The very thought made her shudder. “Be cruel to me if you must. But do not seal your own child’s fate because you despise me, Rand. Madoc could not—He had lost the ability to perform his … his husbandly duties. Owain learned of it and drew the obvious conclusion as to her parentage. He has no hesitation about using Isolde to control me. She is your daughter. I swear it on my life!”
Something in his eyes flickered, and Josselyn clutched at the hope that she’d swayed him. But his next words crushed those hopes.
“She is not mine. No. I cannot help you, save to do as I already plan: to crush Owain. Until then, if you would protect your child from his rage, you’d be better served to do for him as I suspect you were prepared to do for me. Promise him the delights of your body. Lure him to complacency in your bed. Protect your child by placing yourself in his power. ’Tis what he’s wanted from you all along,” he taunted.
Josselyn fell back a step, then another, as if beneath pummeling blows. He did not care. He would not intercede. Why had she ever believed he would? When she found the strength to speak, she could only mutter over and over, “She is yours, Rand. Yours …”
But he refused to hear. He turned away from her and refilled his goblet from the ewer. His hand did not shake. He was so calm, so completely unaffected by her words.
He did not believe her and nothing she could say would change that.
Defeated, she turned and made her way blindly to the door. Her movements were stiff and off balance, as if the ground had tilted beneath her feet. She’d known he hated her. And yet, still, some part of her had been convinced he would believe her. That he would want to know his child. Some part of her had expected him to rush to Isolde’s aid. She saw now that she’d been utterly, disastrously wrong.
She left the house and walked unsteadily across the village yard. Several of his men followed her with their eyes. But they did not prevent her leaving on foot through the well-guarded gate. The sun would soon be up. She could see the dark outline of the trees and the gray shadow of the eastern mountains. A lone cock crowed his dominion over all within hearing.
But Josselyn had no eyes to see her beloved lands, nor ears to hear the pulse of its life. Isolde was the true center of her life, not these lands. Isolde, so tiny and yet so alive. So vulnerable.
Josselyn steeled herself to face this newest dilemma. Somehow she must find a way to appease Owain. He would be furious with her, but she must not let him vent that rage upon Isolde. She would offer him her body. Once. Twice. A thousand times. She would do anything to save her child, for Isolde’s father refused to do so.
Rand caught up with Josselyn below Carreg Du, in the place where the damp meadow gave way to forest. First light sparked the tips of the beech and wych elms, but she moved still in the shadows, a darkly clad figure, slender and small. Vulnerable.
Did she lie to him?
He’d debated that question since the moment she’d left. Did she lie?
He reined in his mount and watched her struggle up the hill toward the protection of the forest. She’d been sent to
lure him and his men to certain doom. She’d admitted as much. Now, like a fool, he followed her, while any number of her countrymen could be waiting. Maybe this was all a part of the trap Owain planned.
He scanned the edge of the forest with a practiced eye. His men held these woods. There were no Welshmen lurking in the lands around Rosecliffe and Carreg Du. But even if there were, he had to speak to her.
Why did she lie to him? What purpose did she have to claim this girl child was his?
The answer was obvious. Josselyn feared Owain and wanted Rand to rid her of his threat. But he intended to do that anyway, as she must already know. It was not for her sake, though, but for his own and that of all who would prefer peace to war. She would be safe from Owain soon enough, as would her child, so there was no reason for her to lie to him so urgently. Did that mean she was telling the truth?
It was that niggling possibility that had driven him to follow her.
He urged his horse forward, his eyes fixed upon Josselyn. He saw her stiffen when she realized she’d been followed. Throwing a fearful glance backward, she lifted her skirts and hastened her weary strides. But he came on steadily. She could not outpace him. Then she looked back and halted. She knew it was he.
He reined his mount to a standstill and stared down at Josselyn’s upturned face. Lines of exhaustion marked her face; her red eyes gave proof of her tears. She was beautiful in spite of it all, however, her mouth voluptuous, her body ripe. He did not want to see that beauty, nor respond to it, and yet it was not her feminine appeal that drew him and refused to let him look away. It was the desperate hopefulness in her eyes. She was afraid to hope he had changed his mind, and yet she could not help but do so.
She loved her child. There could be no doubt of that. But was it his child?
He expelled a long breath. Did it really matter? “I will rescue your child from Owain.”
A near silent sound, a small sucking intake of breath, a half-sob—whatever it was, she made no other response, at least none that involved words. But she placed her hand on his foot in the stirrup nearest her. It was a small enough gesture, but it carried with it a mighty impact. Gratitude. Trust.
It moved him profoundly.
He was reminded of the oath of fealty he’d sworn to King Henry, kneeling before his liege, holding out his palm so that the king could place his foot upon it. Now, in the shelter of a wych elm she seemed to swear him silent fealty.
It was not what he wanted of her.
It should be though. It should be
all
he wanted of her: her loyalty as a citizen of the lands he would rule. The loyalty of even a few Welsh was a step in the right direction.
But from Josselyn he wanted more.
With a silent oath he repressed that idiotic notion and turned the horse away from her, then dismounted. “Where is Owain?”
She pressed her lips tightly together. “At Afon Bryn.”
“And the child?”
“There as well. Or at least she was. He could have taken her anywhere,” she added, staring at him with huge, frightened eyes.
He steeled himself against the need to offer her comfort. “Go to Owain. Tell him you have convinced me. Elaborate in any way you must. Where did he plan to ambush me?”
She straightened, as if renewed strength flowed into her veins. A stray beam of early sunlight glanced off her hair, brilliant against the ebony thickness. It was of no moment, and yet his eyes noted it.
“There is a narrow place along the river, before it reaches the lower meadows. In a place call Wyndham Wood, the forest encroaches on one side. On the other the hill is steep and the footing precarious.”
“So he will wait in the woods?”
“I do not know all his plans. Only that I must send you along that route.”
He looked past her, into the wildwood. “When?”
“As soon as possible.”
“Tomorrow then.” He glared at her, willing any soft feeling for her out of his heart. “You know many will die. Many of your people.”
She bowed her head. “I know.”
He exhaled a long breath. Was he a fool to believe her when she’d lied to him so many times before? He would find out tomorrow. “Go. Go back to Owain.”
She looked up at him and stepped closer. Too close. “Rand,” she began.
“Don’t,” he bit out. “Don’t make more of it than it is.”
But she did not listen. “She is your child. You will see—”
“No. For all I know, she is Madoc’s child or Owain’s—or anyone else’s but mine. It doesn’t matter whose she is. It doesn’t matter to me whom you lay down with.”
Only it did. The very thought of anyone else touching her turned his blood cold. Even now, more than a year later, he had not learned how to control this insane possessiveness she fired in him.
He did not want to feel it, but the truth was, he still wanted her. Not just her body. He knew he could have that. She was that grateful to him. But he wanted more than gratitude from her, more than just the use of her body. More than her vow of fealty. He did not want to put a name on what he wanted of her, but that did not banish it. Though she’d spurned him and chosen her people over him, though she’d betrayed him and very nearly brought about Jasper’s death, the truth of his longing did not waver.
He wanted her to love him.
“Go back to Owain,” he muttered, denying the feelings that clawed for release in his chest.
She nodded, then averted her face. But before she could back away, he grabbed her arms. She looked up, as startled as he by his impulsive gesture. But before he could see
acquiescence in her eyes and know it sprang from gratitude, he crushed her to him and took her mouth in a savage kiss. That she didn’t fight him—that she accepted the onslaught and rose into it—only pushed him recklessly on. He wanted her to respond to him instinctively, with no time to think or consider or weigh all the practical reasons why she must submit. He wanted to taste true passion and feel total capitulation, and know she did not pretend.
And he did.
He was rough with her, very nearly brutal. But she welcomed him at every turn. He took her there, against the ancient elm, crudely. Swiftly. When they were done he rested heavily against her, gasping for breath—and for sanity. He’d accomplished nothing, nor assuaged any of his doubts. All he’d done was reveal his weakness for her.
For all he knew, one of her people could even now have an arrow aimed at his back.
He thrust himself away from her and glanced swiftly around, then adjusted his garments. In truth, however, he was stalling. When he finally looked over at her, he knew he’d handled things badly.
“Are you all right?” His voice was gruff.
She gave a small nod.
He cleared his throat. “Tell Owain I assemble my men. Tell him I will strike at his camp tomorrow at dawn. I will do my part to dispatch Owain. It falls to you to see to your child’s welfare.”
Again she nodded. “I will do whatever is necessary. She is so innocent.” Her voice dropped to a lower pitch. “She’s the only true innocent among us.”
For no reason, jealousy stabbed daggers into his heart. She loved this child, no matter who had sired it. She hadn’t loved her husband, nor did she love him. But she loved her child. “What do you call her?”
“Isolde. I have named your daughter Isolde.”
“’Tis pointless to call her mine,” he muttered. “The proof of her parentage will ever be in doubt.”
“If you believe that, then why have you agreed to help us?”
“Because I desire you,” he answered, denying all the other reasons that demanded he come to her aid. And to Isolde’s.
She recoiled at his bluntness, but she did not turn away. She lifted her chin and stared at him, her face pale but composed. “I will make myself available to you as long as you desire me, if you will save my daughter.”
He did not respond to that. He could not. He’d been cruel in what he’d said to her. Now, in her honesty, she was being even more cruel to him. He wanted her, yes. But not in payment for services rendered.
But in his pride he had made certain he could have her in no other way. She would come to him out of gratitude, a gratitude rooted in fear for her child. That was little better than her coming to him in fear, much as she would have to do with Owain.
He took no comfort in the fact that she feared Owain more than she feared him. She would respond to each of them in the same manner, if that was the only way she could protect her child.
His stomach knotted and he fought down the bitter gall that burned his throat. Snatching up the reins, he flung himself onto his horse. She stood beside the wych elm, disheveled from their lovemaking, fearful and yet hopeful.
“Thank you,” she whispered, so grateful he had to close his eyes against it.
“Don’t thank me,” he muttered. “Don’t ever thank me again.” Then, unable to bear either her nearness or her distance from him, he urged his horse down the hill, away from the forest, to the safety of Rosecliffe’s mighty walls.
He had to plan for tomorrow’s confrontation. He had to clear his mind of her and focus on the matter at hand.
He had to hide from the fear that Isolde might be his daughter—and that she might not.
J
osselyn hurried, but her beloved wildwood seemed to conspire against her. The bracken caught her skirts, the steep hills pulled her back, and time and again the rocky path tripped her up. She followed the same path, paralleling the river, keeping to the trees wherever she could. But she was so tired she could hardly force one foot before the other. Fear drove her on, however.
She needed to get back to Isolde. She needed to hold her child and deliver her message to Owain.
Yet fear was accompanied now by something else. She would not call it reassurance. Until Isolde was well beyond Owain’s evil grasp she could not be reassured. Nor could she call it comfort, for Rand’s promise of help had a dark underbelly. He did not believe Isolde was his. And though he was willing to bed Josselyn, it was clear he had no interest in having her to wife.
She stumbled over an exposed root and fell, scraping the heel of one hand. For a moment only she allowed herself to lie heavily upon the damp ground, savoring the stinging pain as her due. If nothing else, it focused her on the task at hand. She must find the energy to keep going. She must put Rand out of her mind, for she had no control over him or his actions. She trusted him to honor his word though. That would have to be enough.
She pushed on beneath the sullen dawn, into the gray threat of another day. As she drew nearer the scattered village rain began to pelt her, as if warding her away. But nothing would keep her from her child.
A guard hidden within the yellowing leaves of a drooping sycamore was the first to hail her. “Show your face!”
She raised her head and lowered her
couvrechef
. With a grunt he gestured her on. But as she angled down the hill, following a deer path through the undergrowth, she was met by Owain. She drew up, repulsed anew by the sight of this man who would kill a child if he thought he could gain from the deed. She might live the rest of her life with the guilt of other Welsh lives that would be forfeit by her doing, but she would feel no guilt for Owain.
She faced him, not hiding her hatred from him. “I have done as you asked. Where is my child?”
His lips curled in a smug smile. His glittering eyes moved over her. “So you have succeeded in the task I set you. That is good, very good.” He grinned. “You must have fucked him very well to win him over so swiftly.”
Josselyn wrapped her arms around herself. Just that easily did he turn the intimacies she’d shared with Rand into an ugly thing. God, how she hated him! “Where is Isolde?” she repeated.
He gestured vaguely. “She is safe. But tell me more, sweet Josselyn.” He caught her by the arm. “When will he strike at my hidden camp?”
“Tomorrow at dawn.”
“At dawn. How unimaginative.” Then he laughed. “By dawn, I fear, your English lover and his men will be long dead.”
Josselyn had stiffened at his touch. Now she tried to pull away, alarmed by his words. “What do you mean, they will be long dead?”
“Just what I said.” He jerked her up against him. “Did you truly think I would trust a woman with the truth, especially a woman who has already betrayed her people by
spreading her legs for her enemy? I see his marks on you.” He rubbed his stubbled cheek against the tender places Rand’s rough kisses had left on her cheek and neck.
Josselyn twisted and fought him, but he was too strong.
“’Tis my turn, bitch. I’ll have you now, and for once it will be good Welsh juice that fills your belly.”
He yanked her skirt up. She heard it rip. Behind her his men laughed and her blood turned to ice. Though she’d vowed to do whatever she must to survive, she could not bear to be raped here in the open while his men watched and jeered—and waited their own chance to rape her too.
“No. No!” With a strength born of pure hatred she rammed her knee into his groin.
He screamed and fell backward, and she did not pause to think. She ran for Afon Bryn, for the last place her daughter had been, to the dubious safety of her aunt and uncle and their men. Pray God they were there.
Pray God Isolde was still there!
Her side ached from her effort as she skidded down the track into a small knot of women. Agatha and Nesta, Gladys and all the others, gathered round the well. Amidst their startled looks, she fell into her aunt’s arms.
“Josselyn! I was so worried—”
“Where is Isolde? Where is she!”
“Asleep in the hall. But—”
In a moment Josselyn was in the hall. Isolde was there, peacefully asleep. But Josselyn snatched her up anyway and held her close. She would never let her go again. Never. He would have to kill her first.
“She’s been well looked after,” Nesta said from the doorway. “Meriel has seen to that.”
Josselyn looked over at her aunt. Nesta didn’t realize how pervasive the evil was in this place.
Behind her aunt stood Meriel, a smug grin on her narrow face.
She would do anything to help Owain defeat Rand, Josselyn realized, including sacrificing an English bastard, and
a girl baby at that. Should Owain triumph, everyone would be completely at his mercy. There would be no one to stop him from doing anything he wanted.
She must get word to Rand, Josselyn realized. She must. But she would not leave Isolde this time. She could not risk it.
“I am weary,” she said. “I’ve done as Owain asked. Now I must sleep.” Before she could escape to the privacy of her chamber, however, she heard a commotion in the yard.
“ … the bitch! Where is she?” Owain burst into the hall, his face livid, his eyes mad for revenge. They landed on her. “I’m not done with you.”
Her arms tightened around Isolde as he advanced into the hall. A crowd pushed in behind him. Women. Owain’s men. But a few of her own kinsmen now too. Dewey. Taran.
“I have done all you demanded,” she retorted, forcing her voice to be strong, to carry to all. “I have delivered your message to the English. You have no cause to punish me or my daughter any further.”
His eyes glittered. “You have betrayed us. You took that man into your bed and betrayed your people. You told him I plan a trap.” He glanced around, gauging the growing audience. Even Rhys and Rhonwen had been drawn in. “That child she holds is an English bastard, not a child of my father’s at all. Tell them, Meriel.”
The old woman stepped up. “’Tis true. She bore the Englishman’s seed ere she wed Madoc. ’Tis that which broke his heart and killed him.”
“This is not about my child,” Josselyn interjected. “’Tis about Owain and the fact that I did not let him rape me.”
All eyes swung to Owain. The charge of rape was a serious one.
But Owain only grinned. “’Tis she who tempted me. Now she flies into a rage because I honor my marriage
vows.” His arm circled Agatha and his grin increased. “Ask Conan and Glyn. They were there.”
“Enough of this.” Clyde came belatedly into the crowded hall. He shouldered his way to Josselyn’s side. The other men of Carreg Du moved to back them up. “We’ve more important matters to attend. A battle to plan—and to win. This spat avails us of naught.”
But Owain was not willing to let it go. “She has raised a serious charge against me.”
“And you have raised equally serious ones against her. I say it is enough to know the English come and we must be ready to meet them.” He stared at Owain, his eyes unwavering.
In a fight Owain could beat him. In a battle, Owain’s men outnumbered Clyde’s and would defeat them. But there was no benefit in such confrontation and after long, tense seconds even Owain acknowledged it. With a contemptuous sneer he spat on the floor.
“She is a traitor to our people. Once the English are slain I’ll not have her at Afon Bryn. Her or her bastard.”
Nor would she willingly venture here ever again, Josselyn thought as the crowd began finally to drift away. She wanted only to return to Carreg Du, to raise Isolde and live in peace.
But that was not likely to happen. There would be no peace in this valley if Rand was slaughtered.
She caught her uncle’s arm, staying his departure. “You must stop him.”
“Stop whom? Owain?” He threw off her hand and glared at her. “So, ’tis true. You would forsake your own people for that Englishman.”
Tears gathered in her eyes. “I forsake no one. I have betrayed no one—save for them who would trample on their own countrymen—”
“Is she his bastard?” He indicated the now restless babe.
“Her father is English—but I did not lie to Madoc or try to deceive him. He knew the truth before she was born.
Then yesterday I went to Rand on orders from Owain—he threatened Isolde if I did not! I told Rand the lie Owain gave me.” She looked away from him. “But he did not believe me.”
With the back of her wrist she wiped her tears away then faced him once more. “To save Isolde from Owain’s fury, I told Rand the truth. He is the only one willing to protect Isolde from Owain. He is the only man who can prevent the madness Owain will rain down upon us.” She grabbed Clyde’s wrist. “You know I am right. Owain will kill any of us who get in his way. We are not strong enough to prevent it.”
He didn’t want to hear her. He didn’t want to have to choose his lifelong enemy over his own countryman. She could see it in his face. His son had died fighting the English. So had his brother, her father.
But he also knew she was right about Owain.
He turned away, scrubbing his hands across his face. He was old and tired, she realized. Even in his youth he’d been a reluctant warrior.
She pressed on in a low, urgent voice. “Uncle Clyde, please. You know the kind of man Owain is. Do not allow him to slaughter the English. Once he holds all the power he will—”
“Enough!” He lifted his graying head and stared at her with tortured eyes. “I know what Owain is. But still I cannot join with my enemy to fight my own people. I cannot, so do not ask it of me.”
His breath sounded harsh in the empty hall. “I cannot ally myself with the English,” he muttered. “But … But I will not fight alongside Owain.” He let loose a heavy sigh. “That is the best I can do.”
She nodded, blinking back tears. As concessions went, it was better than nothing. “I must tell Rand,” she began.
He held up a hand. “I want nothing to do with your treason. In this you are on your own.” Then he quit the
room, an old man who could not control his world, nor adapt to the new one taking its place.
But Josselyn had no time to contemplate her uncle’s misery. She had to get word to Rand.
That proved impossible.
Within the hour Owain marshaled his men to intercept Rand. Even Rhys was there, mounted on a pony, though Owain ignored his pleas to accompany the soldiers. When Clyde refused to join them, Owain made no pretense of his contempt.
“I have joined with you to honor my father’s commitment. In his memory I will carry on, with you or without you. And when we are victorious, when the men of Afon Bryn defeat your enemy for you, do not think to join with us again. We will hold these hills. All of them.” He beat his chest with one fist. “I am Owain ap Madoc! All will quake before me!”
His men roared their agreement. Then he pointed at Josselyn, and though outwardly she did not flinch, inside she quaked with renewed fear. “We take her and her bastard to ensure the safety of the women and children we leave here undefended.”
Clyde frowned. “That is not necessary. We will keep them safe.”
“How can we believe that when you have broken faith with us this day?” Owain sneered. “Besides, she has committed treason.” Owain’s hand moved to rest on the hilt of his sword. “She and her brat go with us.”
Clyde tensed. As one his men bunched up behind him. Owain’s followers did the same and Josselyn feared bloodshed was imminent. She could not bear the thought.
“I will go!” She stepped forward, thrusting Isolde into Nesta’s arms. “I will go to satisfy Owain’s doubts. But not my child. She stays here.”
Clyde caught her by the arm. “Are you certain of this, Josselyn?”
No, she was not. But she could not let Owain slaughter
her uncle and his men, nor could she allow him to get hold of Isolde. “I am certain. But promise me you will keep her safe.”
His promise was her only comfort in the hours to follow.
Owain’s men viewed her with suspicion, but their very numbers protected her from Owain’s revenge, as did the haste they made. By early afternoon half of Owain’s force was secreted amid the woods that lined the narrow fissures along the River Gyffin. The other half hid in the rocks above the vale. The English must come one way or the other.
Nerves were taut. Josselyn prayed: for Isolde’s safety first, then for Rand’s. For herself she tried to be calm, to resign herself to whatever fate God planned for her. But oh, how she wished to present Isolde to Rand, to see pleasure in his eyes when he looked upon their child. She didn’t know if he would feel such a pleasure, but she comforted herself with imagining it.
Clouds pushed in from the sea, dark and threatening. Lightning split the sky to the north. Thunder sounded, a delayed tremble from afar.