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Authors: The Mistress of Rosecliffe

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But it was too late for that. After today he would either be dead or she would hate him for having killed her uncle and perhaps her father.
“Will they attack us?” one of the men asked, breaking into Rhys’s morose thoughts. The man who spoke was a burly fellow, the best of the Welsh swordsmen. But the best fighter could stand only so long against greater numbers. He understood that and so did Rhys.
“I go to goad the cowards to a confrontation, but not a confrontation between the four of us and them. This fight is between the FitzHughs and me.”
He drew his mount to a halt in a wide place in the road just before the enclosure of the first of the village cottages. The clouds hung low and heavy, a cold blanket over an even
colder ground. The village was silent, but he saw faces behind the shutters, and shadows behind doors opened a margin.
“Show yourself, Jasper FitzHugh. I am Rhys ap Owain. You can run from me no longer!”
A fierce gust of wind howling around a corner was his only answer, that and the excited bark of an unseen hound.
“Damnation! Is your fear so great that you would shame yourself before all these people, English and Welsh alike?”
He tensed at the sound of angry voices. Then the door of a large cottage halfway up the street crashed open and two men emerged. The FitzHugh brothers! Both of them wore only their short swords and daggers, still sheathed at their hips.
Rhys’s grip on the reins tightened unconsciously and his horse backed up and half reared before he eased his stranglehold on the leather straps. He stared at the two men. His entire life had been altered by these two, directed in ways no one could have predicted when he was but the young son of the fierce Welsh warrior, Owain ap Madoc. His father had lusted after the lands of the rose cliffs, and also after the woman, Josselyn, who went with those lands. He’d not lived to possess either of them. Now twoscore years later, here he was, Owain’s son, in possession of both of those treasures, the land with its newly built castle, and the woman who belonged to it, though it was the daughter now, not the mother.
All in all, a heady feeling, but disconcerting also. For though he fought to retain possession of the castle and lands, he knew he could not possess the woman for long. But he brutally shoved those thoughts aside.
“So. You show yourself at last.” He leaned forward nonchalantly and the leather saddle creaked beneath him. “Who will be the first to die beneath my blade?”
Though their expressions were murderous, they did not rise to his baiting. “How fares Isolde?” Randulf FitzHugh demanded. He strode boldly forward, one of his hands resting on his sword hilt. “How fares my daughter?”
“She fares well. Are you prepared to face me?”
“There will be no battle. Not today,” Jasper FitzHugh said, coming up beside his brother.
Rhys stared at them in disbelief. Despite the insults he’d
hurled at them, he did not truly take them to be cowards. Did they delay in the hope of raising more men?
“Face me now or suffer the consequences,” he bit out.
Randulf FitzHugh tensed and started to jerk his sword out. But his brother’s hand on his arm stayed the movement.
Rhys could not believe this. “Are you spineless? Must I dismount and throw my gauntlets in your face before you will respond like men instead of craven worms?” The words struck home. He saw that much in their furious expressions. But something held them back.
“We are but four men,” Rhys continued, determined to prod them to action. “I know you are nearly twenty. And yet you fear me.” He shook his head, deliberately taunting them. “Look at them,” he said to his nervous men. “Twenty Normans do fear four Welshmen. Are we not the sons of dragons? Are we not the fiercest warriors on this isle?”
“So fierce you hide behind my daughter’s skirts!” Randulf roared.
Rhys observed him coldly. “She is but enticement to force your return.”
“Rescuing my home is enticement enough to hasten my return. No, you did not keep her to entice me here. Rather, it is you who are enticed by her. That’s the only reason you keep her. And though I would happily strike you down this very moment, until she is returned to the safety of her family, I cannot risk it. I cannot risk her.”
Rhys stared contemptuously at him. “It is not you I want to fight, but rather my father’s murderer. If it pleases you, though, I will take you on once he is dead.”
“Neither of us will fight you until Isolde has been released,” Jasper stated. “That is the only way we can be certain your men will not retaliate against her upon your death.”
Rhys bristled and his mount stamped one massive hoof. “That will not happen.” He’d already made certain of it. “Welshmen do not wreak their vengeance upon women,” he added.
“Your father did.”
Rhys sucked in a sharp breath and glared furiously at Jasper FitzHugh. He wanted to deny the man’s charge, except that a part of him knew it was true. Owain had fought to keep Wales
free of Norman invaders, a noble goal. But he’d also not hesitated to trample upon anyone weaker than himself—women, children. His wife. Even his own son. It didn’t matter who.
For that reason, Rhys silently conceded, FitzHugh had every right to be suspicious of his treatment of Isolde. His mind swiftly weighed his choices. If reinforcements were coming, he needed to fight the FitzHughs as soon as possible. And if they would not meet him in battle until Isolde was freed …
He steeled himself for what he must do. “Very well, I will free her.”
In the distance thunder rumbled, low and long, as if it traveled from a faraway place. But Rhys ignored the threat it carried. He’d always known he must someday free her. That time had now come.
“Don your battle garb and meet me in the field beside the moat,” he clipped out. “The two of you come alone, and I will come with Isolde. Then we will fight. Then we will end this, once and for all.”
Then I will die, if not my body, then most assuredly my heart
.
SHE HEARD HIM COMING. A DEAF WOMAN WOULD HAVE heard him coming. Thundering horse’s hooves on the bridge. Angry voices in the yard. But Isolde did not turn away from her task. A flash of lightning lit the shadowy room. The crack of thunder that followed rattled the shutters. But still she did not break her concentration.
From the moment Rhys had disappeared beneath the massive gatehouse, she had been compelled to paint. Unlike the careful portrait she’d done of him, this was a burst of wild energy, a hurried and passionate effort. Almost without conscious thought the work took form on the bare wall before her. A rearing dragon. faced a charging wolf. Two magnificent creatures locked in battle. Or was it an embrace?
She suppressed a sob and dipped her brush in a pot of pale gray paint. The dragon’s eyes were black, like Rhys’s. The wolf’s would be gray, like hers.
A door slammed. Footsteps, heavy and purposeful, were coming up the stairs. To her little tower room?
The door crashed open without warning. She only bent more intently to her work. She heard his harsh breaths. He was angry. But then, when was he not?
The answer came easily: when they were alone. When it was only them without the intrusions of the outside world and the weight of the past, then he was not angry.
“I am come to set you free of this place.”
She flinched, but refused to look at him. The dragon’s
claws were sharp. His breath was searing. But the wolf’s fangs were equally sharp, and she was fearless.
“Damn you, Isolde! I am releasing you from this prison. Go! Go now to your family.”
She shook her head. “You will not put me out of my rightful home.” She swung her head around to face him, an obstinate light in her eyes. “This is my home, Rhys. I will fight to keep it just as fiercely as do you. You of all people must understand that.”
He stood there in his battle array, dwarfing her, dwarfing the chamber. She pressed her lips together. He was more magnificent than she could ever depict. So strong. So driven. His sense of honor was a thing to admire, no matter that it demanded vengeance upon her family. She sucked in a deep breath then slowly turned back to her painting. The dragon was not right. It did not do him justice.
“You have to go to them,” he said, his voice quieter now. “’Tis time.”
“No.”
“Yes. If you will not go willingly, then I will force you.”
“You told me that it was not your way to force a woman—”
“
Uffern dan!
” He yanked her upright and spun her around. Brush and paint went flying, but Isolde paid them no mind. Her dragon lover meant to rid himself of her, and her heart simply could not bear it.
His midnight eyes burned into hers. “You will go. They’re waiting for you.”
“Why are you doing this now?” She tried to grab his chain mail in her fists but she could not. The hard links bit into her palms, but still she tried. “What will happen if I go out to them?”
He didn’t have to say the words; she could see the truth in his eyes. But still he said them. “When you are safe again in the bosom of your family, only then will Jasper meet me on the field of honor.”
“Do not do this, Rhys. I beg you. Do not.”
He shook his head. “It has been too many years since I have made this vow to possess again what’should have been mine all along.”
“You can have it without this fight, without anyone dying.”
Their eyes held so long that Isolde felt hers sting, for she feared to blink and break their tenuous bond. It was he who blinked. “You are a woman; you don’t understand. But I am a man, as are they, and we fight for what we must have.”
“I
am
fighting, Rhys. I’m fighting as a woman fights. Not with your weapons, but with mine. I think you love me.” She trembled as she said the words. What if she were wrong? But she pressed on. “I think you may love me, and I know I love you. So wed with me. A marriage between us will end forever this feud between our families. Let us be wed, Rhys. I am the firstborn—”
He thrust her away and then stared at her as if she were mad. “Your brother will inherit.” Then his hand sliced the air. “Besides, a union between us cannot change the past.”
“It can if you will let it. If you will choose me over vengeance.”
But he only shook his head and Isolde felt panic rise in her chest. “Please, Rhys. I love you.”
His face twisted in torment. Every muscle in his hard warrior’s body trembled with violent emotion. It was a fearful sight and yet Isolde was somewhat heartened. She reached out a hand and rested it lightly upon his chest. “Do you not see how blessed we are—”
“Do not work your ploys on me!” His voice was angry. But he clasped his hand over hers, pressing it against the chain mail links. “If that is how you feel, then you must accept me as I am. I cannot change my destiny now.”
Isolde’s heart ached for him. He wanted her love, something he’d never had from anyone before. But at what price? Could she pay it? Could she love a man who would happily slay her family?
Something inside her seemed to break. “I cannot be with you, Rhys, if you would destroy my family. For I love them, too.”
He threw off her hand so fast she stumbled backward.
“Then go to them,” he snarled. “You cannot love me and also love my enemies. Go!” he bit out through clenched teeth.
Isolde backed away from him, hugging her arms around herself. “I am staying here.” Her voice trembled; her entire body trembled. “I am staying here. In my home.”
“No. You are not.”
Operating on instinct, Rhys grabbed Isolde and tossed her over his shoulder. His chest constricted with pain as he closed off the part of him she had just managed to touch. She had made him love her and she’d nearly made him confess to it. But when he’d reached out to take what she offered, she’d yanked it back. She had put a price on it, a bounty. And it was too high.
“No, Rhys! No! Don’t do this,” she cried, struggling against his rigid grasp. But Rhys steeled himself against the desperation in her voice. He knew what he had to do and he could not allow her to deter him. She kicked and squirmed, and pounded her fists against his back, but he was immune to her blows. He strode from the small chamber, ignoring Linus’s worried look, while Isolde fought him all the way.
He had known from the beginning that his attraction to her was foolish. He’d known it was madness. But even he had not guessed that it could be so dangerous. Or so painful.
By the time he reached the bailey she had ceased fighting. But that only made his task more difficult. To ignore Isolde when she struggled against him was hard enough. To ignore her when she lay warm and soft across his shoulder, with the ends of her silken hair flying up against his neck and her unique scent of lavender and paint invading his senses, was nigh on to impossible.
“Rhys,” she beseeched him, bracing herself against his back. “Put me down: Think what it is you truly want.”
“I know what I want,” he retorted, striding across the bailey. “I’ve always known.”
He ignored the raised brows and startled faces of both castle folk and Welsh men-at-arms. From the gatehouse the guards stared down on him, but no one dared stop him, for he was lord of Rosecliffe now, and he meant to hold that position. Beneath the gate he strode, and across the bridge. In the field beyond the moat his three men waited. From the village he heard a shout and knew word of Isolde’s appearance would carry swiftly to the FitzHughs. They would have to fight him now.
When he put her down she stumbled back three paces. Her loosened hair whipped like a fragrant pennant in the wind, but
she swept it aside with one hand. Gasping for breath, she glared at him. “You think that because you fight you are brave. But it takes more courage to love than to kill. You are brave with your body, Rhys, but you have no courage of the heart. None!”
He tried not to wince, but her words struck home with excruciating accuracy. So he raised the only defense he could: denial. “It was lust we shared, not love,” he growled, hating himself for the lie and the way she blanched in response.
One of her hands pressed against her chest in the vicinity of her heart. “No, Rhys. No.” But her voice wavered and he knew his words had shaken her.
“Go.” He pointed down the road to where two women stood staring at them. Josselyn and Rhonwen, he realized. How perversely fitting, for these three women were the only ones he’d ever truly admired. Each of them had at some point offered him comfort: Josselyn, that of a mother; Rhonwen, that of a friend; and Isolde, that of a lover. And he had wanted what they’d offered. He’d gladly accepted it. But in the end each one of them had betrayed him. Each one of them.
He took a harsh breath and drew himself up. In time he’d learned to hate the other two. He turned his eyes back to Isolde. In time, God willing, he could learn to hate her, as well.
 
Josselyn grabbed her husband’s arm. “Do not fight him. I beg you, Rand.”
But he shook off her hold. “He has stolen our home and done God knows what to our daughter. Now he vows to kill my brother. No, Josselyn. No. I have delayed this confrontation long enough. I understand your affection for him. But he is a man now. He’s not the boy you once knew. And he must bear the weight of the choices he has made.”
So saying, he strode toward the two figures standing in the open field.
Josselyn clasped her hands against her chest. Rhonwen came up beside her and, clinging to one another, the two women watched Rand and Jasper advance on foot toward Rhys. Someone would die this day. Someone they loved. And though they’d done everything they could to sway their husbands
from their grim task, it seemed they had failed.
Rhys stood his ground as his adversaries approached him. His three men, still mounted, formed a defensive half-circle behind him. Rand called out to Isolde and after a moment’s hesitation, when her eyes clung to Rhys, she ran into her father’s arms. But Josselyn and Rhonwen had seen that hesitation, and now they shared a look.
“She loves him,” Josselyn murmured.
“As well she should. He is a good man still. I know he is.”
“Would that our husbands thought as much.”
From behind them three of their own knights rode out to back up their lords. From overhead the heavens rumbled discontent.
“Let it rain,” Josselyn prayed aloud. “Let the heavens yield their bounty now. Rain, snow, sleet. Please, God, prevent this battle. Please, Mother Mary, intercede for us. Stay these hotheaded men of ours.”
But the only response was more thunder. Then Rand pushed Isolde gently toward the village. “Go to your mother,” he said, his voice carrying to them.
“Isolde!” Josselyn cried out to her child and held her arms wide. She could not prevent what these men would do. But at least she could prevent her beloved child from witnessing the carnage sure to come. “Isolde. Come away from them.”
Isolde spied her mother and her aunt. The urge to run to them was overwhelming, but she was afraid to leave the men, for then the fighting would commence. “Mother!” she cried out. “Oh, Mother, please make them stop. Stop, Father. Stop, Uncle Jasper!”
“We have tried! We have tried!”
Isolde shook her head and looked back at Rhys. Her father had stepped between him and Jasper, and he was defining now the rules of the fight to come. A fight to the death, she feared, and all for possession of a castle.
She looked over at Rosecliffe, the home that she loved. Yet she did not value it nearly so much as she valued the lives of these three men she loved. Then a figure stepped beyond the shadows of the gatehouse. Two figures, Newlin and Tillo. They stood close together, a united front, it seemed. They were shoulder to shoulder, and it gave her courage.
Without pausing to consider her actions, Isolde turned away from her mother and started back toward the castle. She did not run, but neither did she hesitate. Lightning cut a jagged streak across the sky and thunder crashed over her head, but she did not flinch. “I am returning to the tower,” she announced as she marched past the three tense men. “To my home. Do not come to me, Father, if you or Jasper harm Rhys. And do not come to me, Rhys, if you spill the blood of either my uncle or father.”
If they looked her way, she did not know. It was enough that the three mounted Welshmen stared at her as if she were a madwoman. The guards at the gatehouse did the same. But Newlin smiled at her, and Tillo briefly clutched her hand.
“Please,” Isolde begged them both. “Please do something to end this madness.”
“Take yourself off to the tower, child,” Newlin said. “You have done the best you can do. What is left lies in their hands.” He turned to face Rhys and the two Englishmen. “In their hands, and in God’s.”
It was the hardest thing Isolde had ever done, to turn her back on the impending disaster and march resolutely across the bailey. No one in the castle yard spoke to her, though she felt the weight of their stares. Some were stunned. Others confused. But one or two of the women wore expressions of compassion, as if they understood.

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