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Authors: The Knight of Rosecliffe

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BOOK: Rexanne Becnel
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“Look. There it is,” Nesta called, breaking into Rhonwen’s somber thoughts.
Rhonwen looked up and halted in her tracks. There, through the uneven stand of firs, loomed Rosecliffe Castle. She’d heard it was huge. Rhys railed about it all the time. But she’d not seen it herself in many years, not since before the completion
of the two gate towers. Prior to that it had just been a wall, built tall and strong to keep some people in and other people—her people—out. But the towers … the towers lent the structure a majesty, with their completed crenellations and pennants fluttering above all. The sight took her breath away.
The English were a blight upon the land, she reminded herself. Their giant fortresses were an insult to the wild Welsh countryside. And yet the mighty stone fortress before her, gleaming white in the bright spring sunshine, was still magnificent to behold.
Was it any wonder that Rhys plotted day and night how he might make it his own?
Nesta leaned down from the mare. “I know I’m s‘posed to hate it, it being a symbol of English oppression and all. But another part of me says it’s a pretty sight. And inside, oh, inside ’tis fine indeed.”
“You’ve been inside?” Rhonwen asked, still staring at the two round towers. She could see a guard making a circuit of one of them.
“Josselyn may have wed an Englishman, but she nonetheless remains my niece,” the old woman explained. “Indeed, she is like my own daughter, and her children like grandchildren to me.”
Her children. The thought of those children brought Rhonwen back to her purpose. She urged Nesta’s mare forward. “I hear Josselyn has three children now,” she said, following the other villagers as the narrow road dipped down the hill. The towers retreated behind the tall firs, but that did not erase the presence of the English.
“Ah, yes, and every one of them dear to my heart—despite them being half-English.” She paused before adding, “For all that he was born an enemy to our people, he’s a good father to his children.”
There was no mistaking who “he” was. But it was not Randulf FitzHugh who interested Rhonwen. It was his brother—
and
his children, she reminded herself. But she had to proceed with caution. Nesta would not condone drawing those three children into a political battle.
“Well, I’m glad he’s good for something. How fares Josselyn as the grand lady of Rosecliffe?”
“She is well. And happy.” Again she hesitated. “She would welcome a visit from you.”
Rhonwen shrugged, determined to appear disinterested. “Do you think so? We have not been on good terms in many a year.”
“You were but a child when she wed Rand. Your anger was that of a child. She would not hold that against you now.” Nesta reached out a hand and unexpectedly stroked Rhonwen’s hair.
It was a gentle gesture, meant to reassure. But Rhonwen was not reassured. If anything, it increased her agitation. “I should not be accompanying you now. I meant to visit Carreg Du. Not Rosecliffe.”
“’Tis an open town. Both English and Welsh reside there, side by side.”
“In peace?” Rhonwen scoffed.
“In peace.”
Rhonwen was silent as the town wall came into view. Beyond the simple stone barrier the rooftops showed, some thatch, some slate. All new. A pair of red pennants fluttered above all, signaling the market day, and it was to the open square in the middle of the town that the small contingent of old women made their way. The streets were neatly lined with stones, even the ones not yet graced with structures. Buildings clustered together around the main square and its well, and also along the main street that led from the town gate to the castle.
Everything was neat and orderly, and the gardens lent it the air of a well-established village. But it was decidedly English in form, with houses as tall as they were wide, and most of them washed with white. Rhonwen doubted any Welsh citizen could truly be content there. Plus, there were English men-at-arms everywhere. At the town gate, in the market, and on the castle walls, watching over everything.
She felt for the slim dagger she kept sheathed at her hip. Though she knew she had nothing to fear, she was nonetheless
reassured by its presence. Rhys might be pleased she had gained access to the town of Rosecliffe so swiftly, but she was not.
She helped Nesta down, then stood quietly while the group of women from Carreg Du arranged their stall. They brought cheeses and candles, pots and baskets to sell, and with their earnings they meant to purchase wine and fine thread. This was a routine the old women knew well. Even their arguments over where to place their goods, and who was to mind the stall when, sounded well rehearsed.
Nesta patted Rhonwen’s shoulder. “Go, child. See what there is to be had. There is no need for fear, no cost for looking. After a while Josselyn will come down to make her purchases and I will reacquaint the two of you. Maybe she will bring the children. Isolde especially enjoys the market.”
Isolde. The child must be nine or ten by now, Rhonwen thought as she wandered away. She tried to picture the baby she remembered as a half-grown girl now. Did she favor her mother or her sire? Was she more Welsh or English?
She began slowly to stroll the square. Everyone looked prosperous and fat. And better dressed than she was, she realized when three women passed in front of her. They each boasted close-fitting kirtles with slashed sleeves to reveal their chemises.
She frowned down at her old kirtle. It was clean and in good repair, made from sturdy green kersey. But it was simple in design, with no braid or buttons or embroidery to flatter her. Compared to the other women she looked plain indeed.
And their hair, the plaits bound with colorful lengths of Saracen cloth. She caught the end of her own single plait and fiddled with the faded bit of ribbon tied at the end, feeling more and more out of place.
The savory scent of something cooking caught her attention and her mouth watered. A stout fellow tended an open fire, tossing small rounds of sweet dough into a hot pan. He grinned at her hungry gaze.
“Sweets for a sweet lass. What will you have?”
Rhonwen shook her head. “I have no coin to pay you.”
His gaze darted about, then came back to rest on her. “There are other ways to pay.”
Rhonwen knew that leering look, and with a sneer of disdain she turned away. Revolting knave. It seemed her shabby clothing was no impediment to that sort of crude behavior. Still, though she knew there was no reason for it, she expected better from one of her own countrymen. But it seemed that men were men, despite their nationality. Every one of them was ruled by his cock instead of his brain.
She spied a pair of giggling girls just a few years younger than she. They whispered and pointed at a comely young man unloading a cart, then burst into giggles again. Were women any more ruled by their brains than men? she wondered. Until her meeting with Jasper FitzHugh she would have answered yes. Now, however, she was less sure.
As she watched, the lad looked over at the girls and grinned. The youthful pair flung their aprons over their heads and fled, laughing, and suddenly Rhonwen felt so much older than they.
Bleak as it had been, her life had nonetheless been easier when she was a girl. But she was a woman now and everything seemed infinitely more difficult and complex. Who to trust; who to doubt. What was right; what was wrong. If you struggled for the greater good, did that forgive the small wrong you did? She simply did not know.
Then a frustrated voice broke into her thoughts. “ … But he said I mayn’t leave your side. Please, Lady Josselyn …”
Rhonwen did not hear the rest of the English words, for she fixed on the last two. Lady Josselyn.
Lady
Josselyn. So Josselyn affected the style of an English lady now. As if in confirmation, a woman’s voice answered in cultured English tones. “Then make arrangements to have someone else deliver the goods. You have my leave to hire a lad or two, Gregory. ’Tis not so complicated a matter as all that.”
With equal portions of curiosity and dread, Rhonwen scanned the crowded square, searching among the milling throng for
Lady
Josselyn. Her eyes passed over a slender dark-haired matron before jerking back again.
Josselyn.
But she was not garbed as an English lady. Rather, she looked like any Welshwoman, with a
couvrechef
holding her thick hair back, and a Celtic clasp on her cloak. The
couvrechef
was made of silk, though. And the cloak was a fine red stamel with gold edging the front.
As Rhonwen stared, Josselyn leaned over a table laden with baskets of berries, and fingered the merchandise. “How have you priced these?” she asked the vendor in her native Welsh. “Keep in mind that should the price be agreeable I will take the entire stock.”
Rhonwen continued to stare as vendor and shopper haggled back and forth. Gone was the English lady Rhonwen had imagined, replaced instead by the same woman she’d admired so much ten years ago. When the deal was finally struck, the two seemed equally happy. But Rhonwen was more confused than ever. Then Josselyn turned to speak to the restless guard who trailed her and spied Rhonwen. Her gaze narrowed a moment in curiosity, then her expression froze.
“Rhonwen? Are you Rhonwen?” she asked, skirting the guard to approach nearer.
Rhonwen straightened to her full height. “I am. Hello, Josselyn. Or am I now to refer to you as Lady Josselyn?”
Her haughty tone had no effect on Josselyn, however. In a moment Rhonwen found herself swallowed up in a heartfelt embrace, and when the older woman finally held her at arm’s length, Josselyn’s smile was huge.
“Rhonwen. Oh, my, but you have grown into a beauty. I am so pleased to see you. So very pleased!”
“I had hoped to see you here,” Rhonwen confessed, as her emotions got the better of her.
“Am I to understand that you had no plans to come up to the castle?”
A cloud settled over Rhonwen, reminding her of all the complications separating her life from that of her old friend. She stepped out of Josselyn’s embrace. “I came to Carreg Du. Nesta convinced me to accompany her to the market here, but I did not intend—” She broke off, crossing her arms across her chest.
“I see.” But even that could not discourage Josselyn, it seemed, for she grinned. “Well, now that I’m issuing an invitation to you, I hope you will reconsider. It would please me to show you my children.”
Rhonwen shook her head. This was an ideal opportunity to put Rhys’s plan into effect, but somehow, she did not want to take it. “I cannot.”
“And why not? Is it because of Rand? For if it is, you should know that he is not presently at Rosecliffe. So you see, it’s perfectly all right. You won’t have to pretend a friendliness you do not feel.”
“What of his brother?” Rhonwen blurted out.
“Who, Jasper?”
Rhonwen saw the precise moment when the surprise in Josselyn’s eyes gave way to curiosity, and she could have kicked herself. Why had she brought him up? Had he spoken to Josselyn about her? If he had, how much had he told her?
And if he hadn’t spoken of her, why not?
“Jasper is not feeling very well today,” Josselyn said, her eyes twinkling. “He will not disturb us, I think. Come,” she continued. “We will find Nesta and she can accompany you.”
It was too easy—and much too hard. Josselyn hooked her arm in Rhonwen’s and, with Nesta’s promise to join them once her duties in the stall were done, they made their way though the busy little town and up the road to the castle.
The guard who trailed them was not happy. Rhonwen was not particularly happy either. But Josselyn’s happiness overshadowed their lack. She chattered on, in both Welsh and English, asking about Rhonwen’s mother who had remarried, and her younger siblings, Davit and Cordula.
“Davit is taller than I am,” Rhonwen admitted. “Though that is no particular accomplishment.”
“And have you a husband?” Josselyn asked as they crossed the bridge that spanned the moat.
Rhonwen shook her head, staring distractedly at the two huge towers. They were even more massive up close, with a stout iron-strap gate stretching between them and a monstrous
chain to draw up the bridge. Rhys was right. They could not hope to rout the English with a frontal attack.
She hung back, hesitant to enter the castle. For if she entered she’d have to tell Rhys everything, and though it made no sense, that suddenly felt like a terrible betrayal.
“Come along, Rhonwen. I know you are curious about the castle, so you needn’t pretend otherwise. I remember when you were a little girl heaving stones at the rising walls.”
Rhonwen smiled tautly. “It did no good, did it?”
“No. Nor did my own opposition to Rand. But I cannot be sorry that he came here, nor that he built Rosecliffe Castle.” She caught Rhonwen’s hand, forcing her to meet her sincere gaze. “I love him. He is a good man who has worked hard to keep peace in this part of Wales.”
“He is still English.”
“So he is. But there is more to a man—or a woman—than the place of his birth. Come, let us find the children.”
BOOK: Rexanne Becnel
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