Josselyn laughed. “He will outgrow all those flaws.”
“But I don’t love him!”
At once Josselyn sobered. “Yes. There is that.”
Across the hall Isolde’s father pushed the curtain aside and stepped out of his office. She looked up at him, and for once she regarded him, not as her father, but as her mother’s husband, a man that a strong, intelligent woman could love.
Though she and her father often clashed, the truth was, she wanted someone just like him. A man who was strong but also gentle. A man who was confident—arrogant, even—but fair-minded, as well. A man who was passionate, but tender.
Suddenly she was not afraid to confront him. She stood up while he continued to stare at her. “He may be stubborn,” she told her mother. “But I am more so.”
Truer words had never been spoken, Josselyn decided as she watched her firstborn child stride up to Rand. English arrogance and Welsh stubbornness had combined in Isolde to give her an utter fearlessness. It would take a very special sort of man to meet all the challenges the girl would present to her husband. Poor Mortimer Halyard certainly was not the right choice for her, nor were any of the several fellows who had made inquiries to Rand about her.
Josselyn fingered the ring of keys tied to her girdle. She wanted Isolde to choose a strong Welshman. Rand wanted to choose a mild Englishman. Somewhere between those two extremes was the right man for Isolde. Josselyn suspected, however, that Isolde would have to find him on her own.
Or he would have to find her.
“How many?” Rhys grunted as Linus fastened the gorget around his neck and shoulders.
“Sixteen knights in the tournament,” the oversized squire answered. “That means … that means …” Linus stared down at his hands. He was counting on his fingers, Rhys knew, struggling with the simple computations.
“Eight matches,” Gandy, his valet, said. “Then four. Then two.”
“Eight matches,” Linus repeated. “Then four. Then two.”
“Bless me, but this shed has an echo in it,” the quick-witted Gandy exclaimed.
“Leave the poor lad alone,” said Tillo, limping into the shed.
“The poor lad? If he’s a lad, I’m an infant.”
“You’re a dwarf, and an ill-tempered one at that,” Tillo snapped.
“And you’re a grumpy old cripple,” Gandy retorted.
Linus looked up from his fingers. “Be nice,” he rumbled in his deep, slow voice.
Rhys pulled his breastplate over his head. There were times, like now, when he regretted the motley group he’d somehow assembled. A foul-mouthed dwarf, saved from the stocks at
Pleshing. A giant, harnessed like a beast of burden, freed from the fields outside Cockermouth. As for Tillo, the old man had been hungry, and once fed, he’d refused to go away. Still, the odd trio was the closest thing Rhys had to a family. When other knights laughed at his strange, bedraggled entourage, he took great pains to defeat the boastful fools in the most humiliating manner possible.
Ignoring the bickering around him, he spoke to Tillo. “Is there news? You would not have returned so soon if there were not.”
“News, indeed,” Tillo said, hobbling over to a bench and lowering himself painfully onto it. “Word circulates that the coronation is planned in but a fortnight. All the great lords of the land have been called to attend.”
“All of them?” Rhys went very still. “The lords of the Welsh marches, as well?”
“’Tis what I am told. Young Henry wants them all there so that each of them may swear their allegiance to him. Me-thinks this boy king will hold his several kingdoms with a fist of iron: Pray God he will do better by the common folk than did that shiftless Stephen.”
“He will not do better by my people of Wales,” Rhys muttered. “A weak king allows his wayward barons to ride hard upon the land. A strong one will seek to solidify the gains they have made.” He thrust his hands into the thick leather gloves used for the joust, then reached for his helm. “If I am to move, I must do so now,” he continued more lowly to himself.
But Gandy had heard and the little man’s eyes danced with excitement. “So we go to Wales, to this Rosecliffe Castle you despise so much?”
Rhys drew out the long sword from the sheath Linus buckled around his hips and stared at its finely honed edge. “We go to Rosecliffe. But only after I grind every knight in this tournament beneath my heels.
“Every English knight,” he vowed.
ISOLDE WAS MISERABLE. SHE HAD HELD TO HER POSITION AND now she must suffer the consequences. But it was so hard—and so unfair!
Her father had given her two choices—both equally repugnant. Come to London and formally accept Mortimer Halyard’s offer. Or remain in Wales and thereby insult her future husband and begin her marriage all wrong.
Despite Isolde’s rages and pleading, her father would not relent. He was adamant that she wed the hapless Mortimer. He’d turned away three good matches already, he reminded her, good men of noble families whom she had disdained. He would not turn away young Halyard and his very powerful father. For the past three days Isolde and her father had barely spoken to one another. Even now she could not believe he would actually go so far as to force her to wed the man.
Her mother had kept apart from the discussion. Her only advice to Isolde had been that a woman, like a man, must stand by her convictions, no matter the consequences. And so Isolde intended to do.
“I will take up the veil before I agree to this,” she now declared as her father mounted his favorite steed. She crossed her arms and stared balefully at him. “I mean what I say, Father.”
He gazed down at her, a muscle ticking in his cheek. “’Tis obedience the church expects of its servants. If you cannot be obedient to your earthly father, ’tis unlikely you’ll be so to your heavenly one.”
So saying he turned and the party started forward. If it hadn’t been for her mother’s small, encouraging smile, Isolde might have burst into tears, for she hated this estrangement from her father.
Still, her heart remained heavy as she watched the gaiety of her family’s departure. Gwen and Josselyn rode their own palfreys, with young Elyssa riding before her nurse. Five knights, seven servants, six men-at-arms, and eight pack animals accompanied them, a considerable party for the month they would be gone. As one of the most powerful Marcher lords, however, her father would be expected to travel with a goodly number of retainers and to put on a handsome display.
Everyone remaining behind at Rosecliffe Castle envied them their grand adventure. Everyone but Osborn, Isolde amended. He was content to stay at home and maintain the peace, not that much effort was required in that vein. The English townsfolk revered her father and the Welsh ones respected him. As for her mother, everyone adored the Lady Josselyn, even the people of Carreg Du and Afon Bryn, the nearest Welsh towns. Except for the occasional petty grievance—mostly between English and Welsh—there was little enough peacekeeping to be done. Of late the greatest grievance, however, had been between father and daughter.
From her spot on the wall walk Isolde turned away from the view of the traveling party and leaned morosely against the solid stone crennels. Osborn shot her a knowing look.
“Having second thoughts, girl?”
Yes.
“No.”
“I see.”
“I am far happier remaining here to finish the chapel and then begin my next project in the great hall. A visit to London would be interesting,” she conceded. “But my father exacts too great a price.”
She did not expect Osborn to concur. He was her father’s oldest friend, and while they’d been known to disagree among themselves, she’d never once heard Osborn criticize his liege lord to another.
“’Tis hardly a sin to want your daughter safely wed,” he remarked after a moment.
“Did his father force him to wed a woman he did not want?
No,” she answered her own question. “He wed Mother, a most unlikely choice, wouldn’t you say?”
Osborn chuckled. “Unlikely on the surface, perhaps. But from their first meeting, it was clear they were destined for one another.”
That drew a great heaving sigh from the depths of Isolde’s chest. “That is precisely my point, Osborn. Don’t you see? What I want is to meet the man destined to be my husband.”
He leaned back against the wall beside her and studied her shrewdly. “Then you should have gone to London. The city will be crowded with noblemen attending the coronation. You’ll not meet anyone new here in the wilds of northern Wales.”
“But how could I go with him throwing me at Mortimer? My only hope is that his father will be so offended by my absence he breaks the contract—or that Mother can reason with Father.”
Again Osborn chuckled. “Josselyn will no doubt prevail. Have patience, Isolde. This paragon of a fellow you seek will eventually find you.”
“Humph,” she snorted. But she was somewhat reassured. She shot a last glance over her shoulder. The travelers had passed the town gate, and were nearing the
domen
, the burial tomb of forgotten ages. Beyond that lay the old forest road. “A whole month?” she said.
“A month, mayhap more. Sufficient time, I suspect, for you to make enough changes to Rosecliffe to infuriate your father.”
At that Isolde’s lips curved in a small grin. Osborn had always known how to cheer her up. “Yes. A month will provide me with ample time for that. I suppose I shall simply have to take my pleasures where I can.”
At the
domen
Rand paused. Newlin had not been much present of late, but he was here now, sitting atop the great stone slab as always. His voluminous green cloak settled around him in deep folds, disguising his deformed body and leaving only his grizzled head to identify him as a man. A very old man, Rand realized. Twenty years ago the bard had been an ancient creature. How old must he now be?
Rand flexed his hands, feeling the stiffness of age in his
own fingers. Perhaps it was as the Welsh folk believed. Newlin would outlive them all. If so, Rand hoped he gave the same sensible advice to Gavin and his heirs that he’d always given to Rand.
He waved the rest of the party on. They continued down the road, all except for Josselyn, who reined her palfrey beside his destrier.
“So. To London,” Newlin said.
“To London,” Rand echoed. “All of us, English and Welsh alike, pray that young Henry will do better by his people than Stephen did.”
The old bard shrugged one of his bent shoulders. “Like all who would lead, he will not please everyone who falls within his shadow.”
“Will he please us?” Josselyn asked.
Newlin smiled at her, a sweet smile that befitted a child more than such a gnarled and aged man. But Newlin was not like other men.
“Henry’s desires are much the same as your husband’s. Peace through strength, and prosperity for all.”
“Doesn’t everyone want that?” she asked.
“For the most part, yes. But one man’s peace—one man’s prosperity—they may be very unlike another’s.”
Rand’s fingers clenched around the reins. He did not notice the pain in his knuckles. “Unlike one another’s. Are you saying Henry’s reign will bring a renewal of the conflicts here along the Marches?”
Again the bard shrugged. “Perhaps. Perhaps, however, it is only a different approach that may continue the bounty and accord of these past several years.”
“What different approach? The people here have been—”
“Times change,” Josselyn put in, laying a hand on his arm. “We cannot know what the future will hold when Gavin becomes lord of Rosecliffe.”
“
If
he becomes lord of Rosecliffe,” Newlin said. The words were soft, with no hint of threat in them. But Rand stiffened in alarm, as did Josselyn.
“Is Gavin in danger?” She urged her mount nearer the flat-topped
domen
. “Is he safe?”
The bard smiled. “Do not alarm yourself, child. Gavin will
forge his own future. But as with your other children, that future may not be the same one you envision. Their choices may not be your choices.”
Josselyn’s tense posture eased. “Do you refer now to Isolde and her father’s foolish choice of a husband for her?” She shot Rand a sidelong look. He glowered back at her.
Newlin looked away, past them toward Rosecliffe Castle, resplendent on its hilltop site. It gleamed in the morning sun, impregnable and yet not intimidating. “Isolde will be mistress of her own fate. You have raised your children well. They must forge their own lives now. And you must let them.” Then he settled into himself, subsiding like a drained wineskin, seeming almost to shrink as he pulled his thoughts back into the recesses of his remarkable brain.
He would speak no more, Rand knew, so he turned his horse away from the
domen
, and with Josselyn at his side, they regained the road.
“Good advice, don’t you think?” Josselyn murmured.
“Perhaps,” Rand conceded after a long pause.
“So you will not press Isolde further on the matter of young Halyard? Perhaps we should send a rider back for her. I hate for her to miss this trip to London.”
He grunted. “You push too hard, woman.”
“Do I?” She guided her palfrey closer until her knee bumped his. “Rand,” she began in a cajoling tone.
“She stays where she is. She is too stubborn to suit any man and I want her to think on the error of her ways.”
“But what of this matter of her betrothal to Mortimer Halyard?”
He shifted in his saddle. It was bad enough to suspect he was wrong on that front. It was harder still to admit as much to his wife. “I may reconsider that idea,” he muttered at last. “But she still needs a husband.”
He was rewarded at once by her warm hand on his thigh. “You are so wonderful,” she said. “I hope Isolde can find a man as perfect as you.”
“Perfect?” he scoffed. “Hah!”
“You were perfect last night,” she murmured. “At least I thought so.”
Their eyes met and Rand felt a surge of desire for his wife.
Twenty years since first he’d laid eyes upon her. Twenty years that they’d raised a family, constructed a mighty fortress, and built a life he would trade for no other. Twenty years and he loved her better with every passing day—and desired her as fiercely as ever.
He covered her hand with his and leaned eagerly toward her. “I know a green bower. Very private,” he said. “We can rejoin the others later.”
Behind them Newlin smiled and rocked himself forward and back. There were changes ahead and they would not come easy. But come they would, and with them the chance for great joy—and for great sorrow.
It proved to be a long day for Isolde. Despite her best intentions to complete the chapel, which project she had abandoned of late, her heart was not in it. By mid-afternoon the doldrums had settled heavily upon her.
“I believe I shall go into the village,” she told Odo in the hall.
“Better tell Osborn—and take a maid with you,” he added.
She took a maid, but she did not tell Osborn, for she knew he would want to send two guards along, and she was not of a mind for that much company. Between her and Magda they could bring the daily basket of extra bread for distribution to several needy households. Besides, Magda was unmarried and near to her own age, and was sure to understand her dilemma.
As they crossed the moat and started down the road to the village, Isolde looked over at the young maid. “Tell me, Magda. Has your father selected a husband for you?”
The pleasantly rounded young woman shook her head. “I’m one of six girls and four boys. My father hasn’t the time for such arrangements as that. Besides,” she added, emboldened by her mistress’s frankness. “I’ve been walkin’ out with someone of late, and Da’ approves.” The maid shyly smiled. “’Tis plain your father loves you, miss. Is it so hard that he would pick a fine and wealthy husband for you?”
“I think I’m better able to make such a selection than he. Besides,” Isolde grimly added, “you haven’t seen Mortimer Halyard.”
Magda chuckled. “I take it he does not appeal to you?”
Isolde grimaced. “Not at all.”
“So. What do you want in a man?”
What, indeed? As they entered the village below the castle Isolde considered the question. “Young—or at least not old. And vigorous.”
“Handsome?”
“Well, that would be nice. But it isn’t essential. Rather, he should be manly, and fair-minded.”
“And tall?”
Isolde grinned. “I suppose.”
“With broad shoulders?” the girl pressed. “And a musician?”
Isolde laughed. “Are you describing your young man, Magda?”
The girl giggled and shook her head. “I was describing him.” She pointed at a man standing near the smithy’s shed.
Isolde paused and studied the fellow. She could see why he’d caught Magda’s eye, for he was tall and broad shouldered, the very image of manliness. His back was to them, yet she sensed from his posture that he was young and vigorous. And he had some sort of musical instrument slung across his back. Whether he was handsome and fair-minded, however, was anyone’s guess, as was the stranger’s identity.
Still, he was nothing like Mortimer Halyard, and for a moment Isolde let herself imagine a man like that taking her in his arms, sweeping her off her feet, and making her his own. That he was no lord, but rather an ordinary fellow, only made her fantasy more appealing. Her father wanted a title, property, and power in a son-in-law, whereas Isolde just wanted passion.