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Authors: The Knight of Rosecliffe

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BOOK: Rexanne Becnel
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She looked down at her chest and smoothed her hands over it. Nothing. Not even a hint of the breasts that one day would appear. Frowning, she made her way to the stairs that led up to the nursery. Maybe she wasn’t putting on enough of the ointment she’d gotten in the village from Enid. She didn’t like its foul odor, nor the way it caused her chemise to stick to her skin.
But that wasn’t important, she reminded herself. Jasper liked women with breasts. The sooner she got hers to grow, the sooner he would see she wasn’t a little girl anymore.
 
Rhys stood at the edge of the forest. Beyond him the fields unfolded, their boundaries marked with low stone walls. It was dark and he could see little, for the moon was but a thin crescent low in the chilly midnight sky. Still, he’d studied Rosecliffe Castle and the village beneath it so many times from this vantage point, he could map out the scene in his sleep.
The town wall was taller than those marking the fields, though still incomplete. He could gain access into town easily enough. But it was the castle he wanted. And though its walls appeared impregnable, he knew they were not. There was a way to take Rosecliffe Castle; he just didn’t know what it was. At least, not yet. But he would.
He would rout Randulf and Jasper FitzHugh and make Rosecliffe Castle a Welsh stronghold. That had always been his goal, but now it held a new urgency. He needed to show Rhonwen that he was a better man than Jasper FitzHugh. Something had occurred between her and that Englishman. Rhys was certain of it. But he would prove to her that he was the right man for her. The only man.
A light flickered in the dark village, drawing his attention. It moved slowly through the streets. Someone carrying a lantern. The late walker disappeared into a stone cottage where a considerable fire had been built, judging from the plume of smoke escaping its squat chimney. Perhaps someone was ill, or the midwife had come to tend a childbirth.
His hands tightened into fists at that thought. Eight Englishmen had taken Welsh wives. Fourteen of their bastards peopled Rosecliffe village. Would tonight see a fifteenth added to their number?
God, but he must eject these English from his lands!
Behind him one of his men shifted. Dried leaves rustled. A twig broke with a brittle snap. Then someone cursed and the night silence turned to hysteria.
“God help us!”
“Sweet Mary!”
“Beware—”
Rhys spun around, his short sword at the ready. Had they been found out? Was this his night to finally meet his enemy in battle?
But it was not Jasper FitzHugh or any of his men who panicked the Welsh rebels. A short shadow trundled into their midst and Rhys let out a low, vicious curse.
“Damnation! Are you a pack of gutless cowards?”
Newlin, the deformed, walleyed seer, made his way through the chagrined Welshman with a benign expression on his deeply lined face. Though he had never been known to harm a soul, he nonetheless inspired considerable fear among the superstitious. Rhys, however, had never been superstitious. He did not hold with spells or magic—nor with the power of prayer. A man accomplished as much as his brain and body allowed, nothing more. If he had a strong will, he made the most of what he was born with. If his will was weak, he died young—and along the way lived a wretched life of cold and hunger.
Rhys had been cold and hungry as a child, and his life had been wretched. But his will had overcome that. He didn’t intend for his life to be wretched much longer.
So he gave Newlin an annoyed glance. “Do you take a great pleasure in terrifying simpletons?”
The ageless little bard smiled. “To terrify simpletons requires no particular talent. But to terrify a man of intelligence—now, that would be something, indeed. Still, I am not come here to strike fear into the hearts or heads of anyone.”
“Then why come you here?” Rhys snapped.
Newlin gave him a bland look that managed, nonetheless, to chastise him for his unnecessary rudeness. “I but make my way home.”
He pointed to the ancient
domen
, the huge stone balanced above three lower ones. It stood outside the town, near the forest and the fields. The Welsh respected it as a holy site; the English gave it a wide berth. But Rhys knew that Randulf FitzHugh spoke often with the bard. Perhaps he might learn something of the English lord’s plans from the bard.
“You saw FitzHugh off?”
Newlin shrugged with his one good shoulder. “I know that he is gone.”
“Do you know why he left? Do you know where he went and how long he will be away?”
Newlin stared up at Rhys with his odd, unfocused eyes. “I know, as do you, that there is trouble among the English. Two of them would rule where only one can. I know, as do you, that he is gone to Bailwynn Castle in the south, to parlay with the other English lords. I know also, as do you, that he will not wish to long be absent from his wife and his children. Is there anything else you know that you wish to ask me?”
One of Rhys’s men snickered, albeit from a safe distance, and Rhys’s anger rose. “He takes you into his confidence and yet you refuse to provide aid to your own countrymen.” He advanced on the bard. “Mark this, old man. I plan to attack the British stronghold. I plan to take Rosecliffe Castle and hold it for the loyal people of Wales.” He stepped aside and made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “Go on with you. Reveal to your new English friends what the last true Welshman plots. I will not prevent you from your traitor’s mission,” he finished with a sneer.
Newlin stood utterly still—save for a faint swaying forward and back, forward and back. “The stones of these lands grow. They sprout tall and sturdy, into fortress along the shores and rivers, even as the forests shrink away. ’Tis not for me to say if it is good or no. The world turns. Change comes.”
“The world turns? The world—this world—in not turning.
And if there is to be any change, it will only be that as proscribed by nature,” Rhys countered. “An old man dies. His grandson is born and takes his place. The English think their grandsons can take the place of the Welsh who die here, but they are mistaken.
“I know well the remainder of that superstitious chant,” he continued. “A fool might believe that the stones have grown, but darkness at noon? And heat in the winter?” He stared belligerently at the bard. “Not this year. The sun hangs as it always does. And the winter to follow the coming summer will be as cold a one as this year past. I’ve lived all my life in these wild woods. I know the signs. The English will not prevail. I will see to it.”
Newlin sighed. “As you say, young Rhys. Your father fought this battle and now you do the same. But do you truly know your enemy?”
“I know my enemy is just a man, and that he bleeds and dies like any other man.”
“And loves like any other man.”
Rhys made a sound of disgust. “But he does not love us. Begone, old man. This battle is for younger men than you. Braver men.”
After a moment the bard shuffled away. Behind him, Rhys heard the nervous mutterings of his men. They might be afraid of Newlin, but he was not. Still, the bard had left him uneasy. What did he mean, that the English loved like other men? They loved to steal other men’s lands. Other men’s women. They planted their seed in Welshwomen’s bellies and peopled the land with their English bastards.
Then he sucked in a harsh breath. Their English bastard! Suddenly he knew his way in. Randulf FitzHugh’s bastards. The man had sired three of them, and it was said he was a maudlin fool over them.
They were his weakness and it was at that weakness Rhys must strike.
A surge of power swept over Rhys. He would take FitzHugh’s children hostage. They were Josselyn’s children too, but he would not let that deter him. Still, a fragment memory
of the first baby—a little girl—stole unwonted into his mind. She’d been bright-eyed and merry, and though he’d been but a lad himself, Josselyn had encouraged him to play with her.
It had been such an oddity to have a woman fussing over him. He’d been a motherless child with an unfeeling father, so Josselyn’s affection had drawn him like a flame draws the moth.
But that had been another time, he reminded himself harshly. Before Josselyn’s betrayal had led to his father’s death. Before the English stranglehold had tightened. If he was to defeat his enemies, he could not let that sort of foolish sentiment distract him. He must use whatever tools he found in this war for survival.
Even little children.
 
 
It was a good plan, Rhonwen conceded. In a head-to-head battle the Welsh could not defeat the English protected behind the stout walls of their fortress at Rosecliffe. But kidnapping, using hostages to force the English to abandon the castle—that might avoid bloodshed altogether. Still, Rhonwen listened to Rhys’s plan with mounting dismay.
“They are but children,” she protested. “’Tis not right to use them so cruelly.”
“Do you forget, Rhonwen, that I was but a child—that you were but a child—when the English came here?”
“But they never used us poorly. They never kidnapped us.”
“They used me,” Rhys muttered. Abruptly he turned away and Rhonwen frowned.
“Randulf FitzHugh may have tricked you, Rhys. But he didn’t hurt you.”
“My father died because of his trickery! My father was slain by his brother—” He broke off, his jaw clenched in fury.
Rhonwen could not contradict his words. She and Rhys had never discussed that subject before, though everyone knew what had happened. A six-year-old child, anxious to prove himself to a cruel and unfeeling father, had inadvertently provided the information that allowed the English to defeat the man. She knew Rhys shouldered a terrible guilt for that innocent
mistake. It was, no doubt, what fueled his violent hatred of the English—and especially of the FitzHughs.
Still, she was more than uneasy about this plan of his. She needed to be clearer about her role. “You want me to go to the castle village and learn what I can of the children—when they come and go. But do you promise if you capture one of them that you will not allow the child to be hurt? You must promise me that, Rhys. The child must
not
be hurt!”
He kicked over an oaken bucket, then glared down at her, his fists planted on his hips. “Do you think so little of me, Rhonwen? Do you truly believe I would murder helpless babes? Jesus, God,” he swore. “’Tis their father I want—and their uncle.” His eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Is that the source of your hesitation, that I will kill Jasper FitzHugh at the first opportunity?”
Rhonwen shot to her feet. “I tried to kill him for you. Why would I balk at your finishing the deed?”
Fortunately Rhys did not seem any more eager than she to pursue that subject further. With a terse nod, he acknowledged her words, then turned to his men.
The plan was simple. Rhonwen was to visit Carreg Du, the Welsh village nearest Rosecliffe, and ingratiate herself with Josselyn’s Aunt Nesta. As a child Rhonwen had briefly resided in her household. Old Nesta was a direct line to Josselyn and her children, and it should not take long for Rhonwen to learn enough to put the plan into motion.
Rhys, meanwhile, would muster aid from among Carreg Du’s malcontents, and when the moment was right, he would strike.
The only problem was in knowing how long Randulf FitzHugh would be away from Rosecliffe. Which brother was more likely to relent and open the castle gates to the Welsh, the children’s uncle or their father?
That tricky point was a question only time would answer. But as Rhys reasoned to his men, it did not matter. If Jasper FitzHugh would not surrender, when Rand returned he surely would. He would not allow his beloved children to disappear forever.
Rhonwen listened and she appreciated Rhys’s plan. But it nonetheless left her exceedingly uneasy. What if, while she was at Carreg Du, she came across Jasper? What if he should hear that she was near to the castle and sought her out?
As Rhonwen prepared to leave the rebel camp, Rhys finally addressed that subject. “Jasper FitzHugh will seek you out,” he stated. “When he learns that you are at Carreg Du—and mark my words, he will learn of it—he will seek you out. You will have to gird yourself to resist his blandishments.”
“It will be no difficult task to resist him,” Rhonwen vowed. “Indeed, he may prove to be our best source of information.” She gave him an arch look as she wrapped a
couvrechef
around her neck and head. “’Tis said a man’s brains reside in his braies. If that is so, I will have no problem with him.”
She gave Rhys a smug smile, then left. He hadn’t liked that last remark at all, judging by the scowl on his face. Good, she thought as she followed a deer trail through the dense woods. Still, she was no more comfortable with the idea of Jasper pursuing her than Rhys was. How
would
he react to her appearance?
How would she react to his?
The little shiver that snaked down her back sent an alarming answer. Though she hated to admit it, even to herself, the truth was, she found the man sinfully attractive. Because of him, she finally understood the priests’ admonitions against lust, for these inappropriate longings she felt must surely be lust.
But lust or no, the facts remained the same. He was her mortal enemy, and he always would be.
By the time she neared Carreg Du she had decided that all she could do was live for the moment. She would deal with Jasper as circumstances demanded, and she would not think about the future. Rhys and Jasper were bound to meet in battle someday, and one of them would not survive. She had no control over the outcome of that battle, therefore she must put it out of her head. If Jasper tried to woo her, so be it. No matter her response to him, she would remind herself that there was no future to be had with him. That way she would not care who won or lost.
She would do her duty to her people, and she would provide Rhys with the information he required. But she would not let herself become personally involved in their conflict.
And even if she should somehow become physically entangled with Jasper FitzHugh, she would never allow her emotions to become entangled by the man. No, never.
 
Jasper groaned and rolled over. His stomach clenched and bile rose in his throat. At the same time his head pounded like Scottish war drums.
In a long line of drunken nights and miserable mornings, surely this one must be the worst. He’d sworn off such overindulgence months ago. Yet here he was, wanting no more than to roll over and die and be done with this misery. No, he amended. First he wanted to puke his guts out. Then he could roll over and die.
But before he did that, he needed to relieve himself.
He opened one eye and stared blearily about. Where was he? The roof above him looked new. No smoke had stained the freshly hewn rafters. Light seeped in from somewhere, but he was afraid to turn his head to seek out the source. He closed the eye and tried to listen past the ungodly thudding inside his skull. He was not in the castle. That much he could tell. The sounds were wrong. But where?
He tried to think. Last night, after checking the watch, he and Uric, one of the few unmarried knights left at Rosecliffe, had gone down into the castle village. Ever since his confrontation with Rhonwen he’d been hungry for a woman. So they’d searched out a friendly wench or two.
Then it hit him and he winced at the memory.
They’d found a friendly wench, all right. Two of them. The widow Ellyn and her cousin come to visit. Two full wineskins and the offer of a silver denier apiece had convinced the giggling women. The nearly completed chandler’s house had provided the privacy. But something had gone horribly wrong.
“Son-of-a-bitch,” he muttered. He rolled over, groaning at the sharp stab of pain. But he pushed up onto all fours despite it. He stayed in that position a long minute, squatting back on
his heels, braced on his arms, and fighting the spinning sensations that made him want to lie down again. But shame forced him on.
He had to get away from here. He’d made a fool of himself last night—a bigger fool than he’d ever done before. He’d paid the bouncy Welshwoman for sex and she’d been more than willing to provide it.
Only
he
hadn’t been able to do his part.
She’d giggled and stroked and tried everything she could to coax him to attention, and he’d almost made it. But every time he’d look at her, at her fair hair and lush body, his desire had waned. He’d wanted a dark-haired woman of more petite proportions. The buxom woman’s pale eyes had gleamed with lust, but he’d wanted flashing, dark eyes that glared with mistrust.
“Jesus God,” he swore. He’d had a warm woman, willing to thrill him the whole night long. But instead of enjoying her, he’d mooned over a woman who’d spurned him!
“Damn the bitch,” he muttered, dragging himself to his feet. Damn Rhonwen ap Tomas. She’d made a fool of him twice now—once at the river, and again, to his everlasting shame, last night. Would he be cursed like that every time he tried to frolic with another woman?
He shuddered with real fear. God shield him! He should never have let the vicious little wench go free. He should have taken her then and there, and been done with it.
Somehow he made it upright, swearing off drink as he did so. Somehow, despite the brilliant sunlight that blinded him, he located Helios. How he mounted, he did not know. Where Uric was, he did not care. He only knew that he needed a bath to sober him, and the solace of his own chamber to contemplate the sad state he’d sunk to.
Unfortunately he arrived at the castle gate to find Josselyn facing down the gatehouse guard. When she spied him approaching, she gestured him over. “I wish to walk into town. Remind your guard here that he does not have the authority to stop me.”
“Be reasonable, Josselyn,” he began, wincing at the boom
of his own voice inside his head. “’Tis for your own good.”
“My own good? Pray tell, explain to me how being denied the company of my people—good, honest Welsh people—is for my own good!”
His head felt ready to explode. He pressed one hand to his temple. “I would rather hold this conversation inside—and later.”
She cast an assessing eye over him. “I have no doubt you would. But I have business to attend now, and I will not be hampered by your … by your ill health,” she finished in a tart, knowing tone. “Seek you your bed, Jasper. Isolde can prepare a tisane for what ails you. As for me, I must be off.”
She strode across the moat bridge and Jasper muttered a curse. “Go after her, and stay beside her no matter what she says,” he ordered the befuddled guard. “I’ll send someone else to watch the gate.”
Josselyn did not suppress a grin as she made her way into town. She knew her husband had left strict orders that everyone must keep to the castle while he was away. He worried about attacks on Rosecliffe while he was not there.
Then again, he was always worried about attacks. He worked tirelessly to improve the castle’s defenses. It amazed her, the amount of construction he’d managed in ten years.
Still, Jasper had left the castle last night. She saw no reason why she should not be allowed to visit among her own people in broad daylight. Poor Jasper, she thought. He was not accustomed to women who could not be manipulated by his handsome face and charming manner. Not that he looked particularly handsome and charming this morning. He’d clearly had a hard night and too much spirits. Again.
Her smile faded. He hadn’t done that in a long time. She’d noticed the change in him over the past six months or so. Less carousing. Less wenching. But more restless than ever. So what had caused him to revert to his old ways? Was this perhaps due to Rhonwen? She sighed. Jasper needed a wife. Rand worried about a good match for Isolde, but Josselyn thought Jasper’s need far more pressing.
Footsteps sounded behind her, but she didn’t look back. She
could manage with Gregory trailing her. It wasn’t as if she had any secrets to hide. Perhaps, however, while she was in town she might ask a few questions and try to determine who her troublesome brother-in-law had spent his night with.
“Here,” she said, thrusting her willow basket at the man-at-arms. “Make yourself useful.”
 
Rhonwen walked alongside Nesta’s horse, leading the gentle mare. She’d arrived at Carreg Du to find a small party preparing for the ride to Rosecliffe. Nesta had welcomed her with a glad cry, and Rhonwen had been ashamed that she’d stayed away so long. She’d not seen Nesta in the two years since her husband, Clyde, had died. Nesta had behaved as a mother to her in the past, and now, as if no time had gone by, she was assuming that role again.
“No particular fellow, you say? Ah, but you are far too pretty not to have suitors.”
“I’ve had a few,” Rhonwen had admitted.
“But not the right one, eh? Never mind,” Nesta had said. “Come along. We’re off to the little market at Rosecliffe. P’rhaps you’ll meet yourself the right fellow there.”
So here she was, heading for the English stronghold far sooner than she’d expected. It was, perhaps, not a wise thing to do, considering her brief yet volatile history with the lord presently in command of the castle. But she did not think he would harm her. If he’d wanted revenge on her, he would have taken it then. But instead he’d kissed her and released her.
No, the danger Jasper FitzHugh presented came from within herself. He might try to seduce her. And she might let him.
Then again, she realized, that might be her best entrée to the castle. If she took advantage of his attraction to her, he might relax his guard.
BOOK: Rexanne Becnel
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