him and he had lost Josselyn.
He’d told himself it was the former he’d most wanted to prevent. Now, mired in his darkest and most private thoughts, the truth would not be denied. He could fight the Welsh, united or not, and eventually he would make them see the value of one powerful lord to keep peace in these lands. But he could find no remedy for Josselyn’s absence from his life.
Even when Newlin revealed the identity of Josselyn’s new husband, Rand was little consoled. “At least he cannot be so cruel as his son,” he muttered. Then he fixed Newlin with a hard gaze. “Am I wrong in this?”
Newlin sat staring at a finch that scolded some unseen intruder in its domain. After a while he blinked and turned to face Rand. “Owain is his father’s son. Madoc was a hard man in his youth. Hard on his first wife, who bore him but the one son. Hard on his second, who died giving him a daughter. Hard with an anger he took out on anyone so unwise as to cross him. But he is old now. He covets his fire and his comforts. And if his new wife does not bear him another child …” Newlin shrugged his shriveled shoulder. “I do not think he will care, so long as she sees to his other needs.”
They talked of other matters after that. Of the wet weather, and the quarrying of native stone, and the strengthening signs of spring. But in the back of Rand’s mind lurked an image of Josselyn lying beside an old man. An older Owain. Rage rose in his throat to choke him, and he fought the urge to throttle someone. Anyone. He cut the bard off in mid-sentence.
“If she thinks she has outwitted me—If any of them think that due to their union I will abandon my plans to
raise a castle for my king on this site—they are wrong. They cannot fight me and think to win.”
Newlin’s odd face creased in a frown. “Is there no other way?”
Rand did not answer. Perhaps there had been another way once. If instead of sending for Jasper, he’d seriously considered marrying Josselyn himself … But he’d refused to consider it. His political ambitions had come first, and she didn’t fit into them. He’d refused to consider it then, and it was too late now for him to indulge in regrets.
 
Summer came with green meadows and new lambs. Fledgling birds took to the skies, and everywhere were the signs of burgeoning life.
Josselyn felt them too. Her breasts grew heavier. Her monthly courses ceased. Her waist thickened even as her appetite paled. But she hid the truth, if not from herself, at least from all the others. She carried the beginnings of a child deep inside her. Only it was not her husband’s child, and therein lay her terrible dread.
Madoc had tried. The first night they’d returned to Afon Bryn. The second also. He’d stripped her naked and rubbed his hands over her, pinching her nipples, though not too painfully. Josselyn had lain still and fought any sign of revulsion. She’d agreed to this. She would not renege on her vows.
But his manhood had remained flaccid.
He’d forced her to touch him, to rouse him. And so she had, but again without success. In the end he’d drunk himself into a stupor and so the pattern had been set.
Now, however, she carried a child. Rand’s child.
Madoc was not an unkind husband, though he treated her more as a daughter than a wife. Still, he made twice-weekly visits to her bedchamber and she went along with the charade.
For her part, Josselyn was acutely attuned to his needs. She learned his habits, his favorite foods and drinks. She
carved him the best joints of meat, kept his clothes in perfect repair, cleaned his weapons as he requested, trimmed his hair, and bathed him once a week. She prepared a concoction of mint and wormwood and juniper berries to aid his digestion, and a poultice of hyssop for the itch that plagued his feet. He slapped her bottom when he was pleased with her. Otherwise he did not much concern himself with her. There was, after all, a battle to be fought against the English.
This particular morning was wash day, not a day she particularly looked forward to. She and Meriel gathered the soiled clothing and household linens in a basket and carried it between them to the village well in the square just beyond the front door. From across the village women came to scrub and talk and pass the time away from their husbands and fathers. The younger children and babies accompanied them and Josselyn found herself staring at the babies with uncommon interest.
Meriel gave her a sly look. “Mayhap there will soon be one of them in your arms, eh?”
Josselyn concentrated on sorting the laundry. “I suppose it is every woman’s desire to bear children.”
“So it is,” Meriel replied, but in such an odd tone that Josselyn looked up. The other woman’s lips were set in a thin line and she looked angry. Then Josselyn remembered that Meriel’s marriage had produced no children. Though the woman was nervous and sly, she was the only female companionship Josselyn had. The last thing she wanted was to alienate her.
“I’m sorry if my words were thoughtless, Meriel. It must be a hard thing to want a child and not have one.”
Meriel’s brow lowered further. She jerked a bed sheet so hard Josselyn heard a small rip. “When a woman has no children after ten years with one husband, no other man will have her. They all believe it’s the woman who is at fault.” Then she looked up and stared straight into Josselyn’s
eyes. “Sometimes it’s the men who can’t do their part, if you know what I mean.”
Josselyn could do no more than nod. Her heart beat like a drum. Did Meriel know about Madoc? Is that what she was implying? For if she did, she would know also that the child Josselyn bore could not be his.
And she would guess whose it was. Would she then run to Madoc and tell him her suspicions?
There was no help for it. Josselyn had to tell him first.
She waited for him that afternoon. He’d ridden out early with a small party of men, armed as if for battle. In the past two months there had been much debate on how to drive the English out. But beyond several raids and the theft of one cow, it amounted to little more than talk.
It was because Owain had departed the village, Josselyn suspected. He was the fire and daring of this village. Madoc was too old. Owain and the three men closest to him had departed Carreg Du the day her marriage to Madoc had been announced and had not been seen since.
Josselyn had been much relieved by his absence. Owain’s son, Rhys, had also disappeared. Madoc had expressed no concern for either his son or grandson, nor had Meriel. But one evening when he was well into his cups, Josselyn caught him fingering a wooden sword, a neatly carved miniature of a warrior’s weapon. A child’s toy, she realized. Rhys’s?
When he’d seen her watching, he’d thrust the thing aside. But Josselyn had rescued it from the rushes and placed it in a cupboard for safekeeping. As she sat now, waiting for Madoc on a bench in the sunshine, she bent to her sewing, worrying about her husband’s reaction to her news. Would he beat her? Would he kill the child?
The breath caught in her throat as panic assailed her. He wouldn’t be that cruel. He couldn’t. She pressed a hand to her stomach, cradling the new life in her. Her child. Rand’s child.
Two women passed by and she bent again to her stitching.
“Anxious to see your husband?” Meriel came up and sat beside her, wiping her hands on her apron. Her fingers were knobby from work, the skin red and cracked.
“I can make an ointment for your hands with dog grass.”
Meriel snorted. “These are not times for foraging in the open places where that grows. Madoc would not like it.”
“Perhaps I can convince him to accompany me,” Josselyn answered, more tartly than she ought. There was something in the other woman’s tone, some sly undercurrent that Josselyn neither liked nor understood.
“Hah! He’s no lovestruck lad to be trailing after you. ’Tis not his nature, and well should I know it. He and I were born but two weeks apart. Cousins but raised like brother and sister—” She broke off and stood. “He may have wed you, but he’ll not play the fool for you.”
Josselyn shook her head. “I want no fool for a husband.”
Meriel shot her a look of intense dislike, an emotion more honest than any other Josselyn had detected. But their conversation ended in the thunder of hooves, for up from the valley rode Madoc. Josselyn stood to watch and saw with swift dismay that her husband led a larger party than before.
Owain rode at his side.
The news spread like wildfire. Owain had returned—cruel, powerful Owain who would one day lead them and whose goodwill was sought by one and all. Owain had returned with his three men, his snarling child, and a very pretty, very frightened wife.
Madoc watched closely as Owain greeted Josselyn. “My good stepmother.” He took the hand she extended and kissed it, displaying no anger either in his hold, his voice, or his expression. His restraint, however, only frightened her more. “You are grandmother to my son now. Rhys.”
He shoved the boy toward her, clamping his fingers over the boy’s shoulder.
The child was not so adept as his father at hiding his emotions. He glared at Josselyn. “Tell that girl I’ll slice her to ribbons when next I see her!”
Owain cuffed him, then laughed when the boy cursed and slithered away. “Bested by a girl. My other sons will not be so puny.” With that he drew the silent woman forward. “I present to you my wife, Agatha.”
The gathered throng began to murmur their surprise. Madoc was obviously well pleased with Owain’s unexpected marriage, for he beamed with pleasure. He knew his son’s vengeful nature. Had he experienced second thoughts about having taken Josselyn away from him?
Not that he had actually taken her away. Josselyn had resolved not to marry Owain under any circumstances. But that would not have deterred Owain’s fury with his father and they all three knew it.
Perhaps, however, this pretty wife had softened his anger. Diverted it. Madoc clearly hoped so. “Welcome, Agatha. You are wife to my son and now you are daughter to me. Josselyn, come greet Agatha who will be as your sister. As your daughter,” he amended. “Come,” he entreated everyone. “We shall celebrate, for my son is returned to us and with him a new wife.”

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