Rexanne Becnel (36 page)

“You can do it, Druce. You can beat that—”

“—old gray-beard Englishman.”

“His gray beard will not hurt his aim,” Arthur remarked to Rhys and Madoc. “And we are all at least part English.”

“Not Druce and Barris,” Isolde threw in. “They’re all Welsh.”

“So is Wynne.”

“So I am,” Wynne agreed with Bronwen and drew the little girl fondly to her side. “Rhys and Madoc, I think you should cease considering this a competition between the English and the Welsh. ’Tis but a contest between very good archers.”

Druce grinned up at her and plucked a resounding twang from the taut line of his longbow. “Aye, we are all but archers. But ’tis well known that the best archers are
Cymry
, and today I shall prove it to one and all.”

“Especially to Lord William?” Wynne asked with one raised brow.

Druce’s grin faded somewhat, but his cocky expression only displayed more determination. “Right you are, wise Seeress of Radnor. Tell me, can you foretell the outcome of this day’s work?”

Wynne met his dark gaze. That he would win the archery competition was more than a little likely. But whether he would win the prize he most desired—that was a future she could only guess at, and at this moment her guess was no.

“Here,” she said, not answering his question. “Take this packet of herbs and use them in your quest.”

“Will they make his aim truer?” Barris asked, wide-eyed.

Wynne glanced at him, surprised that Druce had not taken his brother into his confidence. At that precise moment Cleve joined their circle, drawing Wynne’s thoughts away from Barris. So the beast approached the bait. Even should he take it, however, would it truly do any good? Again, she feared the answer was no.

“Wynne’s concoction made my aim truer during our hunt at Offa’s Dyke,” Cleve said, watching her with his unsettling gaze. “Perhaps I should warn Lord William’s champion of the unfair advantage you have given Druce.”

Wynne thrust her chin forward, for she would not reveal even one of her softer emotions to him. But her fingers tightened together with the effort. “If Druce’s competitors are desirous of my skills, they have but to request my aid.”

He kept his eyes locked with hers. “If I were a competing archer, I would most assuredly seek out those extraordinary skills of yours.”

On the surface his words were courteous and correct. But Wynne knew he implied something far more intimate than the mere administering of some herbal remedy. Judging from Druce’s shrewd look, he, too, knew. Relief flooded her when Arthur stepped forward, commanding Cleve’s attention.

“ ’Tis good you will not test your aim against Druce,” The child stated in all seriousness. “He is the finest archer in all of Radnor Forest.”

“No one can best him,” Madoc boasted.

“No one,” Rhys echoed.

Druce stared boldly at Cleve. Wynne recognized the battle that raged within her childhood friend’s chest—the normal male need to best even his closest friend at sport was aggravated by his real need to best this particular man in the struggle for one special woman’s hand. To make matters worse, however, Druce had to conceal the true nature of his competition with Cleve, at least for a while longer.

Since Druce had taken possession of the herbs destined for Cleve’s wine cup, Wynne thought it best to lighten the conversation. “I for one shall toast Druce’s success when he wins Lord William’s coin. Will you do the same?” She posed the question to Cleve.

He grinned at Druce, then turned the force of his smile on Wynne, causing her to swallow hard. “May the best man win,” he replied.

Seeing his chance, Druce put a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Go refill our cups, Arthur. Here.” He signaled Rhys and Madoc to help. “If you would be knights someday, first you must learn to serve. Am I not right, Sir Cleve?”

“Most assuredly. Here’s my cup.”

Barris and Druce added their cups, and the three boys scurried off at once. When Cleve’s eyes returned most disconcertingly to her, however, Wynne shifted uneasily. “I think I shall take the girls to examine the weaver’s new loom. ’Tis a most cunning assemblage and produces a very fine cloth.”

“But, Wynne,” Isolde protested. “I want to see Druce win—”

“And so you shall,” Wynne promised. “But until the competition begins, he does not need to be distracted by our presence.”

“ ’Tis no distraction,” Druce countered, sending Wynne a meaningful look.

“Oh, but I’m sure it must be,” she insisted, a grim smile pasted firmly on her face. “Come along, girls, I promise we shall not miss seeing Druce compete.”

All three men’s eyes followed Wynne’s departure. Barris was the first to speak, prefacing his words with an excessively heavy sigh. “She does not notice me. No matter what I do, she sees me only as a boy. I’m but a year younger than she.”

Druce took up the ploy at once. “I have given up on her myself. Perhaps you will have better luck, though. And don’t forget, we have that lengthy journey back to Radnor. Who knows what may happen? And she shall need comforting, after all.”

“I thought you would leap to fill that void,” Barris continued. He glanced at Cleve’s darkening face. “What say you, Cleve? You seemed well enough taken with her on the journey here. Should I vie against my brother for the fair Wynne’s attentions? Or shall she rebuff me as well?”

“I would hardly say she rebuffed me,” Druce stated. When the three boys ran up, red wine sloshing from the pewter mugs, he took two of the mugs. “Where’s a rag to wipe these? And another thing, Barris, she did not precisely rebuff Cleve either.”

“What do you mean?” Cleve challenged to Druce’s turned back. “Do you imply some impropriety?”

Druce looked over his shoulder at Cleve, an innocent expression firmly in place. “No, no. You mistake my meaning. Here.” He turned and handed Cleve a cup. “Take your wine. What I meant was that you knew your betrothed awaited you in England. Your flirtation with Wynne was mild, not of a nature even to require a rebuff. Was it?” he added, watching Cleve over the rim of his own upturned mug.

Cleve’s hesitation, followed by his full quaffing of the contents of the cup, described to Druce better than words the struggles that tore at the man.

“Our Wynne has not yet found the man whom she will gift with her love—as well as with all her other lovely charms.” he added with a grin. “Who knows, Barris.

Maybe it shall be you. By the by, Cleve, how do you find the sweet maid to whom you shall be wed?”

“She is …” Cleve shrugged, clearly distracted by either guilt or worry. Or both, Druce hoped, warming to this task of goading Edeline’s betrothed. Though he liked Cleve very well, when it came to Edeline—and Wynne as well—they stood on opposing sides of a drawn line.

“She is what?” Barris prodded.

Cleve frowned. “She is fair and well-mannered. But she is … she is very young.”

“Most men find that commendable,” Druce pressed on. “She may bear you many sons.”

“ ’Tis not precisely her age,” Cleve replied. “Wynne is nearly as young. ’Tis more, I don’t know, something in her bearing.” He sat down, rather abruptly, on a three-legged stool. “Arthur, lad. Will you fetch me another cup of wine?”

By the time Arthur returned, it was clear to Druce that Wynne’s herbs were taking effect. He gave Barris a quelling stare when that one began to look concerned. This was Druce’s chance to question Cleve, and he did not mean to lose the opportunity.

“Wynne is an unusual woman,” Druce prompted.

“Oh, aye,” Barris added. “The lads at home do trail after her as if she were some sweet dessert that they fain would take a taste of.”

“Who?” Cleve demanded. “Say their names and I’ll teach them to keep their distance from her.”

Druce grinned at the slurred sound of Cleve’s words. “You won’t be there to prevent it,” he reminded the befuddled man. “You will be well married to Edeline, remember? While Wynne is returning to Wales.”

“I will not let her leave me,” Cleve stood up, then would have toppled over had Barris not propped him up.

“Are you going to keep Wynne here?” Arthur asked, an uncertain expression on his young face.

Cleve stared down at the boy, and Druce held his breath. He hadn’t meant to alarm the children by his questioning of Cleve. But Cleve seemed to retain some remnants of his wits, for he focused on Arthur and gave him a reassuring smile.

“I wish all of you could stay, my lad. You and Wynne and all the children. Even Druce and—” His legs went out on him, and Barris laughed out loud.

“Soused! He’s soused. Who would have thought him unable to hold his drink?” He lowered Cleve’s limp form to the ground and leaned him against a cart wheel. “Now what shall we do with him?”

“It was not just wine he drank,” Druce whispered to Barris. “But do not speak of it. Just help me move him to some quiet place.”

As the three boys watched round-eyed, Druce and the curious Barris lifted Cleve between them and, with one of his arms draped around each of their shoulders, walked him—dragged him was a more accurate description—to a shaded spot beneath an ancient oak. There they laid him to sleep off the ill effects of Wynne’s concoction.

As Druce returned to the archery field, he was buoyed up by an enormous sense of optimism. The betrothal would not be announced, not when both parties were equally indisposed. He would prove his merit before Lord William’s eyes. Then tomorrow Wynne would work things out with Cleve.

That was the only sticking point in his plan. Wynne must work things out with Cleve.

T
RULY DRUCE DID EXPECT
miracles from her, Wynne fumed as she crossed the yard, making her way through the deep twilight to the lean-to barracks against the castle’s outer wall. First she dosed Cleve FitzWarin with enough of her sleeping potion to topple a destrier. Now she was to ease his pounding head and roiling stomach with an altogether different tonic. Not that she wasn’t up to the task. That was no real feat. Rather she was frustrated by the futility of it all. Plus, she dreaded being alone with Cleve. Somehow he always managed to turn such circumstances to his advantage.

But not tonight, she vowed as she slowed near the barracks’ entrance. She would perform her task and leave. Besides, what did Druce think, that Cleve would renounce his well-dowered bride in favor of a Welsh maiden blessed with neither title nor riches? She shook her head in disgust. Truly Druce was too besotted with love to be in the least logical about the situation.

Still, she could not begrudge Druce his desperate need to try something—anything—to achieve his heart’s aim. After all, Edeline returned his love. If Cleve only returned
her
love, Wynne, too, would struggle against all obstacles in order to win him. But what Cleve felt for her was not love, it was lust. And for her that simply was not enough.

A heavy weight settled in her chest as she approached the barracks where the unmarried knights and foot soldiers lodged. Dark shapes spread about in random fashion attested to the potency of Lord William’s free-flowing ales and wines this day. Men slept where they’d fallen, crumpled into heaps or stretched out in vociferous slumber. The discordant harmony of their snoring was almost funny. Almost.

Wynne halted before the doorway, surveying the slumped and snoring form of a man half in and half out of the building. How was she to find Cleve among all this excess of drunken male forms?

“He is here,” a young voice called, answering Wynne’s wordless query.

“Arthur? What in heaven’s name—”

“Here, Wynne. I found him.”

Wynne stepped over the oblivious drunk in the door, and once her eyes had adjusted to the dark interior, she spied Arthur. “You should not be here,” she whispered as she hurried toward him and the hulking shadow she assumed was Cleve.

“His head is hurting real bad,” Arthur replied, unmindful of her scolding words, and his worried tone touched Wynne’s heart. Arthur suffered for his idol now. Later it would only be worse.

“I shall mend his aching head,” Wynne said, giving Arthur a reassuring hug. She started to urge him away from this place, but then thought better of it. With Arthur there, Cleve would scarcely try anything untoward. Not that he was likely to, given the aftereffects he was now suffering. Still, there was no sense taking any chances.

”Here, my sweet lad, hold my purse for me,” she instructed the child. Then she turned her attentions toward Cleve. “Are you able to stomach a remedy?”

He looked up slowly from his place on a sturdy bench, his head hanging low between his hands. Had ever a man appeared so wretched? She had to physically restrain herself from reaching out to stroke his face.

“You had a hand in this,” he stated in a low, thick voice.

Wynne heard Arthur’s quick gasp of comprehension and immediately regretted allowing him to linger here. What would he think of her now? This was the third time she’d turned her special knowledge against the boy’s idol.

“ ’Twas for Edeline that I did it,” she retorted defensively. “The girl would delay the betrothal announcement.”

Although Arthur’s stiff posture eased at that, Cleve’s did not. “ ’Twas a useless gesture,” he grunted. Then his eyes narrowed, and he watched her closely. “Did you truly do it for her? Or was it for yourself?”

Wynne knew the honest answer to that question, but not for the world would she reveal as much to him. Her love for him would forever remain her secret.

“Why must you marry Edeline?” Arthur piped up. “I think you should marry—”

But Wynne interrupted the child before he could put into words her own thought. “I would have a favor of you, Cleve. A promise,” she said.

“You poison me, then request a favor?” he asked sarcastically, glaring at her through bleary eyes.

“Not for me,” she retorted tensely. She swallowed hard and willed herself to remain calm. “For Rhys and Madoc. Will you keep a watch over them? Safeguard them? I know now that Lord William loves them well. But his family … well, they will surely resent them, and I … I …” she trailed off.

“No harm shall come to them, Wynne.” He pushed himself upright and faced her in the shadowy barracks. “I promise you that. But if you would only reconsider—”