Rexanne Becnel (25 page)
Authors: The Bride of Rosecliffe
The sounds of the market returned. The entertainments resumed. A family of acrobats drew a throng, including several of his own men. A fire-eater mesmerized a fearful crowd. The three religious eventually drifted away from the Englishmen, reassured that no conflict would erupt and ruin the most profitable day of their year.
“’Tis not so unlike an English market,” Osborn remarked as he eyed a platter of meat pies, steaming their fragrance into the early autumn air. Then the warrior in him took control once more. “It grows late, however. Unless we plan to camp next the abbey walls, we should begin our return to Rosecliffe. What say you, Rand?”
But Rand was not listening. A small party had arrived on horseback. Seven men. Two women. And one of them was Josselyn.
His hand tightened on the reins and his well-trained mount obediently backed up, nearly upsetting a plank table stacked high with bolts of kersey, twill, fustian, and lawn.
“Hey!” cried the cloth merchant.
“My pardon.” Rand muttered. “
Esgusodych fi
,” he added, hoping he had the words right. Without thinking, he urged the horse forward. He’d known he might encounter Madoc or Clyde. Or Owain. That’s why he’d left Jasper at
Rosecliffe. If there was a battle and he was killed, Jasper would finish Rosecliffe. But he’d not allowed himself to imagine Josselyn here.
Esgusodych fi
,” he added, hoping he had the words right. Without thinking, he urged the horse forward. He’d known he might encounter Madoc or Clyde. Or Owain. That’s why he’d left Jasper at
Rosecliffe. If there was a battle and he was killed, Jasper would finish Rosecliffe. But he’d not allowed himself to imagine Josselyn here.
Not that it mattered.
His jaw set in stern lines. So she’d come to market with her husband. Suddenly furious with her, he jerked his horse around. He’d not yet offered his good wishes to the happy couple.
“Come,” he ordered Osborn. Then he rode straight toward the woman he still dreamed about, and her husband who was old enough to be her sire.
Josselyn saw Rand before her husband did. She’d had no reason to look up, but she had, and the sight of him threw her into utter turmoil. It was as if she had sensed his presence, and in the scant seconds before Madoc spied him too, her eyes swept greedily over him. She took in his manly profile, his easy control of his mighty destrier. As he neared, she saw also the gauntness of his face, the new lines that bracketed his mouth. He was brown from the sun and weary from his labors. She’d heard that the walls of Rosecliffe grew steadily taller, that his men worked every minute of daylight and often by torchlight, and that he worked harder and longer than them all.
She’d heard also that he’d brought in women to service his men—and no doubt himself. Not that it mattered to her. And yet a spark of righteous anger burned in her chest. Had he no shame?
Judging from the hard expression on his face, he did not.
In a belligerent gesture Madoc urged his horse in front of hers, as did her uncle. Then Rand and Osborn drew up.
Like a contagion a new silence grew, rippling out in waves until even the shouts of the wrestlers faded to naught, and only the squawking of the crated hens pierced the unnatural quiet.
Nesta’s horse sidled up to Josselyn’s and the older woman reached a hand to her. She meant to comfort her, but no one could do that. Josselyn stared at Rand, hungry
for every detail of his appearance. She’d thought herself successful in putting him out of her mind, but knew now that she’d failed. To see him was to want him. Only he had never wanted her as much.
for every detail of his appearance. She’d thought herself successful in putting him out of her mind, but knew now that she’d failed. To see him was to want him. Only he had never wanted her as much.
Already he turned away from her to face Madoc.
“Congratulations on your marriage,” Rand said in creditable Welsh.
Madoc stared coldly at him. “Have we met?”
Clyde leaned forward. “This is the Englishman, Fitz Hugh. Fitz Hugh, this is Madoc ap Lloyd, husband to my niece.”
Josselyn pressed her lips together and kept a painful silence. Madoc would countenance no interference from her. This was men’s business, not women’s. But it felt very like her business. Her life had been made forfeit to the posturings of these three men who sat their horses before her now.
Madoc shifted to a more comfortable position. His saddle creaked. His mouth quirked in a smug smile. “I accept your congratulations. But you may not know that further congratulations are also due me.”
Josselyn sucked in a hard breath. No! He could not mean to say anything about that. He could not be that foolish!
As if he heard her thoughts Madoc glanced at her, and the warning in his eyes was clear. Nesta’s hand tightened as if to caution Josselyn against angering her husband. She was right of course. Nothing Josselyn said or did would alter Madoc’s plans. Though it felt as if she were agreeing to have her heart ripped, whole and still beating, from her chest, Josselyn did as she must. She averted her gaze, a good wife, obedient to her husband’s command, and listened as Madoc gloated.
“My wife bears me a son.”
There was no response from Rand, and when Josselyn could bear it no longer, she looked up. “My wife bears me a son,” Madoc repeated. Then, “Stupid Englishman. He does not understand.”
But he did. Rand stared blankly at Madoc. He understood
the man’s words. Josselyn was with child. What he did not understand was the crushing sense of loss that struck him. Josselyn bore this old man’s child?
the man’s words. Josselyn was with child. What he did not understand was the crushing sense of loss that struck him. Josselyn bore this old man’s child?
Or was it
his
?
his
?
He looked sharply at Josselyn, at her slender figure astride the dappled mare. How could she be with child? She showed no evidence of her condition, unless she had just learned of it. It had been four months since he’d been with her. Were it his child, she would be further along.
He raised his eyes from her waist to her strictly controlled expression, and his sense of loss soured to bitterness. He jerked his gaze back to Madoc. “Let us hope your heirs and mine will be at peace with one another,” he said in Welsh. Then he nodded, turned his horse, and rode away.
Josselyn watched him go. She made no sound or move that might betray anything of her feelings. But inside, where no one could see, she wept. He knew it could be his and yet did not care.
Madoc chortled with glee, well pleased with his revelation, for neither Clyde nor Nesta had known of it either. Everyone was pleased, it seemed, for Nesta reached over and hugged her, and Clyde shook Madoc’s hand.
Josselyn smiled. She answered Nesta’s concerned questions and nodded at her words of advice. But inside she wept. She approved her husband’s purchases and made suggestions for the quantities of spices and cloth and household items to be purchased. But behind the placid expression affixed to her face she wept.
Only when she lay down alone in her bed that night did she loosen the tight bands that held her emotions at bay, that kept her walking and talking and performing as she must.
But even then she did not release the tears that threatened to choke her, to drown her in their sorrowing depths. She lay dry-eyed in her bed and wondered how she would endure the coming months, let alone the years that would follow, empty and leaden in their wake.
Josselyn’s child was born in the midst of a howling storm, a tiny girl with dark eyes and no hair. She’d gone the full nine months, yet still she was too small. Josselyn had attended other births and she knew it was not a good sign. But the baby was perfectly formed, a beautiful infant with a pure soul. Josselyn had loved her on sight.
The whole winter prior to the birth Josselyn had been listless and ill. Owain’s presence had not helped, nor had the signs of rough usage that showed in Agatha’s countenance. Meriel’s furtive watchfulness made it worse, as did Madoc’s constant boasting about the child she bore him. At times he seemed almost to believe it was his, for his twice-weekly visits to her bed had become a trial. For the most part it was only for show. But three times he’d tried to mount her, and three times he’d been unable.
The last time her relief must have been obvious, for he’d cuffed her and sent her tumbling from the bed. The bruise had colored her cheek for over a week. But he’d not tried again.
He’d seemed almost relieved when the child was born a girl. The truth of her parentage was not so important as if she’d been a boy child. Since the birth he’d appeared to have lost all interest in both Josselyn and the child, whom she’d named Isolde.
Agatha had conceived sometime during the fall, but she’d lost the child before she’d even been certain of her pregnancy. She’d not told Owain, but he’d somehow learned of it and berated her soundly.
No doubt Meriel had told him. The older woman seemed to become more secretive and watchful every day. She’d acted eager for Josselyn’s company when Owain had been expected to wed her. But Josselyn’s marriage to Madoc was an altogether different matter. Meriel rebuffed every attempt to befriend her, and though it was frustrating, Josselyn tried to understand. Meriel had run Madoc’s household alone for many years. Now she’d been usurped
first by Josselyn, then by Agatha. Once when he was drunk Madoc had referred to her as his ugly old cousin, and Josselyn had seen the stricken look on her face. But she’d scowled at Josselyn, warning her away, and Josselyn had been too steeped in her own unhappiness to try to pierce the shell Meriel held around herself.
first by Josselyn, then by Agatha. Once when he was drunk Madoc had referred to her as his ugly old cousin, and Josselyn had seen the stricken look on her face. But she’d scowled at Josselyn, warning her away, and Josselyn had been too steeped in her own unhappiness to try to pierce the shell Meriel held around herself.
But at least Josselyn had Isolde. How she prayed that the frail baby would survive. So many did not. She stared down at the tiny girl, wrapped warmly and tucked into a cradle next to the fire. Did she breathe?
“Isolde?” She touched the child’s cheek fearfully, then sighed when the baby’s mouth began reflexively to suckle. At once Josselyn’s breasts tingled with the need to nurse her. But Isolde needed to sleep. The child would awaken when she was hungry. In the meantime Josselyn needed to fetch fresh water to her room.
It was midday. In the main hall Madoc snored in his chair. Owain and Agatha were nowhere to be seen. Meriel sat in the only window repairing Madoc’s torn hose. By rights Josselyn should be the one to tend her husband’s garments. But she knew better than to challenge Meriel. about it. Nor did she truly want to. Madoc was a self-centered bully, only a little less cruel than Owain. If Meriel wished to wait hand and foot upon him, so be it.
The two women did not speak while Josselyn filled a bucket, and as she trudged up the stairs with it, Josselyn felt guilty. She should try harder with Meriel. She was an old woman with no daughter to care for her.
Josselyn set the bucket on the floor outside the door, and rubbed her aching back. When had she become so weak? Then she heard a noise in her chamber and her weariness fled. Who was in there? She burst in and surprised Rhys bending low over Isolde’s cradle.
“What are you doing!”
The boy sprang back, his dirty face looking guilty, his posture defensive. His gaze swung toward the door, but she barred the way.
“What are you doing in here? What are you up to?”
He scowled, a miniature version of his unpleasant sire. “I was lookin’ at her. That’s all.”
Fighting down her panic and the unreasoning fear that Owain might have sent Rhys to harm Isolde, Josselyn moved purposefully to the crib. “She’s asleep. Now is not a good time to visit her.” She touched the infant’s cheek and once more she suckled in her sleep. No harm had been done. Had any been intended?
She looked up at Rhys. He’d sidled nearer the door, but he hadn’t left. His nearly black eyes darted from her to Isolde then back to her. “She’s awful small.”
“She’ll grow.”
“Meriel says she’s more like to die.”
“Meriel is wrong. She’s wrong,” she repeated. She reached for Isolde. Asleep or not, she needed to hold her close, to protect her from the ill will in this awful place.
The boy watched as she settled Isolde in her arms. “Girls can’t inherit nothin’.”
“She’s no threat to your inheritance, nor to your father’s. You have no reason to fear her.”
“Fear a baby? Not me,” he boasted. But still he did not leave.
Josselyn studied him. He was tall for his age though thin. But he was always filthy. On impulse she said, “If you wash up, I’ll let you hold her.”
He bristled. “I don’t want to hold her.”
Josselyn shrugged. She looked down at Isolde’s sweet face and smiled. “I love holding her. She’s so helpless and so good. She makes me want to be good too, to be better than I usually am.”
When she glanced over at him, he had an odd expression on his face. Such a lonely child, she realized. Lonely and ignored, and in the long months she’d been here, she’d ignored him too. She smiled at him. “It’s natural to be curious about her. After all, she’ll be like a little sister to you.”
“She’s not my sister, and you’re not my ma.”
“No, I’m not. But once she can walk, ’tis you she’ll be trailing after. Come closer, Rhys. Come see how little her fingers are. How tiny her fingernails.” She smiled encouragingly at him. “Come on. She’d like to meet you.”
He lingered a long while in her chamber, until Madoc’s raised voice reminded him where he was. But before that happened he’d washed his hands and face, held Isolde while she slept, then held her again after she’d nursed. He actually grinned when Isolde let out a startlingly loud belch.
“Rude little bit, isn’t she?” He laughed, and it was the first time he’d truly sounded like a child.
Josselyn laughed with him. “We’ll teach her manners in due time.”
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