Authors: The Knight of Rosecliffe

Rexanne Becnel (3 page)

BOOK: Rexanne Becnel

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Then he ran his hand roughly through his disheveled hair. What had caused all these maudlin thoughts today? Why did he moon over the idea of marrying and settling down? It was plain he needed something to lift his spirits, something to remind him of the pleasures of bachelorhood.

Leaving orders for the guard, he filled a wineskin from the cellar, fetched his horse, Helios, then rode out into the little town slowly growing below the castle walls. In the past, Maud the blacksmith’s daughter had always been good for a tickle and a laugh. And if she could not slip away, Gert the dairy maid might be available.

Blood rushed to his loins at the thought of Maud’s lush breasts and Gert’s pink, rounded bottom. Two lusty wenches, one English, one Welsh. Yes, he’d been far too long without a woman. As he urged his horse on, he wondered if there was a way to have the two of them, both at the same time. Now, wouldn’t that be a night to remember?

Though small, the town of Rosecliffe was busy. Three women, their heads covered with
couvrechefs,
gathered at the well, drawing water. Two old men basked in the sun, whittling arrow shafts as they talked of times past. A dog loped by, then ducked around a newly built waddle-and-daub house, with a pack of urchins fast on his trail.

The children skidded to a halt when they spied Jasper, and they stared curiously at him, so tall astride Helios. There was no fear on their faces, though, and Jasper knew Rand would be pleased by that fact. His brother’s plan to build a fortress that promised peace to all, both English and Welsh, was working. But though some Welsh people had moved into Rosecliffe village, living side by side with English settlers, they remained in the minority. For the most part, the warlike Welsh still harbored the hope of expelling the English from their borders.

Jasper knew, however, that it was a fruitless hope. The English were too strong and too organized for the fractious Welsh ever to defeat them. The change to English rule might come slowly across Wales, but come it would. Rand’s marriage to
a Welshwoman had begun the change in northern Wales, and there had been several subsequent intermarriages since then.

Should he consider doing the same?

The answer was simple: Not if he wanted lands of his own.

He found Gert at her churn with her mother. The mother handed him a jug of buttermilk, then crossed her thick arms and watched him with narrowed gaze until he departed.

At the smithy’s open-fronted shop, Maud worked the bellows while her father and brother labored painstakingly, beating out points for new lances. Her arms were bared in the heat of the fire. Her magnificent bosom bounced and jiggled every time she leaned forward shoving the bellows up and down. Her skin glistened with sweat and her thin blouse, damp with the heat, clung to her breasts, revealing enough to torture even a blind man.

Her father looked up at Jasper, glanced at his daughter, then grinned. The man was not above tempting his liege lord’s brother with his enticing daughter. But Jasper knew he was holding out for marriage. He had one son and seven daughters. Maud was only the first whom he must find a match for.

He handed a finished point to Jasper. “’Tis fine and hard, milord, and still warm to the touch. Here, feel it.”

Jasper did not linger there. He didn’t want to marry Maud, just bed her. Only that was proving more and more difficult to do—and he was getting hard just remembering the pleasures of the doing.

Who else? But there was no one else, not at midday. Though he was restless and in dire need of some distraction, it was clear that today, at least, a woman would not be it.

He ought to return to the tilting yard, he told himself, and work out his frustrations with lance and sword. But no one gave him adequate contest save for Alan and Rand, and they were both gone to parlay with LaMonthe.

So he turned to the third choice left him, and rode to the alewife’s brew shed. Between the jug she provided him and the generous wineskin already tied to the saddle, he was certain to drown his woes.

He urged his mount through the village and past the town
gate, waving to the watchman who sat in the sun, twisting twine that later would be braided into rope. He followed the hard-packed road down the hill. Below and to the left the shepherd boys trailed behind their woolly charges. To the right the cool woods and the River Geffen beckoned. Between him and the river stood only the
domen,
the ancient burial tomb avoided by most of the Welsh and all of the English, save for Rand.

True to his poor luck this day, Jasper spied the little bard Newlin. The deformed old man sat on the flat stone that topped the
domen
and stared fixedly at Jasper. Or at least he seemed to stare at Jasper. His eyes did not always focus in the same direction, so Jasper could never be certain where the odd little fellow was looking.

Though he was not in the mood to parry words with the strange old man, Jasper felt keenly his responsibility now that Rand was gone. He would speak to Newlin briefly, then be on his way.

Newlin rocked back and forth, a slight movement, both mesmerizing and irritating. His beribboned cloak wafted and billowed about him as if some mystical breeze cavorted about the man. Jasper halted beside the stone, eye to eye with the ageless Welsh bard.

“Ah. The young lord.” Newlin spoke softly, in English today. “Surveying your lands.”

“They’re not my lands. They never will be.”

The bard smiled. “Perhaps they already are.”

Jasper shifted in his saddle. Osborn, Rosecliffe’s captain-of-the guard, and most of the rest of the English, were afraid of Newlin—or at least viewed him with a superstitious eye. Rand and Josselyn, by contrast, often sought his company. Jasper himself neither feared the man nor found his obtuse maunderings particularly interesting. “Unlike you Welsh,” he replied, “we English have clearly defined lines of inheritance. These lands will go to Gavin, not to me.”

Newlin smiled, the sweet, gentle smile of a simpleton. Jasper knew, however, that he was anything but simpleminded. “Who shall keep the order in these hills may change,” Newlin
said. “The wind blows, sometimes from the south, sometimes from the north. We Cymry, we endure. As for this land, it shall ever remain in the possession of those who are, in turn, possessed by it.”

“I keep the peace in my brother’s absence. That is all. I am neither possessor or possessed. Soon enough will his son perform that task.”

“His son,” Newlin echoed after a moment. “The sons of sons haunt these hills. And their sons too. Have you a son?”

“You know I do not.”

“Perhaps soon you will.” He stared off toward the forest as if the conversation were finished.

But his last remark had caught Jasper’s interest. Though he did not credit visions and predictions, he couldn’t help asking, “Am I soon to wed and have a son?”

Newlin’s interest remained fixed on the horizon. “The day will come when you will teach a child the chant of these hills.”

“The chant?”

This time Newlin did not answer. He closed his eyes and his rhythmic swaying deepened. No music played, and yet the wind seemed to chant through the trees.

When stones shall grow, and trees shall no’ …

Jasper remembered bits and pieces of the song the Welsh taught their children, reassuring them that no English would ever rule Wales. There were three predictions, but he couldn’t recall the other two. Not that it mattered what sort of foolishness the Welsh chose to believe. The stones had grown. Rosecliffe castle was proof of that. Nothing else the Welsh might predict concerned him overmuch.

He stared closely at the bard, but Newlin had retreated into his own visions. Jasper stifled a curse and wheeled his horse about. Enough of this. These damned Welsh and their damned country were supposed to have provided him with adventure and opportunity. He’d left the smothering life of the Church only to find life at court boring. When Rand had needed his help in Wales, he’d come willingly. The Welsh were said to
be a fearsome lot, and he’d looked forward to testing his mettle in battle against them.

But after only one troublesome year, there had been little enough excitement, only the occasional raiding of some disgruntled Welshman or two. And now, when King Stephen and Matilda, the old king’s daughter, promised some sort of confrontation, he was left here to the unchanging boredom of Rosecliffe.

He reached the river and dismounted, letting Helios browse freely while he took both ale jug and wineskin and clambered onto a boulder. The only good thing in the whole of his brother’s considerable holdings was the quality of its ale and wine, he groused. He took a deep pull of the wine and settled onto the boulder. Being left behind by Rand was the final indignity, he told himself. The river rushed by, dark and cold. A perch broke the surface with a silvery flash. A crow’s raucous cry echoed; another answered it. And all the while Jasper brooded and drank and subsided into morose daydreams of adventure denied and daring suppressed.

When his brother returned, Jasper knew he must leave. He would attach himself to Stephen’s army—or Matilda’s. He didn’t care which. He would fight battles and win rewards, and if he died, he didn’t care about that either.

He drained the wineskin, then tossed it aside. What was a knight but a noble warrior? What was a man but a creature of blood and bone? He would fight with honor; he would win with honor; he would die with honor.

So he drank and he dreamed and the sun moved across the sky. It lit the opposite riverbank and cast him into shadow. He needed to relieve himself but he could not move. He was too relaxed. Had the rock not been so hard, he could have slept.

He squinted at the diamond reflections on the river. If he kept his eyelids half-closed, one of the twisting willow trunks on the opposite bank very nearly resembled a woman. Slender and strong. Supple in the breeze.

Then the tree stepped nearer the water and into the sunlight, and Jasper blinked his eyes. The tree
was
a woman. A woman.

He pushed up onto his elbows and tried to focus. At his movement she looked up and spied him. He froze, praying she would not flee. A woman, and alone as far as he could tell.

His head began to pound from the effort of staring so hard. But he remained still, sprawled upon the boulder, no weapon in his hands. Perhaps that was what reassured her, for after a moment she advanced farther into the sunlight. Her hair was long and dark, as black as a raven’s wing. It gleamed in the waning sunshine. And she was young. Her waist was narrow and her breasts high and firm. Jasper felt portions of his own anatomy begin to grow firmer too.

She saw him and yet she did not shy away. Fifty paces and an ice-cold river full with snowmelt protected her. It emboldened her, it seemed. As he watched, she put down the bundle she carried, then began to remove her dark green mantle.

Slowly Jasper sat up.

She stretched her arms high to let down her hair, then shook it out and began to finger-comb the thick, luscious length of it.

He was mesmerized. Was she real, or was she a lovely dream, some fanciful conjecture created of wine and ale and restlessness?

Then she removed her short boots, and tucked her skirt up, baring her pale ankles and legs. His heart stopped, then started again at full force. She waded into the water. Did she mean to cross over to him?

He jumped to his feet—an unfortunate movement, for he’d consumed more spirits than he realized, and on an empty stomach. But he refused to succumb to his spinning head or to his traitorous stomach, for her breasts were such lovely thrusting things, and her legs were long and shapely. She wanted to wrap them around his hips. He was convinced of it.

God, but he must have her!

Across the river, Rhonwen was shocked by her own daring. Baring her legs to a hated Englishman! But it had caught the scurvy knave’s attention, for he stood now on the flat rock that jutted into the river. He stood there swaying and she thought he would lose his balance and topple over. What was
wrong with the man? Though her feet were turning numb from the ice-cold river, she squinted at him. Was he drunk?

Suddenly she gasped. It was
him
! Brother of Sir Randulf. Jasper FitzHugh, whom she’d first laid eyes on when she was but a child and he a newly dubbed knight.

At the time, he’d been the captive of Rhys’s father, Owain. Now, ten years later, Owain was dead by Jasper FitzHugh’s hand, and Rhys had become the scourge of the English. Meanwhile, Jasper FitzHugh had no claim to fame, save as English sot and despoiler of Welsh womanhood.

She’d seen him once or twice in the intervening years, but only from afar, like now. But there were few as tall and broad-shouldered as he. Even from this distance, she could see the square jaw and straight nose that lent his face a comeliness no man should possess. Especially an Englishman.

Yes, it was Jasper FitzHugh. Would he recall the wild little girl who had stopped Owain from severing his hand? He’d lost only a finger instead, but he’d lived though the ordeal. Would he remember her?

She snorted. Not likely.

Had she the opportunity to do it all over again, would she save him a second time? Absolutely not!

BOOK: Rexanne Becnel

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