“It’s for the foundation of a wall.”
“Gwal.”
“She said the Welsh word. “To keep my people out or your people in?”
“To keep my allies safe, whoever they may be. And to keep my enemies out. Whoever
they
may be,” he added.
“Don’t you know who they are?”
A slight grin curved up half of his mouth. A taunting grin, she noticed. “I hope to make everyone my ally. Especially you.”
That bold remark should not have flustered her, but it did. She, his ally? No, that would never be. But she must not reveal that to him. She met his amused gaze. “Mayhap it shall be
you
who becomes
our
ally.”
“’Tis the same thing.”
“No.” She stared steadily at him. “It is not the same thing at all.”
Across the short space between them some tension hummed, something that was more than her Welsh defiance and his English aggression. She must not look away from him, she told herself, for to do so would appear an act of cowardice. Yet even had she wanted to, she could not have torn her gaze from him. He was that compelling.
Her salvation came in the unlikely form of Redbeard.
The master builder barreled up the hill, Fitz Hugh looked away, and Josselyn expelled the breath she’d not known she’d been holding.
By the blood of Saint David! What had just happened? The surface of her skin fairly crackled from the intensity of the moment. She took a step backward, rubbing her arms to erase the prickle. She needed distance from him. Thankfully he now focused on Sir Lovell’s words.
“ … a soft spot. It will require a deeper foundation.”
“Which will take longer?” Fitz Hugh asked, frowning.
“Aye, it will. But changing the inner wall to skirt that soft vein will create a blind spot. The tower would have to be extended. See?” He spread the parchment he carried on the ground and both men squatted before it.
Josselyn stood very still. She wanted them to forget she was here. She wanted to listen and learn. But mostly she wanted to see what was drawn on that parchment. She squinted, trying to see past the glare of morning sun on the pale parchment. She must have leaned nearer, or tilted her head. Something drew a sharp look from Sir Lovell, for he halted in mid-sentence and nudged Fitz Hugh.
“Is this your new translator?”
Fitz Hugh turned to look at her. “It is.”
“Good day, Sir Lovell,” she said, determined to win the older man’s confidence. “Will you also be wanting to learn
Cymraeg
?” She smiled determinedly at him and after a moment the suspicion on his face eased.
“If I’m to spend the next ten years of my life working here, t’would seem a wise thing to do. Bless you, lass, for offering.”
“‘Lass’ is
lances,”
she responded.
“Llances,”
he repeated, this time smiling. “You’re a bonny
llances.
I’ve two daughters, you know, though both younger than you.”
“Shall they be coming to join you here?”
“Eventually,” Fitz Hugh cut in before Sir Lovell could answer. “Eventually we shall all bring our families here.
But first we have work to do. Come, Lovell, show me the area you referred to.”
The two of them walked off, angling down the hill and leaving Josselyn to follow in their wake. But for a moment Josselyn simply stared at them. These Englishmen were unlike any men she’d known before. The one, tall and arrogant, both drew her and terrified her. The other, stout and affable, reminded her unaccountably of her father. He looked nothing like him, of course. She recalled little of her father, save that he was dark-haired and tall, with a deep, rumbling voice. More like Fitz Hugh in appearance than Sir Lovell. But something in Sir Lovell’s expression, something in his voice when he spoke of his two daughters …
With an effort she shook off those maudlin thoughts. He was a man who felt affection for his daughters. That was all. The similarity went no further. But if he wanted to befriend her and treat her as he might one of his own daughters, she would be the fool not to take advantage of the situation. After all, that was why she was here.
Admonishing herself not to be overly concerned with anything save gathering information about her English enemies, Josselyn hurried to catch up with them.
“What is the word for ‘mud’?” Josselyn asked as she toyed with a piece of stale brown bread.
Rand tried to keep his gaze on her eyes and not let it wander down to her rosy lips or, worse, to her firm breasts. “Mud?
Llacs
,” he answered.
“How about ‘bread’?”
“
Carreg
.”
“No.
Carreg
means ‘stone.’”
Rand grinned at her and held up a piece of rock-hard bread.
“Bara. Carreg
. At the moment I see no difference.” He tossed the bread into her lap and then a handful of pebbles as well.
It was a lighthearted gesture. Flirtatious, even. But she
obviously didn’t like it, for she shoved both bread and stones aside, then stood, shaking her skirts out.
After a long morning leading Josselyn around the castle site, pointing out everything—horses, tools, trees, carts—and having her give him their Welsh names, Rand had sent her to fetch bread, ale, and cheese for their midday repast. They sat apart from the others in a sunny patch of ground where a few early plants showed the beginnings of their spring green. Now, as she moved away to sit on a flat boulder projecting up from the ground, the sun shot sparks off her waist-length hair, and brought a pretty flush to her cheeks.
Or was it his flirtation that had caused her color to rise?
He decided to find out. “How do you say ‘your hair is as shiny as a raven’s wings’?”
She shot him an irritated look, but her cheeks grew pinker still. “You don’t,” she snapped.
He lolled on his side, propping his head on one hand. “Why not? One day I may be wooing a black-haired maiden. I’ll need to know such words.”
“Speak them in English, then. I doubt any Welshwoman would be unwise enough to listen to such drivel.”
“Drivel?” Rand laughed out loud, something he realized he hadn’t done in months. “Do you suggest that no Welshwoman can be successfully wooed by an Englishman?”
She sent him a cold glare. “I do. If you come here seeking women, you are destined to be disappointed. You may find a whore or two. But no respectable woman would betray her country with you.”
Her haughty tone killed Rand’s good humor. He sat up. “I find your attitude curious, considering how swiftly you agreed to work for me.”
“That was for coin. Nothing else.”
“For coin. That’s what whores work for too.”
“So they do. The difference is, I am not a whore!” She pushed off the boulder and snatched up her cloak. “Your lesson is over.”
Rand caught her by the wrist, and spun her around to face him. His temper had flared at her disdain—until he touched her. Now he stared at her wary face and cursed himself for being a fool.
He needed a woman, yes, but a whore. Not this woman. Not in that way. She was willing to teach him her language, a crucial skill if he were to control these lands without bloodshed. He needed Josselyn ap Carreg Du. No matter her reasons for teaching him, he could not risk frightening her away. And that meant steeling himself against her charms. Her considerable charms.
Beneath his fingers her pulse raced. Her skin was smooth and warm. It would be that way everywhere—
Bloody hell! He could not allow himself to think about that!
“’Twas not my intent to insult you, Josselyn. You need not run away. I won’t hurt you.” He released her hand, but kept his eyes locked with hers.
She stepped back a pace, breathing hard, he noticed. Her chest rose and fell against the shawl crisscrossed over her dress and tucked at her waist. Her breasts were not large, but neither were they small—
He grimaced inside. He had to cease looking at her in that way. He had to find another woman to appease his lusty appetites.
“I’m not running away,” she snapped. “I have other responsibilities, that’s all. You’ve learned enough for one day.” She bit her lower lip a moment then said, “Good-bye.”
“Wait.” He caught the edge of her cloak. “When will you return?”
She tugged the cloak free. “On the morrow, perhaps. Or the next day.”
She turned to leave, but he stopped her with another question. “Can you find me a cook? Someone who can bake good bread?
Da bara?”
“
Bara da,”
she corrected. She studied him in silence.
“Perhaps there is a woman who might agree. But for baking only,” she added. “I will supply you with no whores. Those you will have to procure without my aid.”
Rand grinned and nodded. “Agreed. Until tomorrow then. And Josselyn,” he added. “You have my thanks.”
You have my thanks
.
Josselyn stormed all the way home, irritated beyond all reason by that simple statement.
You have my thanks
.
It was not his words that angered her, though, but her reaction to them. She’d smiled at him—not in a calculated effort to lull him into complacency, but in honest response. A stupid, exceedingly foolish response.
She paused now at the river ford and looked back along the woodland track, but she could see no sign of Rosecliffe or the Englishman who would be lord there. What on earth was wrong with her? The whole day she’d been fighting a perverse reaction to him. She was behaving as if she’d never seen a comely man before.
Unfortunately, she never had seen one who attracted her so powerfully as did this one.
J
osselyn did not make the trek to Rosecliffe the next day. Her uncle Clyde questioned her about what she’d seen and heard, about the Englishman, Fitz Hugh, and the parchment Sir Lovell carried everywhere. Dewey and the others listened too, but once done, she was dismissed while they debated what action they should take regarding this latest wave of English invaders.
She debated also what she should do, but it was not warfare that consumed her. She had an idea, but wasn’t certain how best to achieve her aim, so she went looking for Rhonwen.
She found her in the kitchen. “Is your mother a skilled cook?”
The skinny little girl was playing with a half-grown pup from Uncle Clyde’s favorite hunting hound. “I s’pose,” she answered slowly. “But I don’t want to go back to her. She came yesterday, but I told her to go away.” Her pointed chin jutted out defiantly. “I won’t go back. You can’t make me.”
It tore at Josselyn’s heart to see the child’s animosity toward her only parent. “I will not send you back to her if you do not wish to go.”
“Then why should you care if she’s a good cook?”
“The English need a cook.”
Rhonwen’s face screwed up in a frown. “Why d’you want to help those evil English? Let them starve. Maybe then they’ll go back to their own country,” she finished heatedly.
“It’s not them I want to help, Rhonwen. It’s your mother. Come here. Let me fix your hair.”
Though the child hesitated, she finally crossed over to her, as Josselyn knew she would. Rhonwen was a brave little girl, but also a frightened one. She kept herself a little apart from everyone, but it seemed she liked to have her hair brushed. Now she seated herself before Josselyn and submitted to the long strokes of the horn comb.
“Your mother has lost her way since your father died. She needs a little push, something to do with her life.”
“She has us—She
had
us. There was plenty for her to do with me and Cordula and Davit. Only she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t even take care of her own children.”
The quiver in Rhonwen’s voice was painful to hear. On impulse Josselyn wrapped her arms about the child and hugged her close. “I know you’re angry with her, Rhonwen. I’m angry at her too. But I want to help her to be a good mother again, and—”
“Then send her to those English soldiers!” Rhonwen cried, tearing out of Josselyn’s embrace. “Send her to them. Maybe they’ll kill her!” She stopped before the low-beamed kitchen doorway. “And if they do, I won’t be sad at all. I’ll be happy when she’s dead. I will!” Then she threw her skinny body against the door, flung it open, and dashed away.
“Rhonwen! Wait!” But it was too late. Josselyn watched from the open doorway as Rhonwen disappeared behind the woodshed, into the forest beyond.
She would be back, Josselyn reassured herself. The child would be back before dark, before the evening meal was over and the food cleared away. Meanwhile, she must approach Gladys and see whether this plan of hers had any merit.
“Cook for the English? Are you mad?” Gladys exclaimed when Josselyn found her. “They killed my Tomas. Mayhap one of this very group did the foul deed. Cook for them? Never! I hate the English,” she finished vehemently.
At least the woman was not drunk, Josselyn decided. But that was more likely due to lack of access to strong spirits than to any higher motive. The mean cottage was still a shambles, and the woman positively stank.
Josselyn planted her fists on her hips. “You hate the English? Well, your daughter hates you. What do you plan to do about that?”
It was shocking how swiftly the fire went out of the woman. Her whole body sagged, as if Josselyn had struck her a mortal blow. Rather than feel guilty, though, Josselyn pressed her advantage. “’Tis well past time for you to rise above your own misery, Gladys. Your children need their mother to look after them.”
“But Rhonwen hates me.” A tear spilled past the woman’s bloodshot eyes. “What good will it do—”
“She says she hates you, but it’s only because she needs you and you’ve failed her. How else is she to react? But you can earn her respect again. Help me fight the English.”
“Fight them? But …” Gladys wiped her eyes with the back of her wrist. “Do you mean for me to poison them?”
Feeling the first glimmer of hope, Josselyn grinned. “At some point it may well come to that. For now, however, I want to earn their trust. We shall not rout them right away. They are too many. But if they continue to construct this castle and they begin to trust a few of us, the day will come when we can attack them from inside their own defenses. Once we drive them out of their fortress, they will not be able to take it back from us.”
Josselyn leaned forward earnestly. “Right now they need a cook, someone who can make better bread than this.” She fished in her pocket and tossed a piece of the awful stuff to Gladys.
Gladys caught it and sniffed. “’Tis rye flour, and stale.”
“’Twas no better on the day it was baked.”
“Have they built any ovens?”
“Just one. But they’re to begin the kitchen building directly. You know how men are. They’ll do anything for the promise of tasty victuals. And they pay in coin.”
Gladys peered at her. “How d’you know all this?”
Josselyn straightened. “I’m teaching the English lord to speak our language. He pays me a silver denier every week.”
Their eyes met and held. Josselyn could see the thoughts whirling in Gladys’s head. “So I would not truly be helping the English. I would be spying on them—and getting paid by them for doing so.”
“That’s precisely right.”
“What if one of them should try to … You know … Make lewd advances?”
“I’ve already discussed that with their leader, Fitz Hugh. He promises to keep his men orderly and respectful.”
“And you believe him?”
“He has been true to his word so far,” Josselyn vowed. But she wondered, was it lewd the way his touch made her heart pound? Ruthlessly she quashed the very idea. “Will you do it?” she asked.
Gladys stared at her a long time. Finally she nodded. “Aye. But will you explain to Rhonwen? I don’t want her to hate me.”
Josselyn leaned forward and placed a reassuring hand on the other woman’s arm. “I shall. It may take some time, Gladys, but the day will come when you are reunited with your children.”
Gladys’s eyes welled once again with tears, and when she spoke, her voice was thick with emotion. “I’ve been a poor mother these past months. You were right to take the children away from me. But I want them back. I want them back. If I must fatten every one of those Englishmen to prove my worth, then so be it. When will you be wanting me to begin?”
“We’ll go there together, tomorrow,” Josselyn answered, relieved beyond measure. “Be ready at dawn, and make yourself presentable. No one wants a cook with filthy hands.” Especially Fitz Hugh, whom she’d noticed kept himself cleaner than most men did.
He would be even further in her debt after this, Josselyn gloated on her way back to her aunt and uncle’s house. Better yet, however, she would have someone else for support while she was in his camp, someone who was Welsh and a woman. For the sobering truth was, she did not entirely trust Randulf Fitz Hugh.
Nor did she entirely trust herself when she was around him.
The next day threatened rain. But it was not so cold, and Josselyn smelled spring on the air. The English workers were hard at their labor by the time she and Gladys arrived. Josselyn was amazed at the progress they’d already made. The walls for two wooden structures had been raised and a swarm of men now hurried to finish the roofs.
Likewise, the soft spot along the base of the wall that Sir Lovell had spoken of was already dug out. A road from the quarry area to the walls had been cleared with four carts pulled by double teams of oxen hard at work.
“Sweet Jesu, but they waste no time, do they?” Gladys muttered.
“I suspect their master is an ambitious man,” Josselyn answered.
“Aye, but we shall trip him up.”
“That we will. But do not say such things around here, even to me,” Josselyn cautioned. Searching for Fitz Hugh, she scanned the busy site that had so recently been an austere hillside, inhabited only by the thorny roses that gave it its name. To her surprise, she spied him near the
domen
, speaking with Newlin. She had seen Newlin but briefly the day she’d been here, and she’d wondered if he would leave his odd home for a more solitary locale. But here he was,
conversing with the enemy as easy as you please.
Feeling an unexpected spurt of jealousy, she hurried toward the incongruous pair.
“ … great beasts once roamed these hills. I’ve seen their bones—and felt their energy,” Newlin was saying when Josselyn and Gladys reached them. “Ah, Josselyn,” he said when one of his wandering eyes landed on her. “Do I smell fresh bread?”
Though Josselyn was not surprised by his astuteness, Gladys was. She came to a skidding halt and her startled gaze flitted from the strange-looking bard to the forbidding-looking Englishman. Before she could bolt, however, Josselyn grabbed her by the arm.
“You get ahead of us, Newlin. Sir Randulf, I bring you Gladys. She has agreed to bake and cook for you and your men.” She sent him a challenging look. “I told her you would pay her in coins, as you pay me, and also that you would ensure her safety, here and on the path to Carreg Du.”
His dark gaze landed only briefly on Josselyn before moving to Gladys. He gave the fidgeting woman a slight smile. “Welcome to Rosecliffe Castle. Whatever you need to make the kitchens functional, you shall have.”
Josselyn interpreted his French words for Gladys, and beneath her hand she felt the woman’s tension ease a bit. When Gladys whispered to her, she turned back to Fitz Hugh. “She wants to know how your present cook will feel about her presence here.”
He grimaced. “We have no real cook. On the journey here the man we hired to cook broke his arm. It became infected and we had to send him back with the ship.” He shrugged. “Anything you cook is bound to be better than Odo’s efforts. You need not worry that he will resent your presence here. Even he does not like the food he prepares.”
Gladys nodded when Josselyn explained his words. But she did not smile, and that made Josselyn a little nervous.
It was important that Gladys conceal her animosity toward these English.
She cleared her throat and addressed Fitz Hugh. “If you like, I’ll work with her today, just until she gets her bearings.”
“What of my Welsh instruction?”
“We can continue in the afternoon,” she suggested. “Where is your kitchen?
Dy cegin
?” she asked.
The kitchen and storeroom were the two buildings being completed. The oven had been constructed first, and though the roof was still open sky, Gladys and Josselyn decided to fire it up. As Fitz Hugh had predicted, Odo was glad to relinquish his duties. When Josselyn asked him to stay and help in the kitchen, however, he agreed.
“’Druther cart around ale and victuals than mud and rocks,” he said with a good-natured bob of his head.
“I will not have an Englishman in my kitchen,” Gladys muttered when Josselyn explained Odo’s presence.
“You will work with him and be happy to have him,” Josselyn hissed right back in Welsh. “If you cannot deceive
him
about your true reason for being here, how can you expect to deceive anyone else?”
Gladys worked her jaw back and forth a moment. “Very well, then. But how’m I to explain to him what he is to do?”
“Learn his language. It will only help our cause. Point, like this.
Blawd,”
she said, looking expectantly at Odo.
“Blawd,”
she repeated, patting a heavy sack.
“What? Oh, I see. Flour. That’s flour,” he repeated, beaming.
“You see?” Josselyn said to Gladys. “Their word for
blawd
is ‘flour.’ Learn it and remember.”
Gladys’s reluctance diminished as they set to their new task. She started Odo chopping vegetables and scaling a basketful of mackerel and whiting, while she and Josselyn began the lengthy process of making bread.
By midday a hearty fish stew simmered in a massive pot
in the brand-new hearth. A dozen fragrant loaves cooled on the kitchen table. Another dozen baked in the oven, and two dozen further sat rising before the hearth.
Josselyn, Gladys, and Odo were sweating profusely, for the day was mild and the kitchen warm. When Odo rang the dinner bell and the workers dropped their tools and hurried toward the kitchen, the two women shared a look of pride. One meal for nearly a hundred men was perhaps not so great a feat. Three meals a day for that many, day after day—now that would be an accomplishment. But Gladys was up to it; Josselyn was certain of it.
“My compliments to the cook,” Sir Lovell said, smiling and bowing to the older woman. There was no reason to translate that, Josselyn saw when Gladys smiled. Then realizing she had smiled at an Englishman, Gladys ducked her head and turned away.