Authors: The Bride of Rosecliffe
Rexanne Becnel (24 page)
The night proved grueling. While the men celebrated, the women labored to prepare the food, deliver the drinks, and keep the peace—to the limits that they could. More than one fight broke out among the drunkards, fights that were either egged on by shouts of derision and encouragement, or else doused by the well-aimed toss of a bucket of cold water.
Josselyn endured it. Agatha as well. Perhaps she would find an ally in this poor, frightened child, Josselyn speculated, for Meriel eyed this newest interloper in her household with ill-disguised contempt. When Owain summoned
the girl, however, she scurried immediately to do his bidding.
the girl, however, she scurried immediately to do his bidding.
During the course of the evening Josselyn had been lulled into thinking herself safe from Owain’s cruelty. He’d not looked once at her, but had turned all his charm upon his father and the other old men of the village. Now, however, when he stood up and drew his wife full length against him, making no bones about his intentions, he stared straight at Josselyn.
“My pardon, for neglecting you, my sweet bride. My juicy morsel.” He licked his lips once, slowly, still staring at Josselyn. Then he abruptly tossed Agatha over his shoulder, and giving her a sharp smack on her bottom, carried her up the stairs, much to the delight of the revelers he left behind.
“Swive her good!”
“Plant a strong lad within her!”
“Teach her who her husband is!”
Josselyn’s stomach roiled at their crudity. Abruptly setting down the ewer she carried, she bolted for the door. No one noticed as she lost her meal in a dark corner of the kitchen garden. No one followed her, concerned, carrying a damp cloth and ale to rinse out her mouth.
No one else heard the coarse grunting that came from the window above her head, nor the barely stifled sobs as Owain took his wife with no care for any pleasure but his own.
Josselyn clapped her hands over her ears when she recognized the hideous sounds, and she staggered away, fighting tears. That could have been her. Thank God she’d been strong enough to prevent it.
But did Agatha suffer even more due to Owain’s fury at
her
?
her
?
Josselyn ran, dodging drunks and roving dogs, and even a couple that copulated in the shadow of the alehouse. But she could not outrun her fears or her guilt. Only when she was beyond the village did she stop. She collapsed against
a tree while tears streamed unheeded down her cheeks.
a tree while tears streamed unheeded down her cheeks.
Oh, God, she could not endure life here. She did not want to bring her child up in this horrible place with these horrible people.
Then something sounded, as of a foot turning upon a small stone, and she scrambled up in alarm.
“So. ’Tis brokenhearted you are,” a boy’s voice mocked.
Rhys. She didn’t know whether to feel relief or dread.
The boy went on. “You heard him givin’ it to her and you can’t bear it, can you? Well, best you get used to it, ’cause he does it all day long. He plans to get her with child afore his da can get one in you,” he added smugly.
Josselyn’s heart ached even more for Agatha, for the harm she’d inadvertently done the unsuspecting girl. But she steeled herself to deal with Owain’s unpleasant child.
“Why should that matter to Owain? He’s Madoc’s heir, as you are his.”
Rhys snorted. “You don’t know nothin’ ’bout men, ’specially my da.”
“Nor does he know a thing about women,” she snapped.
“What’s to know? They cook. They sew. They spread their legs,” he sneered.
He was working hard to hurt her with his cruel disdain, and he was succeeding. But Josselyn would not be bested by this boy. What he said reflected on his limited knowledge, for he had only his father to guide him, the most wretched example of manhood she knew. But she was here now, as was Agatha. Though it pained Josselyn to think what the poor girl must endure, she vowed to befriend her—and also to befriend this vicious pup of Owain’s.
She drew a steadying breath. “It seems your father would keep you as ignorant as is he. Were your mother alive still, she would no doubt have seen to your complete education. ’Tis a pity for a boy to grow up knowing less than those he will one day rule.”
She turned and walked away, not certain she’d made an
impact on him. But as she drew nearer the noisy house that had become her hated home, she heard his thin cry through the darkness.
impact on him. But as she drew nearer the noisy house that had become her hated home, she heard his thin cry through the darkness.
“Stupid bitch! You don’t know nothin’ ’bout nothin’. And you’re not my ma! Nobody will ever be my ma!”
“Twice you’ve said that,” Josselyn whispered to herself. “You must be sore in need of mothering to deny it so vehemently.” Then girding herself once more for what she must endure, she opened the door and went inside.
Madoc was too drunk to talk to that night, and the next morning too disgruntled. But Josselyn could not put off this matter of her pregnancy. If he hit her, so be it. If he sent her back to her uncle … Sweet Mary, how she prayed he would! She would accept any punishment her husband meted out, so long as he did not harm the innocent babe she bore.
She followed him when he made his daily trek to the village latrine. When he emerged she met him with a mug of hot ale and bade him walk with her. “Just to the edge of the meadow,” she pleaded, forcing herself to smile.
“A child,” he repeated when she confessed the truth to him. His gray brows drew together and he stared at her stomach as if searching for the truth. Then his mouth turned down in a scowl. “Is it Owain’s?”
Josselyn stepped back, horrified by the very implication. “No! No. How could you think such a thing?”
“You and he were alone that time and—”
“No!” She swallowed hard, for nausea rose like a beast in her throat at the thought of Owain doing to her what he did to Agatha. “Your son disgusts me,” she blurted out, not caring how her words might anger him. “He always has. That’s why I refused him and sought a union with you instead.”
Madoc’s jaw worked back and forth. Then his eyes narrowed. “Does the father know you bear him a child?”
Josselyn shook her head. “No.”
“Do you know who the father is?”
She held her breath. How was she to answer? Then he grinned, a sly stretch of his lips over his long yellow teeth. “Aye, you know. And so do I.” Then his grin vanished. “But no one else is to know. I will claim the child—and protect it,” he added. “So long as you present it as mine. Mine. Do you understand?”
Josselyn nodded. She was too stunned to do anything else. She’d imagined all sorts of reactions, but never that he would want to claim the child as his. Relief made her knees weak until he caught her by the arm. He pressed his palm against her belly, squeezing his fingers just enough for her to feel the strength in them. He might be old, but he was not weak. “Come, wife. Let us go and announce the good news.”
They started back to the village. He walked with a jaunty, confident stride. She stumbled trying to keep up. In the shadow of the hall, however, he paused then pressed her flat against the door frame. He nuzzled her ear. A man passing by chuckled. Two lads tittered then ran off to spread the tale.
But Madoc had something other than love sport on his mind. Though he pitched his voice low, Josselyn heard the threat in it. “I caution you, wife, to have a care for this child you bear me. I know you are skilled in foreign tongues, but I will not have a child of mine speak other than the language of its
father
.” He emphasized the word. “No Norman French. No coarse English. This babe speaks Welsh only—or it speaks not at all.”
father
.” He emphasized the word. “No Norman French. No coarse English. This babe speaks Welsh only—or it speaks not at all.”
Josselyn swallowed hard. Her heart ached in her chest, as if a crushing weight bore down on it. As if it would break. But she knew her duty.
“Yes, husband. I will do as you say.”
“Always.”
“Always,” she replied.
T
he people of Afon Bryn celebrated again that night, though Madoc did not drink so carelessly as before. Instead he sipped from his goblet and watched his son, and kept his wife close beside him the entire evening.
he people of Afon Bryn celebrated again that night, though Madoc did not drink so carelessly as before. Instead he sipped from his goblet and watched his son, and kept his wife close beside him the entire evening.
Josselyn did not understand his reaction. Why would he claim another man’s child as his own? To save face? But as the evening wore on, she began to understand. Madoc was not ready to cede his role as their leader. He was not blind to his son’s power and the way their people reacted to it. To father a child at his age increased Madoc’s stature with his men. To do so before Owain could get his new wife with child was sweeter still.
So Madoc drank but lightly at every toast hoisted, and petted Josselyn as if she were the love of his heart. He also watched his son and gloated.
Josselyn was relieved by Madoc’s unexpected response to her news, but she was not much reassured. Owain’s hatred was no light matter. He hated his father; he hated her; and now he would hate her child. She shuddered and would have slipped away to the meager privacy of her bedchamber, but Madoc trapped her hand upon the table.
“Stay,” he ordered.
She bowed her head. “I am sore tired, husband.”
“You are never to be alone,” he told her, even as he
smiled and acknowledged another toast to his manly prowess. “Never,” he continued. “Do you understand?”
smiled and acknowledged another toast to his manly prowess. “Never,” he continued. “Do you understand?”
Josselyn wanted to cry. Was she not to know a moment’s privacy? “No, I don’t understand.”
In answer he stood up. “Let us raise our cups this time to my son, Owain. May he be as fruitful with his wife as I am with mine.”
Everyone drank, but for one long moment Owain’s pale eyes burned into Josselyn’s, malevolent with fury. Mad with frustration and revenge. It was only a moment. Then he laughed and drank and made a coarse remark about planting his seed in his wife three times, in three different places.
The men all roared with laughter.
“Mayhap that is the reason for the delay,” Madoc jested.
Josselyn didn’t understand their ribald humor, but she did understand Madoc’s warning now. She was never to be alone because he did not trust Owain. Did he truly think Owain would go so far as to hurt his father’s wife?
Foolish woman, she immediately chastised herself. Owain would not hesitate to hurt either her or her child. She shivered with fear. He probably wouldn’t mind ridding himself of his father either.
“Do you understand?” Madoc repeated when he sat down again.
She nodded. “I do.”
“If you hope to bear a healthy child, you will heed my words on this. For there will be no other children for you.” His hand closed over her wrist. “I will not have it.”
This time she raised her eyes to meet his. “I am mindful of my duties as a wife,” she stated. “I am no faithless creature to ignore the vows of fidelity I made to you, husband.”
“Good.” Then he caught her chin in his hand and gave her a hearty kiss. Their audience roared once more with approval. Though Josselyn was disgusted by the slobbering display, she knew better than to show it. So she played the
role she’d been given. She ducked her head against his chest as if from shyness and endured the crude innuendos and drunken advice.
role she’d been given. She ducked her head against his chest as if from shyness and endured the crude innuendos and drunken advice.
She understood very well what was expected of her in exchange for her child’s legitimacy. She understood that she was caught in the vicious struggle between father and son, and that her innocent and defenseless babe would be trapped in that same terrible struggle.
She understood also that Madoc was not likely to win that struggle. Time was on Owain’s side. And when Owain finally won … When that happened she must be prepared. To do what, she did not know. But she would think of something.
Her hand moved to her stomach. She had no other choice.
Rand watched Jasper in the tilting yard. The boy handled a sword with considerable skill. He improved daily on the jousting runs, and even in hand-to-hand combat he acquitted himself well, considering he’d spent five soft years in the care of priests, monks, and other novitiates.
He and Alan were well matched now that they’d recovered from the wounds Owain had inflicted upon them. They practiced together, drank together, and brawled together. Rand frowned and scratched his chin.
“The lad’s come a long way,” Osborn said from atop an empty ale keg.
Rand grunted. “He can fight.”
“And that displeases you? What more do you want of him?”
“He has the skills of a man, but not the heart. Surely you can see that.”
“He is but eight and ten.”
“He takes nothing seriously. He but plays at this practice.”
“Then make him work at it.”
Rand glared at his friend. “That would not be wise.”
Osborn refused to look away. “Why?”
Rage rose, hot and boiling in Rand’s veins. The whole long and tedious summer it had been thus. His rage seethed.
He’d held it in most of the time, but he’d not been able to vanquish it. Twice it had exploded. Twice he’d shed other men’s blood. To take up the sword against his brother, the only available source of his rage, would surely lead to disaster.
“I fear I would kill him.”
Osborn shook his head. “He is better than you think.”
“That would only make matters worse.”
“Matters cannot get any worse!” Osborn exploded. “You have been in a rage ever since he arrived. You say it is anger at Owain. But it is anger at Jasper. Why? Because you had to trade Josselyn away to save him? Jesu, man, she was only a woman. Get another!”
“He should not have been taken by Owain. If he’d been alert—if he took his duties seriously—he would have defeated Owain and arrived here unscathed!”
The two men faced one another, posture tense, fists knotted. Across the yard Jasper and Alan fought on, unaware. Metal clanged on metal. Grunts and friendly taunts filled the air. Finally Osborn blew out a harsh breath. “If you will not relieve your anger in the practice yard, then you must release it somewhere else.” He planted his fists on his hips. “You need a woman. We all do. What say you I buy some wenches in Chester? The men will freely give their time to build a stew house to shelter them.”
A stew. Rand had thought to build a chapel, but the truth was he and his men needed a stew house more. The irony of it was painful. God’s bones, but nothing was turning out as he’d planned.
Peace? A fool’s dream.
Passion? A fleeting moment.
Contentment? He feared he’d never know it now.
He gritted his teeth and fought back despair. Peace could be maintained, if only by might. Passion could be purchased
in a stew house. As for contentment … He stared across the yard. Jasper and Alan leaned on their swords now, sweaty and laughing, much as he and Osborn had done when they were young. Mayhap Osborn was right. Mayhap Jasper could be trained to hold Rosecliffe Castle while Rand returned to London.
in a stew house. As for contentment … He stared across the yard. Jasper and Alan leaned on their swords now, sweaty and laughing, much as he and Osborn had done when they were young. Mayhap Osborn was right. Mayhap Jasper could be trained to hold Rosecliffe Castle while Rand returned to London.
Mayhap contentment was something he’d yet find.
He nodded his head, mindful that Osborn awaited his response. “Go to Chester, then. Find women for us. But not the marrying kind. I want no men fighting for the right to wed them. Bring hardened whores only, without any artifice,” he added, remembering a soft woman who’d deceived him.
“See to it,” he muttered, turning away from his friend and back to the work that must consume him until he could safely leave it to Jasper. Rosecliffe Castle, the bane of his existence. The reason for it. The walls could not rise fast enough to suit him, but they
were
rising.
were
rising.
The imprint of Sir Lovell’s plan was now clear on the rocky site. The smooth inner face of the wall had risen to chest height, though the outer face was not everywhere so tall. In between, rubble piled up daily as the quarry works produced cartloads of the dark stones. The long days of summer had increased their output considerably, as had the incentives Rand offered his men. Once the walls were head high and winter demanded they cover the uncapped walls with straw, the workers would be free to construct their own dwellings in the land he’d set aside for the town. The promise of homes for those who had wives and children, and a boat to deliver them come spring, had turned Rosecliffe into a beehive of activity. Sir Lovell spent his days grumbling, but he was well pleased with the progress.
To a lesser degree, so was Rand. But his problems were larger than Sir Lovell’s. Materials; food stuffs; safety; defense. One way and another, the Welsh were a constant threat to every aspect of Rosecliffe’s survival. No massive attack had yet been mounted against the rising castle. Indeed,
Rand sometimes wondered if that would ever occur. Instead the devious Welsh mounted lesser, insidious attacks. Two quarry workers felled by archers. Another fire set, but not boat or building this time. No, they’d been craftier, and during a hot, dry spell more than half of the hay field, meant to provide fodder for the animals during the worst of the winter, had been ruined.
Rand sometimes wondered if that would ever occur. Instead the devious Welsh mounted lesser, insidious attacks. Two quarry workers felled by archers. Another fire set, but not boat or building this time. No, they’d been craftier, and during a hot, dry spell more than half of the hay field, meant to provide fodder for the animals during the worst of the winter, had been ruined.
Now the hunting in the surrounding forest had become poor. Alan had found traces of other hunters there and the conclusion was obvious. The Welsh had concentrated all their hunting in the forests nearest Rosecliffe in an effort to deplete the woodlands of their game. But if they thought to starve the English out that way, they would not succeed. Although the very sight of fish had begun to sicken him, Rand knew the sea would keep them alive, even should every other source of food disappear.
Still, he meant to eat more than fish and oysters. He ordered the hunters to venture farther afield, but in larger parties, and with at least one fast horse so the alarm could be carried back should an attack occur.
He sighed and gazed beyond the castle walls, sweeping the wildly beautiful countryside with his eyes. Then he focused on the
domen
, symbol of everything Welsh, and he felt the profoundest urge to wreck it, to tear it down and use the stones as rubble within Rosecliffe’s walls.
domen
, symbol of everything Welsh, and he felt the profoundest urge to wreck it, to tear it down and use the stones as rubble within Rosecliffe’s walls.
“’Twould change naught.”
Rand was not startled by Newlin’s words. How the little man with his awkward gait approached so silently—how he managed to read a man’s thoughts—Rand did not ponder. Suffice it that the bard could do so. Once more Rand sighed and his shoulders sagged. “You have no cause for concern. ’Twas only a passing thought.” He paused then added, “A mad thought proffered by a madman.”
They stood in silence a long while. Around them circled sounds of construction. The creak of heavy cart wheels. The solid thud of rock fitted to rock. The constant click of the masons’ tools as they shaped the rocks. Half a year only
had they been here, and yet the change was profound.
had they been here, and yet the change was profound.
“There’s more to this land you have adopted as your own than merely this outcropping, wild and beautiful though it be.” Newlin’s one good eye focused on Rand. “There are villages and mountains. Wild places and towns. Fairs and marketplaces.”
Marketplaces. Rand scratched his chin thoughtfully. He needed to scrape his cheeks before his beard grew as long as a Scotsman’s. He did not understand the odd-looking bard, but he did trust him. “Is there a market or fair nearby where supplies might be purchased with English coin?”
Rand, Osborn, and ten handpicked warriors rode to Llangarn, heavily armed but with peaceful intentions. The Saint Ebbe’s Day Market was a tradition, sponsored by the abbot of Llangarn in tribute to their patron saint. That it coincided with the harvest and allowed the monks to purchase their winter needs without sending carts out to collect it was of no consequence. For many in the wild hills of northern Wales, the Saint Ebbe’s market was the only time in the cycle of seasons when they deviated from the routine of their lives: labor six days, worship one. Labor six days, worship one. But Saint Ebbe’s day was different.
Fully twenty score people crowded the flat meadow alongside the river, where the fair was held. The High Road bisected the site, with coarse goods displayed on the riverside, and finer goods against the abbey walls.
Rand surveyed the scene as they made their way down the road. He noted the fierce scowls of the Welshmen, as well as the worried frowns of their women and wondering stares of their young. The Welsh were not likely to initiate a fight with so many women and children in their midst, not so long as they were not provoked. He had no intention of provoking them.
A hum of apprehension rippled through the crowd, a warning passed from mouth to ear and on, dousing all other conversation. The market grounds grew unnaturally still,
though the bear baiting continued without pause. Rand could hear the dogs’ excited yipping and the bear’s painful bellow. Then a trio of brown-clad monks hurried forward to greet the newcomers, clearly anxious to maintain calm, and the taut muscles in Rand’s shoulders eased. He was right to have come. Everything would be fine.
though the bear baiting continued without pause. Rand could hear the dogs’ excited yipping and the bear’s painful bellow. Then a trio of brown-clad monks hurried forward to greet the newcomers, clearly anxious to maintain calm, and the taut muscles in Rand’s shoulders eased. He was right to have come. Everything would be fine.
The monks stayed close to the Englishmen as they progressed through the stalls. Rand had come to purchase Welsh goods, and so he did. Two barrels of salt, a keg of honey, and three willow fish baskets. Also a team of oxen, four dozen hens, two cocks, and a pair of pups newly weaned from their dam. The two carts he’d brought grew heavy with his purchases, and as he bought, the angry stares directed at him eased. Somewhat.
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