Rexanne Becnel (3 page)

“I mean you no harm,” he tried again, enunciating carefully.

“The English always say that,” the man replied warily.

Cleve’s expression lifted in relief. He was not surprised the man identified him as English, for he knew his pronunciation gave him away. But at least he was able to make himself understood. “Our leaders are not at war,” he replied. “Neither should we be.”

The man snorted in answer. Whether his disdain was aimed at Cleve or at the English and Welsh leaders was hard to say.

Cleve tried again. “Is this the Radnor Forest?” He squatted down a little distance from the man and began idly to toss bits of twigs into the dark water.

After a long minute’s consideration the man nodded.

“Ah, that is good. Mayhap my journey is near to its end.”

The man began to ready his boat for launching, but he nonetheless kept a wary eye on Cleve. Finally, as if he couldn’t bear not knowing, he spoke up. “And where is it ye journey to?”

Cleve tossed another twig into the water. “I’m not certain. Somewhere around here.” He peered at the man, noticing his worn-down boots and the ragged hem of his ill-fitting tunic. Perhaps he should take a chance.

“I’m looking for a child about six years old. Born to a woman who was sometimes called Angel. I’m willing to pay for information.” For emphasis he stood up and patted the purse that hung beneath his own mantle.

The man stared at him. “There’s a lot of children to be found around here.”

“This one would have been fathered by an English soldier.”

Cleve sensed that the man knew something, for he stiffened slightly and his eyes darted away. Sure he was on the right path, Cleve went on. “The father seeks this child so that he can provide for him. He’s a very powerful and wealthy man.” He loosened his purse and crossed nearer to the man. “Would you know of such a child?”

The old man licked his lips, and his eyes darted back and forth between Cleve’s face and the clinking purse in his hand. “There’s many an English bastard in these parts, left over from the wars. How can you know which one it is? Or don’t you care?” the old man added with a shrewd gleam in his eyes.

Cleve kept his face carefully blank. He’d had the same thought himself, and more than once. How
would
Sir William know whether any young boy he brought back was truly his son or not? And yet Cleve knew he could not foist just any child off as Sir William’s.

However, it was not for Sir William’s sake that he wanted to find the right child. It was for the child’s. Every child deserved to know his father.

His own father had been a poor enough parent, and yet at least Cleve knew who he was. How much worse not to know him at all.

“I want the correct child, so I warn you, do not send me to just anyone. I’ll pay only for the truth.”

When the old man looked carefully about, as if he expected to find someone listening, Cleve knew he’d won.

“There is this woman, not far from here. She keeps several of the English bastards.”

“She has several bastards? Are any of them about six years old? Are any of them boys?”

“They’re all six or so, come from your King Henry’s last foolish attempt to subdue our lands.” He snorted in disdain at the English king’s idiocy. “And aye, she has boys.”

When Cleve returned to his men, he was brimming with renewed optimism. For a dozen English pennies the man had given him directions to Radnor Manor, a large house just beyond Radnor Village. They’d passed near the place only yesterday, and it was there that a number of English bastards resided under the care of some woman. The Seeress of Radnor, the old man had called her. A witch come from a long line of Welsh witches.

Cleve laughed out loud as he spied his small band of followers. Wales was indeed as wild and pagan as the priests so often preached. In Norman England a woman so widely regarded as a witch would have been roundly castigated—probably excommunicated and either driven out or else put to death by the ordeal. Yet that old man, Taffyd, had seemed both respectful and ambivalent about her. What was to be made of such a people?

“We ride back to where a thicket of impenetrable thorns encircles a solitary oak,” Cleve called out. “A rough trail leads north, and with a bit of good fortune we shall reach our destination by midday.”

At that moment a watery sun broke through the low-lying mists, and for a few minutes Cleve was able to see the beauty of these strange lands. The damp woodlands sparkled as if the finest of jewels had suddenly been strewn about by a mighty and benevolent hand. The grimness of the land was softened, and Cleve felt a surge of excitement in his chest.

Wild this Wales might be, but it held the key to all he longed for. Though he was not one to believe in signs and omens, he was certain this boded well for him. The old man. This unexpected sunshine. Everything he had struggled for was almost within his grasp.

She knew long before Rhys and Madoc came running and tumbling down the hill that the man was coming. She’d sensed it just as she had yesterday, only this time it was even stronger. Despite her fear of these unknown intruders on her lands, however, Wynne could not ignore the equally overpowering sense of curiosity she felt. Who was this man she sensed so vividly—more vividly than anyone or anything she’d ever sensed in her nineteen years?

Rhys gasped for breath. “Druce says to find all the women—”

“—and children. And get inside,” Madoc finished excitedly.

“Somebody’s coming—”

“But don’t worry, Wynne, we won’t let them get anybody—”

“The bloody English bastards.”

“Rhys!” Wynne exclaimed. “Where did you learn to use such language?”

Both boys stared up at her in quick chagrin. If it were not for the tiny scar on Rhys’s left eyebrow, Wynne would have been hard-pressed to tell them apart. It was Madoc who responded in a defensive tone.

“Druce says they’re bloody English bastards.”

“Well, I don’t care what Druce says. If I hear such talk from either of you again, I’ll wash your mouths out with soaproot. Do you understand?” When they reluctantly nodded, she sighed. “All right, now. Did Druce give any other instructions? Did he say anything else?”

“No. Can we go with Druce?”

“Absolutely not. Are you sure he didn’t give you any further message?”

“He said …” Madoc screwed up his face as if he were trying to remember. “He said you didn’t have to worry. He wouldn’t let anything bad happen to you.”

“And then Barris told Druce maybe you would give Druce a big wet kiss if he saved the day,” Rhys added.

Both boys stared up at Wynne as if they weren’t precisely sure what a big wet kiss was, but Wynne was not about to enlighten them. “Barris has no business saying such things,” she fumed as her face grew hot with embarrassment. Druce was her childhood friend. A few years ago he’d been willing to explore other possibilities between them, but she hadn’t felt the same. She thought of him more as a brother than anything else, and once he’d understood, he’d treated her as a sister. But the teasing of his brother and friends could easily make things uncomfortable for them all.

Besides, a husband was the last thing she needed. Even if someone was willing to marry the Seeress, he would hardly want the five children that came with her. And anyway, she didn’t have time for a husband, nor the desire. She wasn’t sure she ever would.

Hiding her discomfort as best she could, she took both of the twin boys by the hand. “Go find your sisters and then get inside the manor house. Where’s Arthur?”

“I want to see the bloody English bas—” Madoc broke off in the nick of time, but Wynne was too worried to scold him again.

“The English are a horrible people,” she warned. “You don’t want to see them.” Then she relented, for she knew her words would only fire the imagination of this irrepressible pair. “If Druce brings them to the manor, you may see them. All right? But only if you do what I tell you, as soon as I tell you.” Then she pulled each of them near for an urgent hug and a heartfelt kiss upon their sweaty brows. “Now, off with you both. Go find Isolde and Bronwen while I look for Arthur.”

Arthur was not in the stable loft. He was not in the cedar grove beside the spring, nor did she find him on his favorite boulder next to the hay field. Wynne saw Rhys and Madoc, followed by Isolde and Bronwen, go into the protective walls of the sturdy manor house. She saw Gwynedd’s sightless eyes searching for her, listening and sensing her. But Wynne couldn’t turn back. Where on God’s green earth was Arthur?

A cloud passed over the sun, and a rabbit shot across her path. She stopped where she was and fought down the fear that rose so swiftly in her chest. This was not a time for panic or for believing in omens, she told herself. This was a time for calm and for concentration.

She closed her eyes and subdued her rapid breathing, willing her mind to clear of all but the need to feel where Arthur was. When she lifted her head, she was calmer, though no more certain where he was. All she knew was that he was not in danger. But though she took comfort in that knowledge, she nevertheless could not abandon her search. She would not relax until he was back in her care.

With a clearer sense of direction, Wynne headed back to Arthur’s boulder. It was here he lay in the rare sunshine and dreamed his fanciful dreams. It was here he created his wild tales and observed the world with his amazingly observant eye.

She lay a hand on the flat place where he always sat, pressing her palm down hard, searching for some direction. When nothing came, she looked around in frustration. Perhaps he’d heard the commotion about the English and had gone nearer the Giant’s Trail to investigate.

Though she devoutly hoped she was mistaken, Wynne headed down the gently sloping hill, into the deep woods that surrounded Radnor Manor. She was careful as she walked, pausing to listen and notice which way the grouse and harriers and ravens flew. She maintained her calm as she went, but if Arthur
had
gone this way, she vowed to punish him severely. But only after she had given him the tightest and most grateful of embraces.

Wynne was nearly to the Giant’s Trail, growing more and more agitated, when she suddenly halted. A squirrel high above her scolded in its high-pitched tone, then just as quickly became silent. From above the tree line came the screaming call of a chough, but where were the woodcocks and goosanders?

Then the gay laughter of a child—of Arthur!—came to her, and she had her answer. He giggled again, and an enormous tide of relief rushed over her. She started forward, but then she froze in mid-stride, for a low voice murmured a reply to Arthur, something she couldn’t quite make out.

As quickly as relief had come, so now did it flee. A cold hand seemed to clench around her heart. The voice was not one she recognized, and she belatedly remembered that Arthur was not a child given to carefree laughter.

She shrank away, touching her amulet—the deep purple jewel her mother had worn, and her mother before her. Instinctively she pulled back into the protective embrace of a prickly holly, but all her senses strained forward, needing to know who was with Arthur. She heard the movement through the woods, the sound of a large animal traveling without fear in a straight path. He was mounted, she realized. But above all else that she sensed about this unknown person with Arthur, the most overwhelming was that this was the man. This was the one she’d felt since yesterday.

“Are you often allowed to wander so far from home?”

His voice was deep and mellow, though Welsh was clearly not his usual tongue. Yet Wynne nonetheless detected a small edge of tension in his tone. Or perhaps anticipation was a better description.

“No,” Arthur admitted. “But now that I’m past my sixth birthday, I think it’s all right. Don’t you?”

Had the circumstances been different, Wynne would have smiled at the odd mixture of childish lisp and mature phrasing that was so typical of Arthur. As it was, she only stood there as still as stone, waiting for them to come into view and promising to put the fear of the Lord into Arthur once she had him safely back.

“I think six is too young to be alone in the woods,” the man replied to the boy. “How do you think your mother and father will feel about your absence when I bring you home?”

He intended to bring Arthur home! That was all Wynne heard. It was all she needed to hear. She pushed away from the holly and moved toward their voices.

“My real mother is dead. And I don’t have a father,” Arthur replied matter-of-factly. “Well, really, I had two, but neither of them wanted to keep me. I figured that out from what people said in the village.”

“Arthur!” Wynne moved into the path of the big horse. She was as stunned by Arthur’s casual revelation as the man and boy were by her sudden appearance. But she was determined to brazen her way through this situation. She would deal with Arthur and what he actually knew of his parentage at another time.

“Arthur, where have you been? I’ve been searching everywhere for you,” she said, her hands planted on her hips. Then she looked directly at the man, giving him what she hoped passed for a grateful smile. “Thank you for finding him. I’m sorry if he caused you any trouble, but I’ll take him off your hands now.”

Her eyes met his, and then could not pull away. They were dark eyes, she saw, yet not that deep black-brown so common to her people. These were warm brown eyes, and yet they were opaque and impenetrable right now, as if he purposefully shuttered his thoughts—and motives—from anyone’s prying eyes.

But though she could not guess at his reasons for being in her forest, there were many other aspects of him that she recognized at once. He was English, just as she’d predicted. His studded bliaut, tall boots, and leather gloves proclaimed it. But he was no monk, nor was he some fat and wealthy lord. This was a man who lived by his sword, she realized with an uneasy shiver. From the hard planes of his jaw and steely quality of his gaze to the obvious strength of his body and ominous presence of his dagger and sword, he was a man of war.

Had he come to make war on them?

“Don’t be angry with me, Wynne,” Arthur pleaded, breaking into her disturbing thoughts. “I was following a red kite. I wanted to find her nest. And then I got stuck—”