To her shame, she panicked. She yanked frantically at the door, to no avail.
“Well. If it isn’t my dear stepmother. And in the middle of the night.”
Josselyn whirled around. Owain stood in loosened chainse and braies. In the background something moved—a woman, Josselyn saw when a face peeped from beneath the bedcovers. Her panic turned to disgust at his infidelity. “Your father is dead. I thought you would want to know.”
He grinned, then with one hand slowly beat his chest, in an awful mockery of grief. “He is gone. My beloved sire.”
Though there was no reason to think it, Josselyn wondered momentarily whether he’d somehow caused his father’s death.
“But I forget,” he continued. “You have lost a husband. Come, Josselyn.” He extended a hand to her. “Let us comfort one another.”
“No. Just tell your man to let me out of here. Your
companion awaits you,” she said, in case he’d forgotten their audience.
He grinned again. “As you wish. But Josselyn,” he said more lowly. “The time will come when we will … talk. About you. About your child.”
She stared at him, instantly on guard. “There is nothing to talk about.”
He gazed at her boldly and she knew he was the same malevolent wretch he’d always been. But he was infinitely more dangerous now than before. “I know the truth,” he murmured, coming nearer. “I always have.”
She backed up until she collided with the door. “You know nothing.”
“I know enough. That child is your weakness. Her well-being means everything to you.”
For a moment only, Josselyn felt relief. He hadn’t meant the truth about who Isolde’s father was. Then a far worse emotion gripped her; an icy fear and an icy rage. He was threatening Isolde.
She faced him, filled with a hatred so swift, so violent, it terrified her. Yet somehow her voice came out cool and controlled. Mocking even. “Yes, you’ve found me out. I love my child. Now, open the door.”
He raised a fist and she flinched. Then he laughed and banged on the door beside her head. But before she could leave he added, “If you get lonely in your empty marriage bed, just let me know.”
She fled without responding. Why had he threatened Isolde? Did he know Madoc was not Isolde’s father? And if he did, what was the worst that could happen?
Isolde would be named a bastard. An English bastard. She paused, breathless outside her uncle’s door, and tried to calm herself. A bastard English child would be hated by her Welsh countrymen, especially now.
Still, that was not the worst of it. Owain had implied he would hurt Isolde if Josselyn did not respond to his demands. She shuddered to think what those demands would
be, yet the alternative was so much worse. She did not doubt him capable of hurting a child. She’d seen Rhonwen’s bruises, and Rhys’s. He enjoyed bullying people; he always had. So long as he was anywhere near Isolde, the baby would not be safe.
Somehow she must protect her. She left the baby with Nesta as she prepared Madoc for burial. Two men carried his lifeless form into the hall where she bathed him, dressed him, and wrapped him in clean cloths, then stood candles at his head and feet. Only then did she seek out Isolde and take her to her breast. It was as much to console herself as the fretful babe, for Josselyn was afraid. With Madoc gone there was no one to control Owain.
That proved true first thing in the morning. The village priest came to pray over Madoc. Clyde and his people, and Owain and his soldiers, gathered around the body in the open square. In the weak morning light, Josselyn could better see the changes one year had wrought at Carreg Du, and she was appalled. It was more a warriors’ outpost than a village. Few women; fewer children. And Owain’s men nearly as numerous as her uncle’s.
Apprehension shivered up her spine. She’d expected to feel safer in Carreg Du, but she did not. Not anymore. Unexpectedly, Newlin moved up beside her. Though he did not touch her, she felt a certain reassurance.
“ … killed by our enemies as surely as if an English blade had run him through,” the priest said. While the men of Afon Bryn all murmured their agreement, the priest looked over at Owain. Josselyn saw Owain’s faint smile and the priest’s sigh, as if from relief.
Had Owain told him what to say? But why should he?
Still, Josselyn could not rid herself of the idea that Owain had some part in his father’s death. She worried over what it meant. That smile. That sigh. Not until she heard her own name did she realize that Owain spoke.
“ … his wife, Josselyn, and I will take his body to Afon
Bryn to be buried with all the honor due him. We depart in an hour.”
“Be careful, child,” Newlin murmured. “That one is not to be trusted.”
Josselyn swallowed hard. “I don’t want to go back there.” She hadn’t meant her voice to carry, but Owain heard her and strode up.
“You must go. ’Tis your duty as his wife. And as mother to his child,” he added, showing his teeth in a smug smile. An evil smile.
“Bower and Dewey will accompany you,” her uncle announced, taking her arm. He stared at Owain until the man shrugged his acquiescence.
They all knew Owain was evil, she realized. But everyone was afraid of him and what he might do to the people of Carreg Du should they oppose him. In trying to drive out the enemy English, they’d allowed another enemy—a far worse one, it seemed—into their midst.
By the time they reached Afon Bryn, Josselyn was beyond exhaustion. She’d spent two days traveling now, and in between, a night with precious little sleep. Meriel and Agatha greeted the travelers with a hearty meal.
Meriel wept as she served the hungry men. Josselyn tried to comfort her, but the older woman would have none of it. She’d loved Madoc, Josselyn realized. Not merely as a cousin, but also as a man. That’s what Rhys had overheard in the past, Madoc taking Meriel. But he had not wed her. Instead he’d married Josselyn and thereby bested his son, albeit temporarily. No wonder Meriel had been so hostile toward her.
As for Rhys, she caught a glimpse of the boy only once. As always, his father’s presence drove him to the edges of village life. He skulked around the periphery like a cur dog, drawn to the man, yet terrified of him.
The displaced people of Carreg Du gathered round her as Madoc was buried. But they could not protect her when
night fell and Owain ruled in the house that had been his father’s.
She went to bed with Isolde in the cradle beside her bed and Bower and Dewey asleep outside her door. But she awoke abruptly in the darkest hour of the night, her heart hammering with fear. She was not alone.
“Perhaps I’ll wed her to my son.”
Josselyn jerked upright. In the dark the malevolence in Owain’s voice threatened to smother her with fear. Was it him or was it the devil come to earth to torment her? Then he moved and she saw the outline of Isolde in his arms, and she knew that Owain
was
the devil himself.
She leapt from the bed. “Give her to me.”
“Shh. You’ll wake her. I intend her no harm, Josselyn—if you do as you’re told.”
Cold dread seeped into her veins, an invasive fear that froze her in her place. “What does that mean?”
He chuckled, an ugly, amused sound. “What I could not have within the bounds of marriage to you, I would now have outside those bounds.”
Fear made her want to flee. But he held her child and she would die before she abandoned Isolde. She moved toward him. “Give her to me.”
“She is a pretty babe. Much like her mother. She and Rhys will make a good match.”
He did not stop her when she took Isolde from him, nor when she backed away. Though she knew what he implied by proposing such a match, Josselyn needed to know for certain. So she said, “Isolde is your half-sister. Though younger than him, she is Rhys’s aunt. He cannot marry her.”
“She’s an English bastard.”
The words echoed in the darkened room.
“You cannot prove that.”
“But Meriel can.”
Meriel. So it was as Josselyn had feared. Meriel knew that Madoc had been unable to consummate their marriage.
She squeezed Isolde to her. The sweet baby scent of her provided a small comfort in the face of Owain’s overpowering evil. Her voice trembled. “If you do anything to hurt her—”
“I’m not interested in your brat. ’Tis you I want. You can buy her safety easily enough. Though you are no virgin, I won’t hold that against you. Now put her down.”
Terror overwhelmed her. Fury energized her. “I’ll scream and Bower and Dewey will come.”
He laughed and her fear trebled. “They are not likely to hear a thing.”
She gasped. “Have you killed them?”
“Don’t worry. They are only drunk.”
“No.” She shook her head. “Neither of them would be so incautious.”
Again he laughed. “It seems their ale was rather strong. In any event, we will not be interrupted. Now put her down.”
She was trapped. With no other choice, Josselyn turned and laid Isolde in her cradle. The baby blinked and opened her eyes. “I’m sorry, sweetling,” she whispered. Then as she straightened, she pinched her daughter’s thigh.
Isolde’s response was immediate. Her shrill cry rose in protest and at once Josselyn snatched her up again. She turned on Owain. “This is not the time or place for your perversions,” she hissed.
But Owain was not one so easily thwarted. He wrenched Isolde from Josselyn’s arms and tossed her carelessly onto the bed. The baby shrieked with renewed terror, but when Josselyn tried to get to her Owain caught her and flung her against the wall. Her head cracked painfully against the plaster, and before she could evade him, he pressed his full weight against her, trapping her as he caught her arms in a vicious hold.
“I’ll have you, Josselyn. Whenever and wherever I desire. If you would keep your bastard alive, I suggest you cooperate.” His free hand pinched one of her breasts, then
moved to shove crudely between her legs. Only her thin smock blocked his entrance.
“It can be easy or it can be hard. You choose.” Then he bit her neck until she cried out in pain. “I prefer it hard,” he hissed in her ear.
He let her go and she nearly collapsed. Isolde’s shrill screams assaulted her ears. From the hall she heard one voice, then another. As she scrambled across the room to Isolde, the door opened then closed, and he was gone.
But he was not gone, not really. Josselyn held Isolde and rocked back and forth, back and forth, as the terror of her predicament sank in. She had to escape Owain else he would kill her. There was no pretending otherwise. But it was not for herself that she feared. Not anymore. She cared because of Isolde. Her baby must be safe. That was all that mattered anymore.
R
and rode slowly across the blackened field. No bird called out. No bee or cricket or butterfly flitted across the barren landscape that just yesterday had been golden with wheat. Only the charred remains of a slat-sided cart and the furrows blackened with the ash of wheat stalks gave evidence of what had been there before.
Six months’ hard effort, gone. Wheat enough to provide most of their needs for the coming winter, gone.
His nostrils flared at the acrid smell stirred up by his restless destrier’s hooves. There was no wind, only the heavy press of clouds in the humid afternoon. The river would run black when next it rained.
His fist tightened around the reins. When he caught Owain ap Madoc it would run red.
As if to underscore his dark thoughts, thunder rolled low and ominous across the open field. Farther down the valley, under the protection of a heavily armed band of knights, a gang of workers cleared the low-hanging branches of the trees that edged the field. Since Saint John’s Eve, three laborers had been picked off by Welsh archers. One had died. The other two, plus over a dozen others, refused to work the fields any longer. They’d rather tote backbreaking loads of stone up from the quarry than risk the deadly arrows of the enemy Welsh.
He looked back at Rosecliffe. In spite of the constant harrying of the Welsh, the walls rose steadily upward. Until the loss of the wheat crop, he’d planned to keep the full complement of workers at Rosecliffe this winter. The temporary shelters along the inside of the wall were adequate, and between the stable and the nearly completed great hall, there would be enough space to keep the workers busy during the long hours of the winter. Rough stone could be trimmed for flooring. Oak beams could be measured, planed, and carved. The armorer could make hinges and bars.
But now there was no wheat for bread, no food to provide for so many. He’d have to send most of them back to England until spring.
“God’s bones!” he swore. At this rate he’d be trapped in Wales till his dotage. Already he’d suspended construction on the town outside the castle walls. No one would bring their families to live in such a hostile and dangerous place. Without workers he could not raise food. Without food he could not import workers. He was caught in a vise of Owain’s making.
“The south field is not entirely ruined,” Osborn reported when he galloped up. “A quarter of the field, say one and a half arpents, was saved.”
“The field farthest from the castle, and hardest to defend.”
Osborn shrugged. “Fish and cheese. ’Twill be a lean winter. And here I’d nearly regained the girth I lost last winter on such a diet,” he joked.
But Rand could not make light of this newest setback. Up to now he’d only reacted to Welsh harrassment. But that policy had obviously not worked. He must become more aggressive. “’Tis time I made an example of these Welsh marauders,” he muttered.
“So we wage war now, not peace?”
Rand turned his horse and the two men headed back to Rosecliffe. “These people do not respond to peace. I see
now that they war among themselves due to their nature. They have a need to fight with someone. Well, I will give them a fiercer enemy than they’ve yet faced.”
Osborn tugged on his beard. “Does this mean we will take the village?”
Rand leaned forward and his horse responded with ever-increasing strides. “We will take Carreg Du. I will confront Owain, and he and I will settle this matter once and for all.”
“What of Madoc and Clyde?”
“They are old. They will choose peace over war once Owain is gone. With no strong leader to take his place, the Welsh opposition will fade. I will take Carreg Du,” he repeated. “I will take Afon Bryn as well, if I must.”
And I will take Josselyn too if she is so unwise as to place herself in my path.
There was no mistaking the signs. The English warriors practiced, dawn to dusk. The armorer’s fire never died down. Even when Newlin sat on the
domen
, soaking in the solemnity of the night and the wisdom of the stars, he could hear the dull clang of hammer against heated rod.
He shifted his bulk on the level slab, unable to find the mental quiet he sought. He sniffed the air, alert. Alarmed.
War was imminent. The skirmishes of the past year would be nothing compared to the bloodletting the English would unleash upon the land. Newlin was impressed that the English lord had restrained himself this long. His younger knights, most especially his brother, had chafed under the restraint. Now they would make up for their frustrations of the past year.
Newlin did not like war, no matter who fought or how they justified it. He respected men of honor, and women. And children too, he amended, thinking of spirited young Rhonwen. But he did not interfere in the lives of those around him.
Usually.
He focused his left eye on the bright star near the western horizon. The people attributed great powers to him. But were he even half so powerful as they feared, he would long ago have made his eyes focus together. Shutting down the mental blinders on one or the other of his eyes was ever a distraction and a strain.
He focused on the star again.
He should not interfere, but he had a particular fondness for Josselyn, and he knew he would like her child, were it to survive Owain’s threats.
His mind quieted. He visualized the child. Over the summer she had thrived. He’d seen her on the feast of Saint Swithun, all pink cheeks and fair hair coming in. But she would be dark-haired someday. Like her mother.
Like her father.
He thought of Rand. He did not know he had a daughter. Did Josselyn mean ever to tell him?
Then he frowned. Josselyn was afraid for her child. His focus shifted. Left eye. Right eye. He closed both eyes to make it stop. It was not for him to interfere. And he would not. But how he longed to steer another child’s mind. Josselyn was a woman now, with a woman’s concerns. Rhonwen was still afraid of him. But Isolde …
He smiled into the night and his focus returned. The brilliant star flickered in response. He would not interfere. He would not take sides. But even ancient bards needed to eat through the cold, bitter months of winter. He would do what was necessary to ensure he had an adequate supply of food.
He heard a step. No one ventured beyond the walls of Rosecliffe Castle after dark, at least not alone. But this night walker was alone and unafraid. “Welcome, Randulf Fitz Hugh.”
“I hoped to find you here, Newlin. I come to give you warning—you and all the Welsh who reside along the River Gyffin. My patience is spent.”
“’Tis not your intention to drive me from this place.”
“No—”
“Nor to drive out those who have peopled these wild places since the time of the three goddesses,” Newlin continued.
“I wish only to drive out those who refuse to live in peace.”
The moon limned the Englishman’s face and Newlin was reassured by what he saw. He focused even more intently on him. “Madoc is dead.”
Madoc is dead
. Rand heard the bard’s stunning words. Madoc was dead. Josselyn was now a widow. Her child was orphaned.
Then he shook his head. He didn’t want to think about that. The real news was that Owain now led the Welsh in this valley. What happened to Josselyn didn’t matter.
But Newlin had a different view. “You once wished to wed her to your brother. Perhaps that is again the way to the peace you say you desire.”
Rand gave a bitter laugh. “There can be no peace when only one party desires it. If anything, Madoc’s death will rouse Owain to even more murderous acts.”
“That does not address my suggestion.”
Rand did not want to address Newlin’s suggestion, and he suspected the strange little man knew it. How much else did he know of the tortured emotions Josselyn roused in him? “I’ll worry over issues of peace when I have resolved the issues of war,” he stated.
The bard was quiet. A lone night bird called. An owl preparing for the hunt. “I’ve come down here to warn you,” Rand continued, “so that you may be prepared. It will be bloody, and it will not end until I face Owain.”
“I will not leave these lands,” Newlin answered simply. “Nor will most of these people.”
“Nor will I.”
“You now intend to stay?”
Rand frowned. “I don’t intend to be driven out. When I leave it will be because I am no longer needed here.”
“Needed here,” the bard echoed.
The man was trying to provoke him. Rand crossed his arms. “I came at the king’s behest to build a fortress mighty enough to ensure peace for all who live here, English or Welsh. When that task is done, I return to London.”
“But your brother will remain.”
And need a wife
.
The unsaid words hung in the air.
Rand gritted his teeth. “He will need a wife and I will encourage him to wed a Welshwoman. If he decides upon Josselyn, so be it. Meanwhile, I would know how Madoc died.”
The bard shrugged his one good shoulder. “’Tis said he had a seizure of the chest. His heart, I am told. Though there are those who say he grasped himself lower. His stomach.”
“His stomach?” Rand went very still. “Poison?”
Newlin looked away. “Who can say? He was an old man.”
“Who would want to poison him?” When the bard did not answer the question, Rand did. “A son who would rule in his father’s stead. Or perhaps a young wife who tired of an old husband.”
“Is that what you believe?”
Rand looked away. What demon prompted him to say such a thing? “No, I do not. But is Owain such a coward as to poison his sire?”
“Is there a lack of such cowardice in your English courts?”
Rand snorted. “There are cowards in every land. In every village.”
“As there are the misguided and the misinformed. But we veer away from the purpose of your visit. You intend to rout the opposition to your English presence in our land. Is there anything else?”
Rand suppressed a sigh. There was nothing more that he
was willing to express out loud. But he wondered about many things, more now than when he’d first come down the hill to see the bard. And chief among them was whether Josselyn mourned her husband. Whether she would be compelled to wed Owain. Whether she wanted to.
“Owain has a wife.”
Rand blinked, startled as always by Newlin’s uncanny ability to read his thoughts. “He may have a wife,” he muttered. “But she will soon be a widow. Then she and Josselyn can comfort one another. Take care,” he added, “that you are not caught in the war between Rosecliffe and Carreg Du. I bid you good evening.”
Rand left, almost sorry he’d come in search of Newlin. He’d hoped to find some reassurance regarding the offensive he meant to launch against the Welsh. Instead, as he made his way up the track that led through the unbuilt town, he felt more confused than ever. Josselyn no longer belonged to Madoc. She was free.
Perhaps now, after suffering the touch of an old man, she would be more willing to become mistress to a younger, more virile one.
The day would come when he would face her again. Then he would have the answer to that question. At the moment, however, he did not know whether he longed to hear her answer, or dreaded it.
The English attacked Carreg Du just before dawn on a day that threatened rain, a day that wisdom said boded ill for large destriers on slippery ground. But it did not rain and once Rand’s best men captured the several watchmen that circled the armed village, his mounted knights and foot soldiers advanced on the village.
Osborn took the left flank. Jasper led the right, while Rand commanded the central thrust into the heart of Carreg Du.
The alehouse was put to fire, and the wind-borne smoke panicked the few women and children remaining there. The
Welsh fought gamely, but the English slew all who opposed them. Those who threw down their weapons, however, were spared.
It had been three years since Rand had led men in battle. He remembered the fear and the anticipation, the fury that would grip him. But he’d forgotten how fast his blood lust could rise. How violently.
He confronted one brawny Welshman and dispatched him with a quick thrust and a bone-crunching twist of his blade. Another beside him hesitated, then engaged Rand in battle. His demise mirrored his compatriot’s. A third man started forward then, when confronted by Rand’s wicked long sword dripping blood, threw down his weapon.
“Tru-garedd,
” he cried.
Rand was hard-pressed to honor the man’s plea for mercy, for his blood was up and all around him the din of battle—the cries and grunts and stench—urged him on. But murder was not his goal. He seized the man’s sword and shield, and gave him into Alan’s keeping. Then he charged back into the fray.
The battle raged the length and breadth of Carreg Du. Before the sun reached its zenith, however, the English held the town, though at a grave cost. Nine men killed; eleven wounded. But the Welsh had lost fourteen, plus twenty-two wounded and sixty-three more captured. All in all, a decisive victory for Rand.