Cleve grimaced to himself, disgusted once more by the history of the English in Wales. He’d been more than glad seven years ago not to have been a part of King Henry’s luckless campaign against the Welsh. His own mother had been Welsh, and though he and she had always lived on English soil, she had kept both the language and the culture of Wales alive in her only child. At her death the English father he’d seen but twice had grudgingly arranged a minor position for his bastard son, Cleve, in a decent household. Through the grace of God—and the intervention of Lady Rosalynde and both her husband and father—Cleve had risen above his lowly beginnings. Yet he’d avoided the war against Wales, even though it had offered a chance for him to win recognition and reward. Something in him simply had not wanted to make war on his mother’s people.
Now it appeared that his Welsh heritage, which had always been considered shameful, would be his good fortune, for it was Cleve’s knowledge of the Welsh tongue—rusty though it was—that had given him this opportunity.
Were it not for the promise of reward, Cleve would have dismissed Sir William Somerville’s odd mission as foolish beyond belief. To find a child, sired in wartime to some Welshwoman, and if it was a boy bring it back, was a fool’s quest by anyone’s standards. And yet, for the promise of lands—a castle and demesne of his own—Cleve would have searched out the devil himself and wrested him back to England.
As if to underscore his black thoughts, the wind whipped more viciously than ever, lifting the ends of his heavy wool mantle and causing his destrier to start in alarm.
“Be still, Ceta. ’Tis naught but the wind.” But it was a formidable wind, Cleve thought, cold and relentless, just like the land.
With a sharp curse he hauled Ceta around and followed the trail his men had left. They would sleep and regroup. Tomorrow they would find this place called Radnor, and one by one he would investigate each and every household there. They would trade their good English coin for information if necessary. And they would purchase the rare herbs and potions several of Sir William’s daughters had demanded he search out for them. But above all else they would find the child that Sir William so desperately sought.
Though Cleve did not truly wish to steal the child from its mother, he was nevertheless prepared to do just that if it proved necessary. He would not forgo his prize for one woman’s stubbornness. And after all, Sir William’s bastard would become heir to all the Somerville name had to offer. Sir William was adamant about that. No doubt his sons-in-law were disappointments to him, Cleve speculated. But whatever Sir William’s reasons for wanting his bastard son, one thing was certain: the child would never suffer the lack of family, name, or property as other bastards did.
As Cleve did.
No, any pain the child and mother might feel on parting would swiftly heal in the light of all the boy would gain.
And in the process he, too, would gain, Cleve reminded himself. He would win the hand of Sir William’s youngest daughter—Edeline was her name, he remembered. More important, however, he would win the dowry lands that came with the girl. He would be lord of his own lands and people, and his children would be born to those same lands. There would be no bastards from him, he vowed, only sons and daughters, raised in the security of their rightful home.
He dismounted and turned back to stare up at the mists that hid the mountain peaks from view. Somewhere in these vast, forbidding hills lay the key to all he wanted in life. Nothing and no one was going to prevent him from gaining it.
2
WYNNE AWOKE WITH A start. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she gasped for breath as she lay there on her straw truckle bed. Had she been dreaming? Yet she could not recall any dreams, certainly not anything that could have caused this sudden, fearful thudding in her chest, nor the dampness of her palms and brow.
She sat up, trying to focus in the dark room. Was it one of the children? She rose at once and padded on bare feet from her small chamber to the fireplace, where she quickly lit a candle. Then up the steep stairs she went on sure feet, to the nursery she’d fashioned beneath the broad eaves in a loft above the hall.
Once she was in the low-ceilinged room, she moved slowly from bed to bed, letting the light fall briefly on each of the children’s faces. Bronwen and Isolde slept side by side in a shared bed, the one sprawled sideways, wrapped in the wool coverlet, the other curled in a ball, shivering from the cold. With a small smile Wynne tugged the cover from Isolde and tucked Bronwen into its warmth.
How different the two girls were, she thought fondly.
Her niece, Isolde, with her dark hair and flashing eyes, was a little tyrant at times. She was Welsh through and through, just like her mother, Wynne’s sister, had been. Bronwen meanwhile had the coloring of her father. So far that had not been a problem, but Wynne feared the girl’s strikingly fair hair would forever mark her an English bastard.
With a sigh she turned to the boys on the other side of the room. As she expected, Madoc and Rhys faced each other on the truckle pallet they shared. It was as if they plotted mischief even in their sleep, yet Wynne could not deny that they looked more like angels right now than the little devils she knew they could be. With their dark, curling hair and equally dark eyes, they would no doubt cause many a heartache in the years to come.
Then there was Arthur. What was she to do with Arthur? He was already so wise that it was frightening, and yet there was a sensitive side to his nature that worried her. Though the other four children made allowances for his dreamy inclinations, she knew he would always be one easily taken advantage of, especially by other boys.
But what could she do? She had willingly undertaken to raise the five of them, five wonderful, exasperating six-year-olds who would not be placated by her explanations about their absent parents forever.
Though the invading English had ultimately been routed and driven from Wales, they yet survived here in the blood of their bastard offspring. One day she must explain it to the children, and yet it was still hard for her to understand herself. How did you explain to a child about war? About rape? How did you make a little child understand that your father had not created you with love and respect, but with hatred and violence? How did you explain that your father and his people were the worst enemies you would ever have?
She suppressed a shiver, then reached out to cup Arthur’s cheek. He was warm and so sweet. They all were, and she loved them as fiercely as if they truly were her children. Just the feel of his soft breath was reassuring, and she swallowed the uneasiness that had plagued her the whole day through and on into the night. Everything would be all right. She was sure of it. Whoever it was who trespassed upon her forest would not be there forever. He would wreak whatever mischief he might be planning, but he would not disrupt their lives for long.
Hers was a race that had survived many a foreign onslaught. Besides, it was not an army encamped in her woods. She knew that instinctively. A few men were no real threat.
Perhaps they would be gone by sunset today.
Cleve squatted beside a narrow brook, watching a deep, still pool just downstream from him. Someone was coming, and his naturally suspicious nature prompted him to observe the traveler a little while before revealing himself.
With a remarkable absence of sound a man picked his way down a barely visible trail. On his shoulders he bore a small, oddly made boat. The Welsh called it a coracle, Cleve remembered. It was an awkward-looking craft woven of willow and covered with leather.
The man was alone, which was good, and he appeared to carry only a small dagger in a leather sheath strapped to his thigh. When he put down his light craft, Cleve was surprised to see, however, that he was an old man, a graying grandfather come to do some fishing. This was a good sign, for an old fellow like this would surely know all the goings-on in these parts. Cleve eased his hand from the carved bone hilt of his own dagger.
“Good morrow, father,” he called, rising to his full height. The old man started and then warily drew back. But Clev
e smiled and walked forward with no threat in his demeanor. “What manner of fish do you seek this fine day?”
The old man stared at him as if he were an oddity never before seen, and Cleve frowned. Was his Welsh so bad as to be unintelligible?
“I mean you no harm,” he tried again, enunciating carefully.
“The English always say that,” the man replied warily.
Cleve’s expression lifted in relief. He was not surprised the man identified him as English, for he knew his pronunciation gave him away. But at least he was able to make himself understood. “Our leaders are not at war,” he replied. “Neither should we be.”
The man snorted in answer. Whether his disdain was aimed at Cleve or at the English and Welsh leaders was hard to say.
Cleve tried again. “Is this the Radnor Forest?” He squatted down a little distance from the man and began idly to toss bits of twigs into the dark water.
After a long minute’s consideration the man nodded.
“Ah, that is good. Mayhap my journey is near to its end.”
The man began to ready his boat for launching, but he nonetheless kept a wary eye on Cleve. Finally, as if he couldn’t bear not knowing, he spoke up. “And where is it ye journey to?”
Cleve tossed another twig into the water. “I’m not certain. Somewhere around here.” He peered at the man, noticing his worn-down boots and the ragged hem of his ill-fitting tunic. Perhaps he should take a chance.
“I’m looking for a child about six years old. Born to a woman who was sometimes called Angel. I’m willing to pay for information.” For emphasis he stood up and patted the purse that hung beneath his own mantle.
The man stared at him. “There’s a lot of children to be found around here.”
“This one would have been fathered by an English soldier.”
Cleve sensed that the man knew something, for he stiffened slightly and his eyes darted away. Sure he was on the right path, Cleve went on. “The father seeks this child so that he can provide for him. He’s a very powerful and wealthy man.” He loosened his purse and crossed nearer to the man. “Would you know of such a child?”
The old man licked his lips, and his eyes darted back and forth between Cleve’s face and the clinking purse in his hand. “There’s many an English bastard in these parts, left over from the wars. How can you know which one it is? Or don’t you care?” the old man added with a shrewd gleam in his eyes.
Cleve kept his face carefully blank. He’d had the same thought himself, and more than once. How would Sir William know whether any young boy he brought back was truly his son or not? And yet Cleve knew he could not foist just any child off as Sir William’s.
However, it was not for Sir William’s sake that he wanted to find the right child. It was for the child’s. Every child deserved to know his father.
His own father had been a poor enough parent, and yet at least Cleve knew who he was. How much worse not to know him at all.
“I want the correct child, so I warn you, do not send me to just anyone. I’ll pay only for the truth.”
When the old man looked carefully about, as if he expected to find someone listening, Cleve knew he’d won.
“There is this woman, not far from here. She keeps several of the English bastards.”
“She has several bastards? Are any of them about six years old? Are any of them boys?”
“They’re all six or so, come from your King Henry’s last foolish attempt to subdue our lands.” He snorted in disdain at the English king’s idiocy. “And aye, she has boys.”
When Cleve returned to his men, he was brimming with renewed optimism. For a dozen English pennies the man had given him directions to Radnor Manor, a large house just beyond Radnor Village. They’d passed near the place only yesterday, and it was there that a number of English bastards resided under the care of some woman. The Seeress of Radnor, the old man had called her. A witch come from a long line of Welsh witches.
Cleve laughed out loud as he spied his small band of followers. Wales was indeed as wild and pagan as the priests so often preached. In Norman England a woman so widely regarded as a witch would have been roundly castigated—probably excommunicated and either driven out or else put to death by the ordeal. Yet that old man, Taffyd, had seemed both respectful and ambivalent about her. What was to be made of such a people?
“We ride back to where a thicket of impenetrable thorns encircles a solitary oak,” Cleve called out. “A rough trail leads north, and with a bit of good fortune we shall reach our destination by midday.”
At that moment a watery sun broke through the low-lying mists, and for a few minutes Cleve was able to see the beauty of these strange lands. The damp woodlands sparkled as if the finest of jewels had suddenly been strewn about by a mighty and benevolent hand. The grimness of the land was softened, and Cleve felt a surge of excitement in his chest.
Wild this Wales might be, but it held the key to all he longed for. Though he was not one to believe in signs and omens, he was certain this boded well for him. The old man. This unexpected sunshine. Everything he had struggled for was almost within his grasp.
She knew long before Rhys and Madoc came running and tumbling down the hill that the man was coming. She’d sensed it just as she had yesterday, only this time it was even stronger. Despite her fear of these unknown intruders on her lands, however, Wynne could not ignore the equally overpowering sense of curiosity she felt. Who was this man she sensed so vividly—more vividly than anyone or anything she’d ever sensed in her nineteen years?
Rhys gasped for breath. “Druce says to find all the women—”
“—and children. And get inside,” Madoc finished excitedly.
“Somebody’s coming—”
“But don’t worry, Wynne, we won’t let them get anybody—”
“The bloody English bastards.”
“Rhys!” Wynne exclaimed. “Where did you learn to use such language?”
Both boys stared up at her in quick chagrin. If it were not for the tiny scar on Rhys’s left eyebrow, Wynne would have been hard-pressed to tell them apart. It was Madoc who responded in a defensive tone.
“Druce says they’re bloody English bastards.”
“Well, I don’t care what Druce says. If I hear such talk from either of you again, I’ll wash your mouths out with soaproot. Do you understand?” When they reluctantly nodded, she sighed. “All right, now. Did Druce give any other instructions? Did he say anything else?”
“No. Can we go with Druce?”
“Absolutely not. Are you sure he didn’t give you any further message?”
“He said …” Madoc screwed up his face as if he were trying to remember. “He said you didn’t have to worry. He wouldn’t let anything bad happen to you.”
“And then Barris told Druce maybe you would give Druce a big wet kiss if he saved the day,” Rhys added.
Both boys stared up at Wynne as if they weren’t precisely sure what a big wet kiss was, but Wynne was not about to enlighten them. “Barris has no business saying such things,” she fumed as her face grew hot with embarrassment. Druce was her childhood friend. A few years ago he’d been willing to explore other possibilities between them, but she hadn’t felt the same. She thought of him more as a brother than anything else, and once he’d understood, he’d treated her as a sister. But the teasing of his brother and friends could easily make things uncomfortable for them all.
Besides, a husband was the last thing she needed. Even if someone was willing to marry the Seeress, he would hardly want the five children that came with her. And anyway, she didn’t have time for a husband, nor the desire. She wasn’t sure she ever would.
Hiding her discomfort as best she could, she took both of the twin boys by the hand. “Go find your sisters and then get inside the manor house. Where’s Arthur?”
“I want to see the bloody English bas—” Madoc broke off in the nick of time, but Wynne was too worried to scold him again.
“T
he English are a horrible people,” she warned. “You don’t want to see them.” Then she relented, for she knew her words would only fire the imagination of this irrepressible pair. “If Druce brings them to the manor, you may see them. All right? But only if you do what I tell you, as soon as I tell you.” Then she pulled each of them near for an urgent hug and a heartfelt kiss upon their sweaty brows. “Now, off with you both. Go find Isolde and Bronwen while I look for Arthur.”
Arthur was not in the stable loft. He was not in the cedar grove beside the spring, nor did she find him on his favorite boulder next to the hay field. Wynne saw Rhys and Madoc, followed by Isolde and Bronwen, go into the protective walls of the sturdy manor house. She saw Gwynedd’s sightless eyes searching for her, listening and sensing her. But Wynne couldn’t turn back. Where on God’s green earth was Arthur?
A cloud passed over the sun, and a rabbit shot across her path. She stopped where she was and fought down the fear that rose so swiftly in her chest. This was not a time for panic or for believing in omens, she told herself. This was a time for calm and for concentration.
She closed her eyes and subdued her rapid breathing, willing her mind to clear of all but the need to feel where Arthur was. When she lifted her head, she was calmer, though no more certain where he was. All she knew was that he was not in danger. But though she took comfort in that knowledge, she nevertheless could not abandon her search. She would not relax until he was back in her care.
With a clearer sense of direction, Wynne headed back to Arthur’s boulder. It was here he lay in the rare sunshine and dreamed his fanciful dreams. It was here he created his wild tales and observed the world with his amazingly observant eye.
She lay a hand on the flat place where he always sat, pressing her palm down hard, searching for some direction. When nothing came, she looked around in frustration. Perhaps he’d heard the commotion about the English and had gone nearer the Giant’s Trail to investigate.
Rexanne Becnel Page 2