Josselyn heard news of the battle from Nesta, who had been sent on to Afon Bryn with the few who’d escaped Carreg Du. The entire village was in an uproar, vowing to free their captured comrades, vowing death to all the English. Even Rhys and Rhonwen found unity on the issue of their hatred of all things English.
But while Afon Bryn took in the wounded, gathered supplies for those who still fought, and cursed the English, Josselyn worried. She worked alongside Nesta, but her thoughts were in Carreg Du.
Had Rand been hurt?
She should be hoping he’d been felled by a mortal blow, but she could not. Instead she prayed for his safety, and that someday he might know he had a daughter. When Isolde awoke, demanding with her tiny strident cries to be fed, Josselyn went gratefully to her. She secreted both of them in her chamber, and as she nursed her daughter, she worried for Rand.
Late, just before dusk, Owain rode furiously into Afon Bryn. He slammed into the main hall, cursing, screaming for food and ale. Meriel and Agatha scurried to serve him. Everyone else disappeared. Within the hour, however, Meriel burst without knocking into Josselyn’s chamber.
“He’ll see you now. Best you don’t keep him waiting,” she added with a cackle that sounded ominous.
“Why does he wish to see me?”
“I’m sure he can answer that better than I. Go on, girl. Oh, and he says you’re to bring her.” She indicated Isolde, asleep now in her cradle.
Bring Isolde to Owain? Josselyn’s heart began to pound. She edged nearer her precious child. “She’s asleep. I’ll not wake her.”
Meriel smiled, showing her long brown teeth. “All right then. Why don’t I stay here to mind her while you go to Owain alone?”
Josselyn had never before feared Meriel would harm Isolde. Now she did. With no choice left her, she scooped up the babe, and telling herself it was better to know what Owain was plotting than to remain ignorant, she steeled herself and descended to the hall. But she was afraid as she’d never in her life been afraid. Owain was dangerous and unpredictable, and for the moment she could not escape him. But as soon as she could manage, she vowed to flee this place.
“I’ll keep you safe,” she whispered against Isolde’s downy hair. “I’ll keep you safe, even if that means delivering you to your father.”
Owain’s angry voice carried up the narrow stairwell.
“Are you deaf? Did you not hear me say step lively?” She heard a sharp slap and a muffled cry. Then Agatha rushed past the stairs, tears streaming down her face, mingling with the blood from her split lip. Josselyn froze, panicked anew. Maybe she should have left Isolde with Meriel.
“Go on.” From behind the older woman shoved her into the lighted hall. “’Tis your turn.”
Owain spied her at once. “Come here,” he ordered, fastening his eyes on her. Agatha hurried past with a fresh mug of ale, but he spared her none of his attention.
Something terrible was going to happen, Josselyn realized. Something terrible. Only when everyone else left the hall and Josselyn found the courage to draw nearer did he speak again.
“I have a task for you.”
A trap, more like. But Josselyn kept her fears to herself. She hugged Isolde tighter. “What sort of task?”
He grinned, the awful grin of a murderous wolf, not above devouring his own kind. “Go to Fitz Hugh. I have no doubt he will receive you. Draw him out so I can kill him.”
Josselyn fought to still her trembling. Help Owain kill Rand? She shook her head. She could never do that. “He will not see me.”
“You lie! He will see you!” His voice lowered and his leering eyes roamed over her. “He will want to fuck the woman who rejected him.”
Josselyn swallowed hard at his crudity. “No. He won’t—”
“He will. You rejected me and I want to fuck you—and the day will come when I will. Why should he feel any differently? He’ll want to fuck you if only to punish you. Meanwhile, you will be the bait to draw him out.”
Josselyn tried to think. She tried to conquer her panic with reason. She could never turn on Rand that way. But it would be madness to reveal that to Owain.
Then again, perhaps this was her chance to escape his foul clutches.
He must have sensed the turn of her thoughts, for as he quaffed the contents of his mug, he once more grinned. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve—a sleeve stained with someone else’s blood. “Just to ensure your loyalty, Josselyn, while you are bait to him, I will keep that babe of yours as bait for you.”
“No!” Josselyn gasped. She backed away in horror.
Owain lurched out of his chair. “Yes,” he countered, hissing the word like a serpent. “Flush him out and she will live. Fail me …” He began to stalk her. “Fail me,” he repeated in a voice filled with venom, “and she will die in his place.”
Josselyn came up hard against the rough stone wall. Owain stood less than an arm’s length from her. He reached out and pinched Isolde’s cheek hard enough to awaken her. As her fretful cries filled the room, he leaned forward.
“I can snuff her life out with a snap of my fingers. Smother her. Break her neck. It would be no more to me than killing fowl in the yard. But I’d prefer to kill her sire. Will you help me do that, Josselyn?”
It was so mildly asked, so casually worded, that Josselyn fought the obscene urge to laugh. This could not be happening.
But it was, and when she hesitated, he reached out again for Isolde.
“I’ll do it!” Josselyn cried, trying to shelter Isolde from him. “I’ll do it.”
He laughed, and his hand caught her chin instead of Isolde’s cheek. “What a good mother you are. If you succeed, I’ll return your child to you unharmed. If you do not …” He shrugged. “But I have faith in you, Josselyn, and when Fitz Hugh is dead, you will have your reward.”
The next hour was a nightmare. Owain’s threats toward her were of no moment. But Isolde …
She watched as Meriel took her child away, and though she sat calmly, inside, where no one could hear, she screamed her agony. She did not trust Owain. She did not
trust Meriel. If she could just get word to Nesta or Gladys—to anyone from Carreg Du. But Owain was too crafty to allow her to see anyone who might aid her.
He rode with her alone to the forest edge, giving her instructions. She was to seek refuge with Rand, to pretend she wished to help him defeat Owain. She was to pretend to lead him to Owain’s secret hideout in Wyndham Wood, where he could then surprise and capture the rebels. But in actuality Owain would be lying in wait to slaughter the English. It was simple and comparatively easy—and her reward would be great, he reminded her.
For her part, Josselyn listened and nodded, and tried not to shatter into a thousand pieces.
He pointed out the direction she must take. He gave her no shawl against the evening chill, and only a half-lame packhorse to ride. “He’s more likely to believe you escaped me if you are hungy and tired.” He laughed.
“Don’t hurt her,” Josselyn pleaded. “I’ll do as you say, but you must abide by your promise. Don’t hurt her.”
Dusk painted the land in violet shades, the color of bruises. It showed Owain’s face in all its evil. “Don’t give me a reason to hurt her,” he answered, smiling coldly.
Had she a weapon, she would have murdered him right there. She would have gouged out his eyes, ripped out his bowels, and carved out his heart.
But she had no weapons, no power at all against his evil strength. So she kicked her pitiful mount forward, urging him blindly into the woods, heading north. She would find Rand. She would make up some reason, some excuse, to draw him out so that Owain could capture him.
She would not hesitate. She would not consider what was right or wrong. She would do what she must to save her child, even if doing so would kill the man she loved—and a part of herself as well.
J
osselyn found Alan first. Or rather, he found her at her lowest moment, when her poor horse had gone lame, the suffocating darkness had disoriented her, and she feared never to find her way to Carreg Du. He found her and brought her to Jasper. The English patrolled the southern arc of the valley below Carreg Du, an ominous presence in the dark, dripping night. They were tired from the long day and night, and yet still jubilant over their victory. They’d captured three Welshmen hiding in the forest. Josselyn made four. Only she’d come forth willingly.
“I must speak to your brother,” she told Jasper. She’d told Alan the same thing but he’d insisted on bringing her to his immediate superior.
“So. We meet again.” Jasper dismounted and stood before her. He was Rand’s height, but not so thickly muscled. He was younger than she’d realized, from the one time she’d seen him. Younger and more handsome, with bold features and a sensuous mouth. But there was the callowness of youth about him. The arrogance not yet warranted.
He would make some woman a most difficult husband.
But that was not her concern. Her business was far more urgent than that. “I must speak with Rand.”
“Rand, is it? Not Sir Randulf or Lord Fitz Hugh, but Rand.” He grinned. “And what is it you have for him?
Information to sell?” His eyes ran over her. “I’m as like to buy what you’re offering as he is.”
She glared at him. She had no time for this; Owain held Isolde hostage. “I assure you, he will not appreciate any delay in learning what I have to say,” she bluffed. She turned to Alan. “I would not come here, were it not sore pressing. You know that is true, Alan. So tell him.”
Alan clearly did not like having to side with her, but after a moment he grimaced. “He will want to see her. But you’ll find him a far different man from the one you bewitched last year,” he added to her. “Your tricks will no longer work on him, nor on any of us.”
“Speak for yourself,” Jasper interrupted. “I’m willing to be a victim of her bewitching tricks. What do you say?” he added, tugging the
couvrechef
down from her head.
Josselyn swatted his hand aside. “Find yourself a nun—or two,” she snapped. “Just tell me where Rand is. I’ll search him out myself.”
In the end they took her to Rand, her half-dead mount stumbling along between their finer animals.
When they reached Carreg Du, it looked the same, and yet somehow it was different. It had changed from the home of her childhood to an armed camp under Owain’s leadership. Now it was an occupied town, controlled by the English. Physically the village remained as it had always been—save that the alehouse had burned. She spied a few Welsh faces, those captured in the fighting. But with the English presence everywhere, it felt like a foreign place. Would it ever again be simply the home of free Welsh people?
She approached her uncle’s house—Rand’s base of command. Just outside the door she hesitated. What was she to say to him? How was she to begin? Would he trust her enough to follow her into the trap Owain prepared for him?
Could she really lure him to his certain death?
She stared at the door, one she’d passed through a hundred times before. A thousand. But this time was different. This time she entered with murder in her heart. If she led
Rand to Owain, she would be participating in a murder.
And yet there was Isolde to consider. Pain pounded like a drum inside her head. What to do? What to do?
But Josselyn knew what she must do, and with a prayer for Isolde that was, she feared, a curse upon Rand’s head, she pushed into the house.
To her surprise the place was empty, save for the man who sat in the lord’s chair before the cold hearth. Rand, alone with his thoughts.
When he looked up he did not appear surprised to see her. Yet she, who thought herself prepared to meet him again, felt a profound shock. He was here. Rand. Isolde’s father. Her only lover. The man she’d thought she’d fallen in love with.
In the past year she’d doubted that emotion. But with one glance, one moment only of his dark eyes meeting hers, she knew the fearful truth. She loved him, now as much as before. How much harder did that make her awful task?
But the impassive expression on his battle-hardened face reminded her of another bitter truth. He hadn’t loved her then; he certainly did not love her now.
She swallowed the disappointment that caught her unawares. It wasn’t his love she’d come for. It was her child’s safety. She must go forward with this mad plan to lure him into Owain’s clutches no matter how she felt. There was no other way.
He didn’t rise. After an awkward moment, she advanced into the room. “I have come—” Her voice cracked and she took a breath to compose herself. “I have come to beg your aid.”
Slowly, deliberately, he steepled his hands beneath his chin. “To beg my aid? What sort of aid would a staunch Welsh rebel want from her enemy? Unless, of course, you come here to lull me into complacency. To distract me from my purpose.” He pursed his lips. “I wondered what you would do with your husband gone. In truth, I did not expect you to come to me. But you are here, so begin. Distract
me, for I am sore in need of distraction.”
Josselyn shook her head. “’Tis not what you think. I care nothing of this war you and Owain wage—”
“You care nothing? You cared before. You cared so much you wed yourself to an old man to ensure there would be a war.”
The truth was a bitter thing to hear. And yet there was so much more to it than that. “You don’t understand,” she began.
“Nor do I care to. ’Tis sufficient that I maintain peace in the lands drained by the River Gyffin. As for aiding you …” He ran his eyes over her, a crude assessment that made her shrink away. “I have only one form of aid to give you. If you would have it, take off your clothes. Otherwise, begone from here.”
She hadn’t meant to cry, but she could not hold back the tears that stung her eyes. “You may think what you want of me. You may use me in that way, if you wish. But I beg you, Rand, hear me out. I have come here to help you.”
“Help me?” He laughed, a cold, contemptuous sound in the empty hall. “How can you help me? Your husband is dead. Your village is lost. You have no power to help me, save to serve Owain up. Will you do that?”
She stared straight into his eyes, eyes so like Isolde’s that it hurt. But it was that likeness that gave her the strength to tell the lie Owain had given her. “Yes. I can serve him up to you.”
Those gray eyes of his narrowed with suspicion, and between them the silence grew deafening. He did not believe her, but he had his doubts. She sensed the mental debate that raged in him.
“Why should I believe you?”
“Because … Because I have no reason to lie.”
“You have every reason to lie.”
“No. No, you have it wrong. Owain is a madman.” That much, at least was true. She advanced farther into the room.
“He leads my people to their doom. Wasn’t the slaughter here proof of that?”
“Madoc is dead and Owain has assumed leadership of the Welsh. Meanwhile, your uncle is no match for him and your village is now in my control.” He crossed his arms and studied her. “You are caught between him and me—as you always were. But whereas you once thought Owain the lesser of two evils, it would seem you now cast me in that role. Is that a fair assessment of your present predicament?”
Emotion caught in Josselyn’s throat. There was truth in his words, and yet there remained so much unsaid. That she’d loved him but he’d have given her to his brother. That they had made a child together. But all of that was in the past. The present was her concern now. That, and Isolde’s future. “Yes,” she finally said. “I see now that life under English rule is better than life under Owain.”
She thought she’d convinced him, for he was silent a long time. Then he rose and approached her, his eyes suspicious once more.
“How do you propose to help me?”
The lie came easily to her tongue, yet the taste of it was bitter. “I can lead you to the place in the forest where he plots his retaliation. You and your men can surprise him there.”
“I see.” His fingers flexed, tightened, then flexed again. “So you would lead us to the place where we can slaughter your people. Do I have the right of it?”
Put that way, it sounded hideous. But was that any less awful than what she planned for him? Swallowing her doubts as best she could, she nodded.
“I see.” He turned and slowly walked away. Josselyn sagged under the weight of her guilt. But she did it for Isolde, she told herself. For Isolde.
Suddenly he turned, shaking his head, pinning her with his sharp eyes. “You lie. You might betray Owain, but betray your people? No. That does not ring true. Owain has put you up to this, hasn’t he?”
“No! No, he knows nothing of this—”
“Then where is your child?”
“What?”
He’d come closer, and now he circled her, like a great stalking beast. “Where is your child?” he repeated from behind her. “Who keeps her while you are here?” he asked as he came around to face her again.
The blood began to roar in her ears. “My aunt,” she lied.
“So, your aunt knows you have come here. Who else knows?”
“No one. No one,” she stammered. “I sneaked away—”
“Not even Owain?”
Her heart thundered to a halt. “Owain? No. No, he does not know—”
“I think he does. I think he has your child and holds her hostage to ensure you follow his orders. You would not otherwise leave her.”
She wanted to tell him the truth. Oh, how she wanted to tell him! Only fear—utter terror—for their daughter stopped her. He must believe her tale. He must! Isolde’s life depended on it. But though she struggled to find the words that would make him believe her, she could find none.
His eyes bored into hers, seeking her lie. Seeking the truth.
“She is with Nesta,” she repeated, as panic overwhelmed her.
He let loose a contemptuous laugh. “Owain is no fool. He cannot best me in a head-to-head fight. But to catch me by surprise, to trap me, would sway the odds in his favor.” When she would have turned away from him he caught her chin in his iron grip. “The truth, Josselyn. Tell me the truth.”
She wanted to, but to do so was to condemn Isolde, her sweet and innocent babe. “No. You have it all wrong. Owain did not send me.”
He thrust her away from him in disgust. “Begone from here. The very sight of you sickens me. Crawl back to Owain with this message. He has lost his lands to me. I
will wrest them from him and I will ensure that no spawn of his will ever inherit them. My children will rule these lands for the good of all. Mine, not his. Take that message to him, Josselyn ap Carreg Du. Take it and go.”
Josselyn stood there trembling, unable to go. Unable to stay. She had failed. She had failed, but Isolde would be the one to pay. Tears burned her eyes, then spilled over. She stared at Rand. He was so filled with hatred for her and her people. But she could not accept defeat. She would not. She reached out a hand to him. “Please, Rand, you must listen to me.”
He made a sound of disgust. “You lie with your lips. You lie with your tears. You’ve lied to me since first we met.”
Josselyn flinched at his hard accusation. She had lied to him. But she could lie no longer, she realized. Lies had failed her. She had only the truth to help her now.
With the heels of her hands she brushed her tears away. “You’re right. You’re right,” she conceded, choking on a sob. “I did lie. Owain did send me to you.”
She’d thought he would gloat, but if anything, his expression grew more shuttered. He crossed his arms and waited. She took another breath and went on. “But I only did so because he holds my child hostage. He knows she is my weakness.” She paused. “He knows also that she is your child.”
Silence echoed, a dark and sudden cavern around them.
Rand’s eyes narrowed. After a moment he shook his head. “More lies. I know she is not mine.”
“But she is. I swear it!”
A muscle began to twitch in his jaw. “It gains you naught to lie to me, woman. You forget, I saw you at the Saint Ebbe Market. You showed no signs of the babe. I know, because I looked.”
Tears again stung her eyes, but she refused to cry. “She was a small babe and very nearly died. Even now she is tiny. But she is yours, Rand.”
He gave a hollow laugh. “What do you think to gain by presenting me with this pitiful tale?”
“Owain has her!” Josselyn cried. “If I do not succeed in the mission he set for me, he will kill her!”
He shook his head, dismissing that possibility. “’Tis only a threat. He will not harm his own sister.”
“But she is not his sister, and Owain knows it. He knows it,” she finished in a horrified whisper.
But Rand remained unaffected. He poured a goblet of wine and downed the contents in one long pull. Then he speared her with his hard eyes. “How would Owain know that? Or did the father share his wife with the son? Mayhap this child is Owain’s spawn,” he bitterly added.