Rexanne Becnel (14 page)

“Enid, you serve the wine. Cook, take the meat tray while Gladys takes the cheese and breads. I’ll serve the children their milk and cheese. Just put some meat and bread on this smaller tray for them.”

Wynne had decided to do the deed after the men had eaten their fill. It would make the effects of the poison more dramatic. Messier, she thought, wrinkling her nose. But this was a desperate situation and therefore called for desperate measures. She would slip the powdered root into a ewer of ale or wine, whichever they called for, and serve them herself. Then she would just see.

Wynne did not delude herself that she would escape blame. Cleve would know at once. So would Gwynedd. But that was not the point. She wanted to show the Englishmen that she was serious. The parsley fern had been but a mild warning. This would be more serious. Plus, it had no easy antidote. They would mend only when they had purged the poison completely from their systems.

How far she was willing to go in this war with them was a question Wynne wasn’t quite ready to answer. In her head she was convinced she would fight Cleve FitzWarin to the bitter end. To the death, if it came to that. But just the thought of his warm mouth against hers made her doubt that. He was so alive and vital. So warm all over. And despite her quite reasonable hatred of him, she could not deny that he roused the most incredible answering heat within her.

She frowned as she poured goat’s milk into the children’s wooden cups.

“Do you have a headache, Wynne?”

Wynne stared down into Isolde’s innocent face. “Why, ah. No. No. I was just, um … just thinking. That’s all.”

“Can we have extra meat tonight?” Madoc asked.

Wynne nodded absently, then was even more bewildered by Rhys’s response. “You’re a very good mother, Wynne.”

“Yes. I’m so glad you’re my mother,” Bronwen echoed.

Wynne finished serving them amid their beaming approval. It was Arthur’s shining gaze, however, that confirmed her fears. He kept glancing from her to Cleve, then back again. From the first he and Cleve had seemed to connect in some indefinable manner. It was clear now that he imagined some attachment between her and Cleve, some attachment that would make Cleve a part of young Arthur’s life.

Wynne almost groaned out loud. How had things gotten so out of hand?

She forced a stern look to her face. “I want all of you to leave the hall as soon as you are finished with your meal. Once you’ve finished your chores, you can wash up and then go to bed.”

“Oh, Wynne, do we—”

“—have to do chores?”

“It’s little enough. Bronwen, you put the puppy on a rope so he won’t pester the chickens. Boys, each of you bring a bucket of water to the goat shed. A full bucket, mind you. And Isolde, you carry the kitchen scraps to the chickens. You see,” she finished, “it won’t take you but a minute or two each.”

For a moment she was disconcerted by the steady stares of the five of them. Then they all began to nod and agree. Bronwen giggled once, but stopped when Isolde nudged her.

Oh, but they weren’t the least bit subtle. No, not at all.

Still, that was the least of Wynne’s concerns. When the Englishmen all became ill, the children would know it was she who’d caused it. What would they think of her then? They thought Cleve FitzWarin was just wonderful. She knew they would never understand.

She shoved her hand into the folds of her skirt and patted her purse reassuringly. Maybe it was time for her to tell them the truth. Maybe they were old enough to understand about their parentage and why she must chase this English knight away.

Rhys bumped Madoc’s arm, and his milk sloshed onto his hand and the table. Isolde shook her head at their rowdiness, and Bronwen picked up her bowl so that the milk wouldn’t run under it. As Wynne quickly wiped up the spill from the ancient wooden table and tried to restore order, however, she studied Arthur’s rapt expression. He was staring at Cleve with an almost painful longing.

In that moment she knew she must tell them. There was no avoiding it any longer. She cleared her throat as she poured more milk into Madoc’s cup. “I’ve something to talk with you about. Tonight when you’re ready for bed, I’ll come up, and we’ll talk then. All right?”

“Yes, Wynne,” they all chorused. Between their beaming faces and clear agreement of thought, she was doubly dismayed. This would not be easy.

“Good. Well, here’s your stew. And the bread and cheese. Eat your whole bowlful before you have any of Cook’s pears, understand?” She nodded as they began to eat, then turned back to the adults’ tables. There was no backing out now. Things had gone much too far.

The meal passed in good humor—at least for everyone but Wynne. Though they were soldiers of lands with a long history of off-and-on disharmony, both Druce’s and Cleve’s followers took a cue from their leaders, and there was no indication of any strain between the two groups. Even the language barrier was not a problem, for the Welsh warriors all knew a smattering of both English and French, and they were happy to teach their difficult Welsh words to the Englishmen. The stumblings over the foreign sounds made for much laughter and jesting, and the high-arching ceiling echoed the good cheer.

When Druce told a bawdy joke, which Cleve translated for his men, the entire gathering dissolved into laughter. That is, the entire gathering excepting Wynne and the five children. The children simply did not understand the double meaning of the words. As for Wynne, she understood, but she was not in the mood to appreciate such humor. The pouch in her purse seemed to be burning a hole into her thigh, prodding her to get on with it—to just pour it into the wine and serve the Englishmen a generous portion.

Her hands were sweating when she finally pushed away from the table. Her own trencher of food was hardly touched, for her nerves would not allow her to eat. Steeling herself, she made her way to the surveying board, waving Cook to remain at her own meal. This was one serving she must do herself.

As she passed alongside him, she could not prevent herself from glancing at Cleve. He was watching her, but she’d known that already. Every time his gaze rested upon her, she was acutely aware of it. It might have been an actual touch—a long, slow caress—so distinct was the feeling it gave her.

This time, when their eyes met and held, the feeling was trebled. For a moment she profoundly regretted the fates that had cast their destinies at such variance. For a moment she wondered about the possibilities this powerful connection between them might offer.

But it could go nowhere. She knew that.

With a wrenching effort she forced herself to look away from him. But the burning intensity of his dark gaze would always remain with her, she thought sorrowfully. She doubted any other man would ever look at her in such a way. Nor that she could ever respond in so basic and visceral a manner.

At the surveying board she paused, keeping her back to the diners. She filled a tall pewter ewer half full with red wine, then swiftly emptied the ground root of yew tree into it. Before she could reconsider, she swished the ewer several times, then filled it to the top with more wine so that the powder was well dissolved. With a resolute sigh she finally squared her shoulders and, with the ewer firmly in hand, turned toward the Englishmen.

Just as she approached them, however, a small, slender form shot past her. She looked over in dismay to see Cleve beckoning to Arthur, a warm smile on his face. Almost without invitation Arthur perched on Cleve’s knee, causing Wynne to stumble to a halt. Now what was she to do?

“Ah, fresh wine. Just what I was hoping for,” Cleve said. He stared boldly at her, but she swiftly looked away. “Here, fill my cup, Wynne. And perhaps just a taste for my young friend, Arthur.”

Wynne looked up in horror. “No—” she blurted out.

“No? You mean no wine for me, or for Arthur?”

“For … for Arthur. He’s … he’s much too young.”

“I’ve tasted wine before, Wynne,” Arthur broke in importantly. “Druce has let me, and so have you.”

“Yes … well. But not tonight. Now, be off with you, Arthur. You and the other children have chores, remember?”

“But dinner isn’t done. What about the pears?” he protested. “Besides, Cleve says I may have some wine.”

“Come, Wynne. Don’t be so difficult,” Cleve prodded, drawing her tortured gaze. He held his cup forward, a taunting smile hovering on his lips. “Serve the wine.”

“Yes, serve the wine,” Arthur echoed, holding his own small cup out as well.

Wynne’s grip on the ewer was so tight that her knuckles showed white. And yet still it shook in her hand. He knew! Somehow he knew what she planned, and now, heartless bastard that he was, he used Arthur’s innocent trust as a shield. Her jaw clenched as she glared her rage at him, but he answered her with an even more mocking expression. He’d caught her and he knew it. What was worse, he was going to make her squirm like a worm on a hook before he let her go.

If
he let her go.

“It appears Wynne is not listening,” Cleve commented to Arthur.

“What’s the delay?” Druce called from several seats down. “I’ll have some of that wine, Wynne, even if you won’t serve Arthur. He can steal a sip from my cup when you’re not looking.”

At that moment Wynne regretted not taking Druce into her confidence. He was ruining her plan. “It appears you’ve already had too much wine,” she snapped at him. “You all have,” she added in frustration.

She jerked around and marched stiffly back to the surveying board, for she knew no other way to get out of this predicament. She couldn’t let Arthur get even one slight sip of the tainted wine, although at the moment she wouldn’t have minded if Druce had some. How could he be so obtuse?

Cook came up beside Wynne at the board. “Is aught amiss?” she whispered.

Wynne shook her head. But when Cook sought to take the ewer from her, Wynne tightened her grasp on it. “No. Not this wine—” She sent a furious look toward Cleve FitzWarin. “I fear it may be tainted,” she muttered so that only Cook could hear.

Cook’s eyes widened at that, and it was clear when the woman made the connection in her mind. But when Isolde came up to Wynne with a hurt look on her face, Wynne knew that even the children had guessed what she had attempted to do. Although Wynne didn’t care at all what the other adults might think of her actions, the children’s confusion cut her deeply. The other three at their small table stared at her in dismay. But it was Arthur’s pale face and his expression of hurt and betrayal that struck her the deepest.

She saw him pull away from Cleve and run from the hall. Cleve stood up and, after sending her an exasperated frown, followed the boy.

Druce stared about him in confusion. The wine he’d already consumed made him slow to comprehend. When he did, however, he shook his head in resignation.

“Ah, Wynne. I fear you may have to accept that for once you might be wrong.”

“What has happened?” Gwynedd asked in the oppressive silence.

But Wynne could not remain to answer. She wasn’t sure she knew anymore. Only a few days before, her life had been wonderful. Peaceful and routine. Uneventful. But now everything was wrong. Everyone doubted her—first Gwynedd, now Druce, and even the children.

Panic suddenly overwhelmed her, and unaccustomed tears stung her eyes. Whirling about, she fled the hall, just as Arthur had, running away from a truth that was too painful to accept. Though she was an adult and Arthur only a child, at that moment she felt as bereft as she had those seven years ago when she’d been the abandoned one.

Once more, it seemed, the English had destroyed her family. Only this time she could not deny that she was as guilty as they.

O
NCE AGAIN WYNNE FOUND
herself searching for Arthur. But it was dark now with only a gibbous moon to light the way. She stared up at the half-hidden orb, which danced in and out behind the high, wispy clouds. A storm brewed somewhere out over the sea, and soon it would strike here. How fitting that was.

She sighed, unaware how dejected she appeared with her shoulders slumped and her face so pale. The only thing that mattered to her was to find Arthur and try to explain. She closed her eyes, grasped the amulet all the women in her family had worn, and tried to sense his whereabouts. But it didn’t work. She was too unsettled for the visions to work. All that came to her was a vague awareness of … of … of the Englishman!

“
Cnaf
,” she muttered, not bothering to hide her feelings. Why should she? He was indeed a knave. Had he not ridden in here on his heartless mission, none of this would have come to pass. But come he had and,
cnaf
that he was, he seemed somehow to invade her very thoughts.

She scowled, trying to ignore the disturbing shiver that began somewhere deep inside, then slowly snaked out to encompass her entire being. The scoundrel was not far away. Perhaps on the edges of the meadow—

At Arthur’s thinking rock! No doubt he’d followed Arthur there.

At least Arthur was safe, she realized. The Englishman would not let any harm come to him. But that acknowledgment only depressed her further. The man truly seemed concerned for the children. He was completely misguided about wanting to take one of them back to England of course. But his intentions were at least not malicious.

Still, as she approached the rock, moving silently through the tall, damp meadow grasses, she dreaded the coming confrontation—both with Arthur and with Cleve. But she’d behaved badly, and now she must pay the price.

As the rock loomed ahead and two quiet voices murmured from the darkness, she steeled herself. It was Arthur who was important here—nothing else. If she must reveal the terrible truth of his conception to him, so be it. Perhaps now he and the other children would understand her suspicion and hatred of the English. Perhaps this really was for the best.

When she halted before the big, flat rock, however, Wynne was not at all convinced of that. As she’d expected, Arthur was there with Cleve. But she’d not anticipated that he would be sitting in the big man’s lap, cradled gently, if awkwardly, while the two spoke, their heads bent near. A pang of intense longing struck her to see one of her children comforted by someone other than herself. He was
hers
to raise. She was the one who loved him most.