Rexanne Becnel

by Where Magic Dwells

  “Are we supposed to be sadder because we’ve left Wales?” Bronwen asked.

  Wynne smiled ruefully and reached through the darkness to where she knew the little girl lay. She rubbed Bronwen’s knee. “No, I don’t think we have to be sadder, sweetheart. We can miss our own home and yet still enjoy our journey. ’Tis quite an adventure for us, and we should endeavor to learn as much as we can from our time in England. Such as improving your skills in the language.”

  “We learned a—”

  “—new word today,” the twins said.

  “I heard you speaking with Derrick,” Wynne said.

  “Ned taught me the word whore,” Madoc boasted.

  “What! He taught you a word like that?”

  “Well … I mean, sort of. He … he said it to Marcus, and I asked him what it meant.”

  “And what did he say?” Wynne demanded.

  “Well, he … he said it was a woman who kisses lots of different men. Lots and lots of them.”

  Wynne felt a small relief at that, but her anger did not abate at all. A group of hardened soldiers was poor company for such young and impressionable children as these. Not for the first time she wondered why she’d relented to the girls’ pleas that they be allowed to come along. Bad enough that the boys had to come. She should have left Isolde and Bronwen with Gwynedd.

  But it was too late now for second thoughts. She must make the best of things, and her first order of business tomorrow would be to speak to Cleve about his men’s foul language before her children. Hopefully he would respond better to that than he had to their aborted discussion about Arthur’s affection for him.

  The very thought of that conversation—especially the note on which it had ended—caused her stomach to knot. He was so insufferably confident! It would be best if she had Druce there to back her up. Cleve would not dare be so bold with Druce there.

  Yet Druce’s involvement in this whole business was not entirely without suspicion. She recalled something Cleve had said to her that night in the stable when the storm had struck. He’d promised Druce that he would not take advantage of her. Druce! As if he were her father or brother. But it was not Druce’s protection that bothered her, for to be honest, she appreciated that. But there was something else implied, something that disturbed her enormously.

  Was Druce aware of Cleve’s personal interest in her? And if so, did he actually approve?

  Wynne straightened up and squinted toward the fire. She heard Madoc whisper something to his brother, but he received no reply. The children were finally dozing off, it seemed, but Wynne was wide awake, and her mind turned round and round this absurd hew possibility.

  It was one thing for Druce to act the part of her brother when it came to protecting her and her children. Both their lifelong friendship and the fact of their common Welsh heritage demanded no less of him. But to seem to give approval to some Englishman who courted her—if what Cleve pursued could very loosely be termed courting—was going much too far. The very idea made her blood boil.

  First thing tomorrow she would set Druce straight. Then once he was sufficiently reprimanded, the two of them would approach Cleve FitzWarin.

  A bark of laughter drifted to the tent, and she glared at the men who made merry. Someone stood up across the fire, and she recognized Cleve. His wide shoulders and long dark hair set him apart from the rest. He lifted a mug and said something she could not make out. The others laughed and lifted their mugs in reply. Then they all drank.

  Cnaf, she brooded. Knaves, the entire lot of them. She turned away, pulling the flap of canvas down to close them off. But even as she lay on her mossy pallet and pulled her cloak over her shoulders, she was keenly attuned to every sound the men made. Every muffled word, every laugh or toast, only blackened them further in her eyes. Were it not for their necessary part in maintaining the human race, she decided, the world would be better off without any men in it whatsoever. There would be no wars. There would be no need for weapons or armor or even destriers. Nor castles, moats, or dykes. The world would be a peaceful and pastoral place, with no voices raised in anger, nor fists either.

  But even as she counted the sins attributable to the male of the species—of all the species, rams and stallions and bulls included—she could not shake one immutable fact: Life would certainly be dull without them.

  “Wynne … Wynne.” It was Druce’s impatient voice that roused her from discordant dreams of towering castle walls overrun with wild mistletoe vines. Only the mistletoe sprouted roses every now and again, and it grew so fast that she became caught up in the vines, trapped within the dark walls of the massive castle. When Druce’s voice broke through to her, she clung to it as if it were a lifeline.

  “What … what is it, Druce?” she mumbled as she sat up and pushed her hair from her eyes. Then, when she recognized the urgency in his tone, she blinked the sleep away. “Is aught amiss with you?”

  “Not me. No. But one of the Englishmen is ill, and two others of them….”

  She poked her head out of the tent. “Ill? In what way?”

  He shrugged. “He has puked his guts out the whole night long. And two of the others are beginning to feel the same way.”

  “They probably just drank too much.” She thrust the wild tangle of her dark hair from where it fell once more over her eyes. “And it serves them right. I heard the lot of you, carousing long after more sensible persons would have sought out their beds.”

  But Druce shook his head. “No, ’tis not the pounding head of too much drink. I’m feeling that right enough myself. But Marcus, he has a fever. And now Richard and Henry do as well. He’s sick, Wynne. All three of them are. Can you help them?”

  Wynne stared past him toward the figures huddled around the remnants of the fire. In the pale gray light of early dawn the men appeared almost ghostly. Mist hugged the ground so that the man who lay curled on a crude pallet was barely discernible. The agitated cry of an oriole echoed from somewhere beyond, and a squirrel chattered, then skittered up the trunk of a towering beech, its tiny claws making a scratchy sound against the bark.

  Morning was here, though the children yet slept. But what an interesting morning it would prove to be, the wry thought came to her. She’d not yet had the chance to use any of her potions on her enemies, yet here they were, falling ill but a stone’s throw from the Welsh border. She almost laughed. How fitting.

  She crawled from the tent, then shook off the last vestiges of sleep and rose to her feet. The ground was cold and damp, but she ignored that.

  “So, three of them are struck low. But then, what could be expected when they seek to steal a child of Cymru from his home?”

  Druce peered at her suspiciously. “Wynne, have you done something to cause this illness?”

  “Of course not,” she answered, though she smiled smugly. Let him wonder. Let them all wonder.

  “Bedamned, Wynne. But this is foolish beyond anything you’ve ever done before.”

  “I tell you, I did not cause this illness they suffer. Have I had access to their mugs or trenchers? All my cooking has been in one pot. Everyone partook of the same meals. Although I may wish to strike them down, I would not risk you and Barris, or the children.” She paused and sent him a deliberately disdainful look. “Well, I would not risk the children.”

  With a ragged sigh Druce ran a hand through his rumpled hair. “Do not jest in this. The Englishmen are angry enough already. They do suspect you,” he added in a whisper.

  Wynne lifted her head and stared at the English encampment. Her eyes glittered with undisguised glee. “I do not care what they suspect. I did nothing to cause this affliction they now suffer. At least nothing other than wish for it. I wonder,” she mused, tapping one finger idly against her chin. “I wonder if my powers do grow stronger. Mayhap I can now wish ill on my enemies and see it come to pass.”

  Druce took a step back from her, and she noted that he looked appropriately impressed. “Do not say such things around them,�
� he hissed. “You forget that we’re in England now. They do hunt down those they suspect of witchcraft.” He glanced over his shoulder and swallowed hard when he spied a tall form rise, then stare over at the two of them. “Especially do not say such things before Cleve. He sent me to fetch you. We’d better go now.”

  Wynne smiled. “Yes, we had better go. We wouldn’t want to rile him, would we?”

  But as she tied her hair back with a bit of odd ribbon and found her dirty boots, Wynne knew that riling Cleve was exactly what she wished to do. She found the purse she’d filled with herbs and slung her short cape over her unlaced gown. Then she turned to Druce, who awaited her.

  “On another matter, Druce. We need to talk about our friendship. Yours and mine. I hope you do not imply to that English knight that you have any authority—either over me or over my children—which you do not truly possess. It would put me in the worst sort of temper if you did.”

  He shifted from one leg to the other. “Gwynedd specifically instructed me to have a care for you and the children.”

  Wynne lifted her brows slightly and pinned him with her icy stare. “Our physical safety, perhaps. But you are neither my brother nor my father. No, nor any of the children’s either. This Cleve FitzWarin makes certain … well, certain overtures toward me.”

  “I warned him not to be too bold!”

  “ ’Tis not your place to warn him at all!”

  His eyes narrowed to suspicious slits. “Why? Would you have him pursue you even more vigorously than he does?”

  “No!” Wynne shouted. She gritted her teeth in exasperation. “I wish he would fall off the edge of the earth so that I might never be bothered by him again, so long as I live.”

  He stared at her a moment. “Then I will make my warning to him even stronger.”

  “No!” she protested once more. “ ’Tis not your business to speak to him about me.”

  It was Druce’s turn to grow angry. “You make no sense at all. You do not wish his attentions, and yet I’m to say nothing to him?”

  “ ’Tis not your place,” she insisted, though even she recognized how contrary she must sound. She frowned, then hugged her purse to her chest as she tried to explain. “When you speak to him about me—when you place limits on his behavior toward me—well, that implies a certain amount of approval. Which is not yours to give,” she hastened to add. “For all practical purposes, you give him leave to court my affections.”

  He shook his head in confusion. “Would you have me abandon you in this? Not step in if he should be too bold?”

  “No. I mean, yes.” She sighed in exasperation. “Druce, I appreciate your concern. I am most relieved that you are here. But that man … that man has no right to pursue me, and therefore you have no right to make any rules for him about how he should pursue me. Does that make sense to you? Besides, he has a bride waiting in England for him. He’s promised to wed one of this Lord Somerville’s daughters in reward for stealing one of my children,” she added scathingly.

  “Now, Wynne, there’s no use in arguing that point once again. And as for this other maiden, well, they’re not yet wed, are they? I am certain he favors you.”

  “Ffiaidd dihiryn!” she swore. “You are truly the most loathsome of knaves. Don’t you understand what I am telling you? I do not wish for him to favor me!”

  His cockiness returned at that. “Now, now, Wynne. Do not lie to me. I have known you since you wore short skirts, remember? Every woman needs a husband, and you are no different. Cleve would make a good husband for you.”

  Wynne opened her mouth to challenge that ridiculous statement, then closed it with a sharp click of her teeth. It was useless to argue with Druce, especially when he had that stubborn look on his face. Oh, but she would get nowhere trying to reason with such an addle-headed fool as he clearly was.

  With a cold, dismissive glare she turned and stalked away from him, faming the whole way. Men were the most difficult of all God’s creatures. Just look at Rhys and Madoc with their reckless adventures. They were so like Druce was as a boy, and no doubt they would favor him in manhood. Even Arthur was impossible to reason with once he had an idea fixed in his mind. Such as this attachment he’d formed for Cleve.

  She glared at the object of her ire as she approached, unfazed by the sharp look he turned on her.

  “So. Do you come to gloat or to lend us your healing skills?” He stood between her and the rest of the encampment, his legs slightly spread in an antagonistic stance, and his fists on his hips.

  Wynne tilted her head up in a gesture of disdain. Let him posture belligerently. If he expected her to plead for the chance to help his ailing men, he was an even greater fool than she suspected.

  “How astute you are, Englishman. If the truth be told, I have been gloating these last few minutes. However, if you require my assistance as a healer, then I will make my talents available to you. For a price,” she threw in for good measure.

  One of his brows arched in surprise, then he laughed. “For a price. You lay my men low with one of your heathen potions, then would exact a price from me to remedy your mischief.” Then before she could react, he caught her by the wrist, and his brows lowered in absolute fury. “Heal my men, witch, or suffer the consequences—”

  “Have a care, Cleve,” Druce interrupted as he came up to them. “You’ve no cause to treat her so. She assures me that she did nothing—”

  “I am able to speak for myself,” Wynne snapped, sending Druce a furious look. Then she turned back to Cleve, a murderous glitter in her eyes. “Whatever ails your men is not of my doing,” she stated, measuring her tone with acid precision. “No powder or oil of my hand made its way into their meals. If it had, more than three of them would now be groaning their misery.”

  His grasp remained tight on her arm. Painful even. But she matched him glare for glare, and slowly she sensed his anger begin to recede.

  “You have tried it once before. I cannot believe you do not even yet wait for another opportunity.”

  She allowed a faint smile to curve her lips. “So I do. But it appears my powers do grow ever stronger. Perhaps it is the intensity of my emotions these past few days. I did but wish to lay you English low and …” She trailed off with a shrug and peered around him to view his three miserable men.

  At once he jerked her arm, throwing her off balance before he righted her with a hand on each of her shoulders. “Enough of this talk of witchcraft. ’Tis but a ploy you use on gullible villagers—”

  “And English soldiers,” she added, not hiding her laughter in the least. She’d seen the alarm in the other Englishmen’s faces. Even Barris had appeared suitably impressed by her claim to these new powers.

  “Not all of us are fools, Wynne. You delude yourself if you believe we are.”

  They stared at each other, his dark brown eyes clashing with hers of vivid blue. But she refused to be cowed by him, even though she found his nearness almost suffocating. His hands held her body at his command, while his gaze seemed to fight for authority over her very soul.

  He was no fool. She recognized that. But neither was she, and she refused to allow him to dismiss her as one.

  It took Druce to break their impasse.

  “Let her see to them, Cleve. If she says she can heal them, then she can.”

  “But will she?” he growled, still not removing his gaze from hers.

  “If you do not wish my services, you have but to say so. Never fear, I shall not be crushed by the rejection.”

  “Oh, you shall heal them, all right,” Cleve replied, his face very near hers. “Only I shall watch over your every move.”

  But although Cleve was willing, his men were not.

  “No, not the witch,” Richard groaned, managing, despite his weakness and pallor to stumble away from the camp. Marcus and Henry, however, were not even able to do that, though it was clear they, too, wished to escape her ministrations. Henry especially kept babbling as she spread her traveling stillroom ou
t upon a small woolen rug.

  “No, do not let her—”

  “Be still, man. She but prepares a healing draft,” Cleve muttered, sounding more impatient than reassuring.

  “No, no. ’Tis a poison,” the poor fellow mumbled, very near to tears. Even Wynne was moved by his terrible fear. Although she clung to her mysterious skills of seeress as her very last line of defense in this battle with the Englishmen, she nonetheless felt an uncomfortable pang of guilt. So much of healing was built upon trust and an abiding belief in the healer’s skills. Her abilities owed as much to her people’s faith in her as they did to her knowledge of herbs and her special sense for such matters.

  But this man was too alarmed by her presence to be healed by her hands, and that knowledge bothered her.

  With a small frown she sat back on her heels. “This will not work,” she muttered as she stared hard at the fellow’s sweaty face.

  “You mean, you do not wish it to work,” Cleve countered from much too close behind her. She jerked her head around to glare at him.

  “If the patient will not cooperate, there is nothing I can do for him.”

  “He is afraid, damn you. Something you’ve deliberately encouraged.”

  “Be that as it may, I still cannot undo his fear.”

  “Just make the potion. I shall see that he takes it,” Cleve added with a meaningful look at the frightened Henry.

  “That will not be enough,” Wynne muttered back at him. “If he does not will it—if he resists the medicine—then he will not heal.”

  Cleve gave her a long, steady look. He was squatting on his heels right next to her, and she could see the weariness on his face. He’d had too much to drink last night, then had been up before dawn’s light. For a brief and startlingly intense moment she wished to erase the exhaustion and worry from his lean face. She wished to see his face crease in a smile, not a frown.