Rexanne Becnel (22 page)

“I tell you, I did not cause this illness they suffer. Have I had access to their mugs or trenchers? All my cooking has been in one pot. Everyone partook of the same meals. Although I may wish to strike them down, I would not risk you and Barris, or the children.” She paused and sent him a deliberately disdainful look. “Well, I would not risk the children.”

With a ragged sigh Druce ran a hand through his rumpled hair. “Do not jest in this. The Englishmen are angry enough already. They do suspect you,” he added in a whisper.

Wynne lifted her head and stared at the English encampment. Her eyes glittered with undisguised glee. “I do not care
what
they suspect. I did nothing to cause this affliction they now suffer. At least nothing other than wish for it. I wonder,” she mused, tapping one finger idly against her chin. “I wonder if my powers do grow stronger. Mayhap I can now wish ill on my enemies and see it come to pass.”

Druce took a step back from her, and she noted that he looked appropriately impressed. “Do not say such things around them,” he hissed. “You forget that we’re in England now. They do hunt down those they suspect of witchcraft.” He glanced over his shoulder and swallowed hard when he spied a tall form rise, then stare over at the two of them. “Especially do not say such things before Cleve. He sent me to fetch you. We’d better go now.”

Wynne smiled. “Yes, we had better go. We wouldn’t want to rile him, would we?”

But as she tied her hair back with a bit of odd ribbon and found her dirty boots, Wynne knew that riling Cleve was exactly what she wished to do. She found the purse she’d filled with herbs and slung her short cape over her unlaced gown. Then she turned to Druce, who awaited her.

“On another matter, Druce. We need to talk about our friendship. Yours and mine. I hope you do not imply to that English knight that you have any authority—either over me or over my children—which you do not truly possess. It would put me in the worst sort of temper if you did.”

He shifted from one leg to the other. “Gwynedd specifically instructed me to have a care for you and the children.”

Wynne lifted her brows slightly and pinned him with her icy stare. “Our physical safety, perhaps. But you are neither my brother nor my father. No, nor any of the children’s either. This Cleve FitzWarin makes certain … well, certain overtures toward me.”

“I warned him not to be too bold!”

“ ’Tis not your place to warn him at all!”

His eyes narrowed to suspicious slits. “Why? Would you have him pursue you even more vigorously than he does?”

“No!” Wynne shouted. She gritted her teeth in exasperation. “I wish he would fall off the edge of the earth so that I might never be bothered by him again, so long as I live.”

He stared at her a moment. “Then I will make my warning to him even stronger.”

“No!” she protested once more. “ ’Tis not your business to speak to him about me.”

It was Druce’s turn to grow angry. “You make no sense at all. You do not wish his attentions, and yet I’m to say nothing to him?”

“ ’Tis not your place,” she insisted, though even she recognized how contrary she must sound. She frowned, then hugged her purse to her chest as she tried to explain. “When you speak to him about me—when you place limits on his behavior toward me—well, that implies a certain amount of approval. Which is not yours to give,” she hastened to add. “For all practical purposes, you give him leave to court my affections.”

He shook his head in confusion. “Would you have me abandon you in this? Not step in if he should be too bold?”

“No. I mean, yes.” She sighed in exasperation. “Druce, I appreciate your concern. I am most relieved that you are here. But that man … that man has no right to pursue me, and therefore you have no right to make any rules for him about
how
he should pursue me. Does that make sense to you? Besides, he has a bride waiting in England for him. He’s promised to wed one of this Lord Somerville’s daughters in reward for stealing one of my children,” she added scathingly.

“Now, Wynne, there’s no use in arguing that point once again. And as for this other maiden, well, they’re not yet wed, are they? I am certain he favors you.”

“
Ffiaidd dihiryn!
” she swore. “You are truly the most loathsome of knaves. Don’t you understand what I am telling you? I do not
wish
for him to favor me!”

His cockiness returned at that. “Now, now, Wynne. Do not lie to me. I have known you since you wore short skirts, remember? Every woman needs a husband, and you are no different. Cleve would make a good husband for you.”

Wynne opened her mouth to challenge that ridiculous statement, then closed it with a sharp click of her teeth. It was useless to argue with Druce, especially when he had that stubborn look on his face. Oh, but she would get nowhere trying to reason with such an addle-headed fool as he clearly was.

With a cold, dismissive glare she turned and stalked away from him, faming the whole way. Men were the most difficult of all God’s creatures. Just look at Rhys and Madoc with their reckless adventures. They were so like Druce was as a boy, and no doubt they would favor him in manhood. Even Arthur was impossible to reason with once he had an idea fixed in his mind. Such as this attachment he’d formed for Cleve.

She glared at the object of her ire as she approached, unfazed by the sharp look he turned on her.

“So. Do you come to gloat or to lend us your healing skills?” He stood between her and the rest of the encampment, his legs slightly spread in an antagonistic stance, and his fists on his hips.

Wynne tilted her head up in a gesture of disdain. Let him posture belligerently. If he expected her to plead for the chance to help his ailing men, he was an even greater fool than she suspected.

“How astute you are, Englishman. If the truth be told, I
have
been gloating these last few minutes. However, if you require my assistance as a healer, then I will make my talents available to you. For a price,” she threw in for good measure.

One of his brows arched in surprise, then he laughed. “For a price. You lay my men low with one of your heathen potions, then would exact a price from me to remedy your mischief.” Then before she could react, he caught her by the wrist, and his brows lowered in absolute fury. “Heal my men, witch, or suffer the consequences—”

“Have a care, Cleve,” Druce interrupted as he came up to them. “You’ve no cause to treat her so. She assures me that she did nothing—”

“I am able to speak for myself,” Wynne snapped, sending Druce a furious look. Then she turned back to Cleve, a murderous glitter in her eyes. “Whatever ails your men is not of my doing,” she stated, measuring her tone with acid precision. “No powder or oil of my hand made its way into their meals. If it had, more than three of them would now be groaning their misery.”

His grasp remained tight on her arm. Painful even. But she matched him glare for glare, and slowly she sensed his anger begin to recede.

“You have tried it once before. I cannot believe you do not even yet wait for another opportunity.”

She allowed a faint smile to curve her lips. “So I do. But it appears my powers do grow ever stronger. Perhaps it is the intensity of my emotions these past few days. I did but
wish
to lay you English low and …” She trailed off with a shrug and peered around him to view his three miserable men.

At once he jerked her arm, throwing her off balance before he righted her with a hand on each of her shoulders. “Enough of this talk of witchcraft. ’Tis but a ploy you use on gullible villagers—”

“And English soldiers,” she added, not hiding her laughter in the least. She’d seen the alarm in the other Englishmen’s faces. Even Barris had appeared suitably impressed by her claim to these new powers.

“Not all of us are fools, Wynne. You delude yourself if you believe we are.”

They stared at each other, his dark brown eyes clashing with hers of vivid blue. But she refused to be cowed by him, even though she found his nearness almost suffocating. His hands held her body at his command, while his gaze seemed to fight for authority over her very soul.

He was no fool. She recognized that. But neither was she, and she refused to allow him to dismiss her as one.

It took Druce to break their impasse.

“Let her see to them, Cleve. If she says she can heal them, then she can.”

“But will she?” he growled, still not removing his gaze from hers.

“If you do not wish my services, you have but to say so. Never fear, I shall not be crushed by the rejection.”

“Oh, you shall heal them, all right,” Cleve replied, his face very near hers. “Only I shall watch over your every move.”

But although Cleve was willing, his men were not.

“No, not the witch,” Richard groaned, managing, despite his weakness and pallor to stumble away from the camp. Marcus and Henry, however, were not even able to do that, though it was clear they, too, wished to escape her ministrations. Henry especially kept babbling as she spread her traveling stillroom out upon a small woolen rug.

“No, do not let her—”

“Be still, man. She but prepares a healing draft,” Cleve muttered, sounding more impatient than reassuring.

“No, no. ’Tis a poison,” the poor fellow mumbled, very near to tears. Even Wynne was moved by his terrible fear. Although she clung to her mysterious skills of seeress as her very last line of defense in this battle with the Englishmen, she nonetheless felt an uncomfortable pang of guilt. So much of healing was built upon trust and an abiding belief in the healer’s skills. Her abilities owed as much to her people’s faith in her as they did to her knowledge of herbs and her special sense for such matters.

But this man was too alarmed by her presence to be healed by her hands, and that knowledge bothered her.

With a small frown she sat back on her heels. “This will not work,” she muttered as she stared hard at the fellow’s sweaty face.

“You mean, you do not wish it to work,” Cleve countered from much too close behind her. She jerked her head around to glare at him.

“If the patient will not cooperate, there is nothing I can do for him.”

“He is afraid, damn you. Something you’ve deliberately encouraged.”

“Be that as it may, I still cannot undo his fear.”

“Just make the potion. I shall see that he takes it,” Cleve added with a meaningful look at the frightened Henry.

“That will not be enough,” Wynne muttered back at him. “If he does not will it—if he resists the medicine—then he will not heal.”

Cleve gave her a long, steady look. He was squatting on his heels right next to her, and she could see the weariness on his face. He’d had too much to drink last night, then had been up before dawn’s light. For a brief and startlingly intense moment she wished to erase the exhaustion and worry from his lean face. She wished to see his face crease in a smile, not a frown.

Then she blinked, and that instant of madness passed. If he was tired or worried, it was his own doing. He deserved all this and worse. She broke the hold of his disturbing gaze and concentrated on her little store of medicines.

“Perhaps there is a way,” she murmured as a devious thought occurred to her. She lifted her head then and sent Cleve a taunting smile. “If you partake of the same remedy—if your men see you are willing to trust my healing skills—mayhap then they will not be such cowards. Unless, of course,
you
are too much the coward to do it.” She laughed out loud and met his lowering gaze. “Yes, that shall be the price of my aid—you must partake first of the cure. Have you the courage?”

The silence that followed her challenge was all-pervasive. Even the shrill oriole seemed to hold its breath in anticipation of Cleve’s answer to her outrageous suggestion. As Wynne stared at him, even she was not certain how he would reply. Nor did she understand where this strange idea of hers had come from. It could work of course. But she knew that it was not the welfare of Henry or his other sick mates that had prompted her. She’d already determined that they had contracted the same illness that had most recently affected a goodly number of people in the several villages in Radnor Forest. She’d dosed them all with a tea of liver lily for their vomiting, and yellow gentian and sallow bark for their fever. In two days they’d invariably been cured. No doubt they would have recovered even without her aid. It just would have taken a little longer.

But Cleve did not know that, and as she awaited his reply, she found herself praying that he rose to her challenge.

“What is this cure you propose?” he asked, a wary note in his voice.

“Liver lily. And a blend of two very effective herbs I just happen to have with me. A healthy person will still benefit from it, for it but soothes the stomach and clears the head. An ailing body, however, will benefit from it most markedly.”

Their gazes remained locked for so long an interval that Wynne began to sweat from the very intimacy of it. But she refused to look away.

Then he smiled, and once more she felt the intensity. Only this time it was relief, not yearning, and she could not keep from smiling in return.

“Do your worst, madam, while you have the chance. But I promise you, Wynne,” he said, whispering this last for her ears only, “I shall expect from you the same sort of expression of faith in me. There will come that moment when you shall have to commit your trust to me.” He lifted one hand and touched her cheek ever so slightly. “The time will come, and not too distant. Don’t forget then that I trusted you today.”

When he finally released her from his compelling stare, she turned at once to her task, for it was a supreme relief to concentrate on the measuring and mixing of the proper remedy for her patients. Anything to escape the overpowering sense of losing her will to this man.

He was her direst enemy, she reminded herself. A man paid by some marauding English lord to steal a child of hers. There could never be anything even approaching trust between the two of them.

Yet Wynne knew there was something building between them. Something that had begun as purely physical, but now was becoming emotional as well. Why else did her hands shake so?