Rexanne Becnel (26 page)
Authors: The Bride of Rosecliffe
But now he was gone, and though Josselyn crawled into bed with Isolde beside her, she could not sleep. It was easy to forget that Rhys was but eight. He was Owain’s son, as unpleasant and aggressive as his father. But he was also a child, alone in a harsh world. She should try to befriend him. She should try to civilize him.
If nothing else, she might succeed in making him Isolde’s ally and protector during the years to come.
T
he winter was harsh, but it left in a rush. The ice melted. The rooks and becks tumbled to the sea. Spring erupted in all its green glory, and the creatures of the northern hills bred with wild abandon. But as the hills heated their way toward summer, so did the bitterness between the Welsh and English heat and rush headlong toward confrontation.
he winter was harsh, but it left in a rush. The ice melted. The rooks and becks tumbled to the sea. Spring erupted in all its green glory, and the creatures of the northern hills bred with wild abandon. But as the hills heated their way toward summer, so did the bitterness between the Welsh and English heat and rush headlong toward confrontation.
It began in April when the sheep were first released to their spring pasture. Owain stormed into the hall, threw off his fur cape, and glared at his father, rage mottling his features. “You would not heed my warning. Now see what your damned caution has wrought!”
Suspicion clouded Madoc’s brow; alarm colored the faces of the three village elders who conferred with him. “What now?” Madoc grunted.
Josselyn skimmed fat from a broth of bones and withered vegetables. Agatha sat stitching near the fire. But at the sound of angry male voices they sidled uneasily toward the stairs. Owain angry was a fearful thing. Madoc raging against him was equally dangerous to anyone in reach. Only Meriel leaned forward, keen to know what had roused her cousins to such a pitch.
“A shepherd is murdered, fifteen ewes stolen, and a ram butchered!”
Madoc lurched to his feet. “Who has dared to steal my sheep?”
“’Tis your wife’s sheep they have dared to steal. ’Tis Carreg Du that is attacked. And the guilty party cannot be in doubt. The black-hearted English have begun their campaign to bring us to our knees. They will starve the people of Carreg Du, then they will turn for us.” His nostrils flared in disdain for the four old men. “’Tis clear enough you are content to sit and let them do it.” He beat his chest with one fist. “But I will not!”
In the ringing silence that followed, all eyes turned to Madoc. Owain had thrown down a challenge. It could not be interpreted any other way. Josselyn saw Madoc’s fists tighten. But the man’s voice was remarkably calm. “What does Clyde say to this? Does he send for our help?”
With a roar Owain whipped out his dagger. Everyone fell back, including the women. With one swift lunge he plunged the wicked blade down into the table between him and his father. It barely vibrated, he stuck it so deep. He glared at his father. “Clyde will do nothing. He is a coward. But I will retaliate. With you or without you, I will no longer wait.”
Josselyn watched the confrontation with mounting alarm. If Madoc did not act, Owain would soon wrest power from him. But more alarming even than that was the fact that one of the shepherds of Carreg Du was dead—and by Randulf Fitz Hugh’s order.
“Who was killed?”
Agatha caught her arm in warning, but Josselyn would not be put off. “Who was it? Do you know his name?”
Owain turned his head to see her, and in his eyes Josselyn could swear she saw triumph. “A lad nearly of an age to become a warrior. Strong and smart.” He paused. “He had no chance. His head was severed from his shoulders with one vicious swing of a long sword.”
Bile rose in Josselyn’s throat. She had to press her lips together to stop their trembling. “What was his name?”
He held her eyes for a long moment, delaying. Deliberately tormenting her. “Gower. I’m told his name was Gower. Do you know him?”
Josselyn’s knees went weak. Gower. Only son of the widow Holwen. Her heart ached for the old woman, and she felt the profoundest need to clutch Isolde to her. But she held herself stiffly, unwilling to give Owain the satisfaction of seeing her pain. She nodded. “I knew him.”
“Then you will understand my decision to wreak vengeance on those who would strike down a green lad and in so cold a manner.”
As much as Josselyn mistrusted Owain, in that moment she agreed with him. Why Gower? He was a simple lad and good to his mother. Who would see to Holwen in her final years?
That day had marked the beginning of the bloody spring. The men of Afon Bryn and Carreg Du prepared for war, and through the planting months of April and May, it was the women and boys who tended the fields. The attack on Gower gave birth to a murderous retaliation. Though Josselyn was far removed from Carreg Du, word of the troubles there reached her daily. Another English boat burned and this time the two watchmen were killed. A skirmish between the Welsh and an English hunting party. Three Englishmen killed, two Welshmen.
Under Rand’s leadership, the English response was equally ferocious. He drove the Welsh from every part of the land between Rosecliffe and Carreg Du. But Clyde still held the village, though most of the women and children had fled to Afon Bryn.
Her Aunt Nesta stayed, however, and Josselyn worried for her daily. Gladys also stayed, but though she kept young Davit with her, she sent Rhonwen and Cordula away. Josselyn did not see as much of her people as she would like, however. They stayed in outlying cottages spread around Afon Bryn, while she resided in the main hall.
July arrived, scented with the smoke of war and the
stench of death. Agatha was with child again, though no one spoke of it for fear of cursing the babe. Owain was usually gone, fighting the English, and in his absence, Agatha seemed more relaxed. Her timidity eased. Rhys also appeared more regularly at his grandfather’s abode. He ate constantly, anything placed in front of him. Josselyn was pleased to see his narrow face begin to fill out.
stench of death. Agatha was with child again, though no one spoke of it for fear of cursing the babe. Owain was usually gone, fighting the English, and in his absence, Agatha seemed more relaxed. Her timidity eased. Rhys also appeared more regularly at his grandfather’s abode. He ate constantly, anything placed in front of him. Josselyn was pleased to see his narrow face begin to fill out.
Isolde grew as well. She was still small, but she had become plump and healthy. She smiled and gurgled and sang to them. At least that’s how it sounded to Josselyn, who had fallen hopelessly in love with her daughter. Isolde was perfection itself. She was pink and soft, and when her hair came in fair, it was more like Madoc’s than Rand’s.
Rand.
Josselyn tried not to think of him, but the day did not pass without her wasting endless hours trying to make sense of the man. He was ambitious and ruthless. He’d seduced her then vowed to give her to his brother. He was awful—and English—and he’d killed Gower. All this she knew.
And yet she also knew that Rand had not been the first one to attack. Owain had. Rand had not allowed any woman to be raped, whereas Owain … well, she would not put it past Owain. He was cruel with his own wife; what would he be with the wives of his enemies? Rand had seduced her. But only because she’d been so willing. Even on his threat to marry her to Jasper he’d wavered. In truth, she did not think he’d known what to do with her.
How would he react if he knew he had a daughter?
“Look how strong she is.”
Rhys’s voice drew Josselyn from her reverie. He sat cross-legged beside Isolde’s cradle, grinning as the baby gripped his fingers. “I believe she can pull herself all the way up. Can I try?” he added, glancing at Josselyn.
“No, dear. I don’t think she’s quite ready for that.”
But Rhys did not agree. “She’s got the same blood as me, strong blood come from her father, my grandfather. She can do it.”
“No, Rhys. She’s too young.”
But the boy was stubborn. Before she could stop him, he pulled Isolde upright. The baby blinked and laughed, as if entertained by what she’d done. Then abruptly she let go, and with a thud, her head hit the side of the cradle.
Josselyn scooped her up before the first wail was out. Rhys leapt back as if he feared punishment, and lurked just out of reach.
“She shouldna let go,” he muttered while Josselyn consoled the sobbing babe. “It wasn’t my fault.” He didn’t notice Meriel’s approach, so her sharp cuff to his head caught him unawares.
“Ow!” He ducked out of her way, holding his hand over his ear. “Stupid old bitch!”
“Hurts, doesn’t it? If you’re to be a true man you must know more than how to mete out pain,” Meriel cried. “You must know also how to take it.”
She struck out at him again, but he danced just out of her reach.
“Stupid old bitch. Everyone knows women don’t get to hit men. Didn’t my grandfather teach you anything?”
“He never hit me!” Meriel screeched.
“Then why did you moan and scream?” the boy taunted. “I hear how Agatha moans with my Da. I heard you too, with my grandfather, before he married her.” He pointed at Josselyn.
Though Josselyn rocked the still sobbing Isolde, she glared at the two, the old woman and the young boy. “Stop this arguing. Stop it now!”
But Rhys had been a wild creature for too long to have been tamed by a bath and a few kind words. “You’re not my Ma! You can’t tell me what to do!” Then he fixed her with a smug, knowing look, so like Owain’s it made her shiver. “Why don’t you scream when your husband comes to your bed?”
How she would have answered that disgusting question she was never to know, for at that very moment Agatha
lumbered into the hall, holding her increasing belly with her hands. “There’s a messenger from Owain.” She stared resentfully at Josselyn. “But he won’t speak to anyone but you.”
lumbered into the hall, holding her increasing belly with her hands. “There’s a messenger from Owain.” She stared resentfully at Josselyn. “But he won’t speak to anyone but you.”
It was bad news. They all knew it, and only Isolde’s lingering sobs broke the quick, oppressive silence. Meriel did not wait for Josselyn, but hurried to the door. Josselyn followed more slowly.
Outside Owain’s man, Conan, drank from a jug. When he saw her, he wiped his face on his sleeve. “Madoc is grievous ill. Owain bids you come.”
“Grievous ill? What is wrong with him?” Meriel cried.
The man ignored Meriel and stared boldly at Josselyn. “He suffered a seizure of the chest. He’s callin’ for his wife.”
As if she sensed her mother’s unease, Isolde began once more to fret. Josselyn hugged her closer and tried to think. “I cannot leave my baby.”
“Then bring her.”
Josselyn did not want to go. Duty demanded she do as she was told, but some unreasoning fear made it impossible. “She’s too young to travel.”
“’Tis but two hours.”
“By horseback. I’ll need a cart.”
The man shrugged. “He bids you come.”
“I’ll go in her stead,” Meriel interjected. “I’ll go with you to heal him. I’ve healed all his aches and pains these many years. I should—”
“You’re not his wife,” the man sneered. “’Tis her duty, not yours.”
“Where is he?” Josselyn asked.
“In your uncle’s house.”
Her uncle’s house. That changed everything. “I’ll prepare for the journey at once.” To be in Carreg Du, with Uncle Clyde and Aunt Nesta, sounded like heaven, even under these circumstances.
They left within the hour and arrived at dusk. By then
Josselyn felt heartily ashamed of herself. Madoc’s well-being had not concerned her nearly so much as her own. Though their marriage was based on mutual convenience, that did not lessen her duty to him. He gave Isolde a name; she gave him the appearance of manly vigor. She had no right to complain.
Josselyn felt heartily ashamed of herself. Madoc’s well-being had not concerned her nearly so much as her own. Though their marriage was based on mutual convenience, that did not lessen her duty to him. He gave Isolde a name; she gave him the appearance of manly vigor. She had no right to complain.
But now he was struck down, and for his sake as well as her own, she must nurse him back to health.
Nesta greeted her with open arms. “Ah, but she is a tiny thing!” she exclaimed, taking the wide-eyed child immediately into her arms.
Josselyn smiled down at Isolde. “Tiny and sweet, like a fairy child.”
“Do not say such things,” Nesta whispered. “There are those superstitious souls who would think ill of her if they heard you call her such a thing.”
Josselyn stroked Isolde’s cheek, then sighed. Some things in her beloved country would never change, superstition and strife being primary among them. “I must see to my husband. Will you mind Isolde?”
“Of course.” Nesta settled Isolde in her arms. “He is in the chamber that was yours.” She stared at Josselyn. “It does not look good.”
Madoc would have to die for it to look any worse, and Josselyn feared that condition was imminent. He lay on the bed that had once been hers, bathed, draped in clean linens, and still as a corpse. His body had no marks on it—at least no new ones. The old scars, the battle marks of his youth, but no outward sign of this new affliction.
“He grabbed his chest and fell,” the woman who sat with him told Josselyn. “Since then he opens his eyes and tries to speak, but he cannot. ’Tis like the devil has hold of his tongue,” she finished in hushed tones.
Josselyn ignored that last remark. “Did this happen during a battle?”
The woman hesitated. Her gaze slid away from Josselyn, then crept back. “They had gone to set fire to the English
fields.” Her voice lowered further. “’Tis said the only true battles he fought were with his son. With that Owain.” Her lips turned down in distaste.
fields.” Her voice lowered further. “’Tis said the only true battles he fought were with his son. With that Owain.” Her lips turned down in distaste.
There was no surprise in that. Nor was there any surprise when during the night Madoc’s heartbeat, already erratic and weak, ceased altogether.
Josselyn had dozed on and off while she sat with him, and when she nursed Isolde around midnight, she spoke softly to Madoc. But when she checked on him he was still. His skin was cold. His soul had fled.
And she was a widow, who had hardly been a wife.
She moved Isolde to the main hall, and though she dreaded it, she searched out Owain. He’d returned to the village late and she’d not seen him. But Nesta told her that he’d taken over the priest’s house as his own. Josselyn carried a lantern across the stony road and told the guard to summon Owain. Instead, the man pushed her rudely inside, called out to Owain, then slammed the door, shutting her in with him.
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