The old man wore a cloak of purple with silver braid on the hood, and silver jewels on his hand, as if he were a mystic. How would he fare with their own mystic, Newlin? she wondered.
She signaled the same page. “Send one of the guards to invite Newlin to join us, if he is so inclined.”
“Newlin?” Odo and Osborn said in tandem.
She ignored them, for her attention now turned to the fourth minstrel. The one with the bold eyes, who had carried a gittern and a little spotted dog with a Welsh name. Did she know him? she wondered again, for there was something familiar about him. Perhaps he hailed from Carreg Du or Afon Bryn. Or she might have seen him performing at a market or a fair.
But no, she was certain she would have remembered those wide shoulders. She squinted, trying to make out his features. His hair was dark, very nearly black, as was the heavy beard that covered his face. Was he young or old? It was hard to tell, but his bearing was youthful and his chest and shoulders were wide, not with fat, she suspected, but with muscles.
Without warning a row erupted among the dogs, and as she watched, the man sprang up from the bench, waded into the battling hounds, and scooped up his scrappy little dog. Once again Isolde felt some flicker of recognition. Reevius was his name. Reevius who played the gittern and took good care of his dog.
For a penny or two and an extra portion of sweets, he could surely be persuaded to give her music lessons. It would be pleasant to surprise her parents with a new skill upon a new instrument.
At the back of the hall Rhys stared slowly around the great hall of Rosecliffe. He was here. His plan was set into motion. Before the FitzHughs returned from the coronation, he would be in control of Rosecliffe Castle. It was a stroke of good fortune that Isolde, daughter of Randulf FitzHugh and the traitorous Josselyn ap Carreg Du, remained behind, for she would make an excellent hostage.
He quickly located her at the high table. In truth, she’d drawn his eye from the first moment she entered the hall. That she’d grown was no surprise, given the ten years since last he’d laid eyes upon her. But again he was struck by her changed appearance. He hadn’t thought of her save as a nasty little brat. Though she was taller and more womanly, she was probably still nasty, and most certainly still a brat.
But she was also a beauty.
He squinted, taking in every aspect of her appearance, searching for a flaw. He found none. Still, beauty sat merely
upon the surface of a woman. What counted with him was the content of the soul, virtues such as honesty and loyalty. Given her parentage, on the inside she could only be ugly and foul. The vile offspring of a vile people.
But she was his key to Rosecliffe.
Turning his gaze deliberately away from her, he ate, refilling his trencher twice. But all the while he scanned the hall with a careful, analytical eye. He’d counted only four knights, besides the aging captain of the guard, and no more than a dozen men-at-arms. Enough men to repel attackers come from without the walls, but woefully inadequate to protect against an enemy from within. Especially an unknown enemy.
A boy lit the torchères nearest them and Rhys hunched farther over his meal. She was staring at them. He could feel her eyes upon him. Did she recognize him? She hadn’t seemed to yesterday in the village. Could she not see in him the same lanky lad who’d taken her hostage when she was but a young girl?
He lifted his head, chewing, and glanced sidelong at her. She stared with a pleased and eager expression on her heart-shaped face. No, she did not know him.
He scratched his beard then ruffled his hair, which he’d let grow wild and long. Once he took control of Rosecliffe—once he held her hostage to her father’s and uncle’s acceptable behavior—she would know him then. He would shave his face and cut his hair and shed the trappings of his minstrel disguise. Then she would know Rhys ap Owain. Then she would tremble with fear.
A warning growl should have alerted him but he was immersed in his dark and vengeful thoughts. Then a full-scale battle erupted among the dogs, with Cidu in the midst of it. He sprang up and in a moment snatched the feisty mutt from a pair of hounds each three times his size. He shoved one oversized hound back with his foot, and stared the other one down.
“Idiot animal,” he muttered at Cidu as he placed the unrepentant cur on the bench beside him.
“No more idiot than his master,” old Tillo muttered. “To attack a stronger enemy in his own home …”
“Methinks there is a poetic justice in it,” Gandy put in.
“The small—the physically weak—are ever at the mercy of those bigger and stronger than they. But if they are clever, if they develop and use their superior minds, they can best their larger brethren.”
“But sometimes you are glad that I’m your larger brethren,” Linus rumbled. “This is good,” he added, pointing at the food with his knife. He had two trenchers before him and showed no sign of slowing down on his consumption of food.
Gandy snorted. “Even an ass has its uses.”
Suddenly the little fellow let out a yelp as he was enveloped in a huge hug that lifted him off the bench and practically smothered him in Linus’s blue tunic. “You like to act mean, Gandy. But I know you love me.”
“Let me down, you big oaf. You mountain of lard!” Gandy’s feet flailed about, nearly oversetting his cup of ale. “You gargantuan imbecile!”
“Say please,” Linus said, grinning down at the tiny head caught in the crook of his massive arm.
“Please. Please!” Gandy screamed.
“All right.” But Linus pressed a fat kiss onto Gandy’s brow before letting him go. And all the while his mouth turned up in an enormous smile. His entire being seemed to smile.
Gandy staggered backward on the bench, then leaped down, landing on one of the sulking hounds still eyeing Cidu. The hound growled then snapped, but the little man growled right back, knotting his fist threateningly. When the hound backed off, Rhys chuckled. Nothing Gandy could say or do seemed to alienate Linus. The slow-witted giant’s loyalty to the ill-tempered dwarf, and to everyone he trusted, was unshakable.
By the same token, despite his insulting manner and antagonistic personality, Gandy was equally loyal to Linus. It showed in small ways, in little things easy to overlook. Though not of the same family, they were nevertheless like brothers, Rhys realized—not that he himself had any personal knowledge of brotherhood, nor of any aspect of family life.
His easy humor fled. Like his friends, he had never known the comfort of a family. He had no memory of his mother, and his father had been killed twenty years ago. His aunt had lasted another few years, but she’d been mad, and it had fallen to him, a mere child, to care for her.
No, he’d never known what it was like to be part of a real family. The FitzHughs had destroyed any chance of that.
He looked back at the head table, at FitzHugh’s daughter, symbol of betrayal and dishonesty and all the misery visited upon him by her family. She’d never known hunger or hardship or the paralyzing fear of loneliness. She’d grown up cossetted and loved by her parents and the rest of her cursed family. Well, it would be his pleasure to separate her from her family, and from their ill-gotten gains. To overwhelm them all with some portion of the pain and loss he’d suffered at their hands.
She still stared down at him from her position at the high table. She was a pretty little bauble, a bored princess in a kingdom stolen from his people.
But I will end your boredom, Isolde FitzHugh. I will end it, he vowed. Although it will not be the ending you seek.
He shoved his trencher away and pushed up from the table. “Time for the entertainments,” he said to his friends. “Time to show the mistress of Rosecliffe our gratitude.”
ISOLDE CAUGHT HER BREATH WHEN THE MAN REEVIUS STOOD. What was it about his person that drew her interest so? Though minstrels were not an everyday occurrence at Rosecliffe Castle, they were hardly rare. She inevitably enjoyed their performances, no matter their level of talent. But tonight her anticipation ran higher than it ever had.
No doubt it was due to her role as mistress of the castle.
She grimaced and let her eyes scan the hall. It would be difficult to relinquish so heady a role. She would have no choice, however, once her parents returned. Perhaps she should give the matter of marriage more serious consideration—but not to Mortimer. The fact remained, however, that only through marriage would she ever be mistress of a home of her own.
For now, though, she did not want to think about that. The minstrels had taken up their instruments, they approached the high table, and she clapped her hands in delight. Before the evening ended she would force Osborn to admit she’d been right to grant them entrance.
The little dog scampered up first, barking. At once the castle hounds sprang up, but the pages caught their collars and dragged them from the hall.
As if celebrating his triumph over the hounds, the little dog suddenly made a complete back flip.
Everyone shouted with approval.
He did it again, then began to run in dizzying circles, chasing his own tail. Then he flipped backward again, and flopped
down on his stomach, with all four legs extended. As laughter and applause exploded, the canny creature stared about, his pink tongue hanging as he grinned in dog delight.
Isolde clapped as vigorously as did the others, enchanted with the little animal. Meanwhile the four minstrels made a semicircle behind the dog. With practiced ease they began to play a gentle melody. Holding a small harp, the dwarf sang first.
You welcome us with victuals rare,
We pay our debt with song and wit.
The body needs one sort of fare.
The mind and soul a rarer bit.
The old man in his purple robes sang next, his voice high and thin.
From every place that is, we’ve come.
To every other we shall go.
—But for this ev’ning we shall hum,
And mayhap play a song you know.
Then the bearded man stepped forward. He strummed his gittern with the ease of long acquaintance, and stared straight at Isolde.
Unto a fortress on a hill
The road has drawn us far and long.
The seeds of truth are what we till
In many ways, but first in song.
His voice was strong and deep, a good contrast to the dwarf’s strange sound and the old man’s silver trill. He was strong and deep, Isolde decided, her eyes captured by his bold stare.
It was impertinent, the way he looked at her, yet it ignited a little flame deep in her stomach. Isolde forced herself to break the hold of his eyes, but it was only to examine the rest of his person. He was tall and straight, with good teeth and
all his hair. Too much hair, she thought. What did he look like beneath that wild hair and bushy beard?
Suddenly he flew up into the air. She gasped, for she’d not noticed the giant come up behind him. In a moment he was seated on the giant’s shoulders. The dwarf then ran straight at the giant who caught him and flung him high. Somehow he landed on Reevius’s shoulders, standing proudly with his skinny little arms stretched wide. The dog followed in the same manner, tossed high and caught by the dwarf. Finally, the old man stepped onto the giant’s outstretched palms and the giant raised him up. The gray-haired ancient stood there as easily as if on solid ground.
Everyone in the hall clapped and shouted, and pounded their cups upon the tables. But they silenced when the giant began to recite, unaccompanied.
The water cools, the fire burns,
Earth sits below; the sky above.
The days go by, the seasons turn,
From birth to death, in war and love.
Isolde listened and heard in their song more than merely words. Some minstrels sang of history. Others made pretty poetry with stories of myths and lovers and deathbed vows. But a few used their songs to address deeper subjects: politics, the church, the conditions of mankind.
She leaned forward eagerly, for she was certain this odd band was from the latter group. That meant interesting information from places far away, and fiery opinions about that information.
“You are most welcome to Rosecliffe, friends,” she said. “Pray entertain our people this evening, then sleep you well among us and eat your fill once more, come the dawn.”
The bearded fellow responded. “I hold Gandy above me, and he holds little Cidu. I perch upon Linus, who holds Tillo in his hands. I am Reevius, and we are but poor balladeers and tumblers who travel far and wide. We thank you for your welcome and bid you all to fill your cups, for it is our pleasure to entertain you.” Though he spoke to the entire company in
the great hall, his midnight-dark eyes remained once more locked with hers.
Again Isolde felt that same odd reaction in her belly. A tickling sort of quiver. A hot, coiling knot. She sat back, nodding her approval, a little relieved when he finally looked away. But even as the four minstrels tumbled and sang and fought a mock battle in which old Tillo and little Gandy defeated the two larger men, to the great satisfaction of the audience—even then Isolde was conscious of a strange new awareness inside her.
A new sort of liveliness had infected her. The daily humdrum had peeled away to reveal a new excitement. She felt it. Did everyone else?
She glanced around her. Odo was grinning, thumping his fist in time with the giant’s steady drumming. Osborn sprawled back in his chair, his hands laced across his stomach, and his face relaxed in a smile. Whatever concerns he’d felt about the minstrels had obviously faded.
A great whoop from the onlookers jerked her eyes back to the performers. Little Gandy chased Cidu back and forth between Linus’s tree-trunk legs. The giant lifted one foot, then the other, nearly squashing the darting pair. Meanwhile Tillo and Reevius played a raucous tune in a speeding tempo that incited everyone in the hall. The tambourine pounded. The bells chimed, and the pipe filled the air with piercing notes.
Then in a crescendo Gandy caught Cidu, just as Linus collapsed on top of them both. The onlookers gasped in horror.
“Oh, no!”
“Get him off the poor lad!”
“They’ll be crushed!”
Everyone leaped to their feet craning to see the terrible damage that had surely been done to the tiny man and his pet. Isolde and Odo were among them, as was Osborn, though he looked less concerned than they.
“’Tis a trick,” he whispered to Isolde. “No one is hurt.”
But a loud wail made a lie of his words, and she gasped anew.
“Oh, no. Oh, no!” the giant rumbled from his place still flat on the floor. “I’ve killed them. I’ve killed them!” Reevius and Tillo ran over to see.
“Fetch the healer from the village!” Isolde cried, horrified.
Suddenly the dog crawled out of Linus’s sleeve. He gave himself a good shake, barked, and began chasing his tail like before. Then Gandy crawled out of the other sleeve and clambered up onto the giant’s broad back.
“Fetch the healer!” he echoed Isolde’s words. “For I fear we’ve squashed poor Linus!”
Laughter erupted. Hands clapped, feet stomped, and mugs thumped the tables in deafening approval. Isolde was embarrassed by her gullibility, but charmed, nonetheless, by the clever act the minstrels had put on.
“You see?” she said to Osborn as she clapped along with all the others. “I was right to invite them in. Mother and Father will be sorry to have missed this night’s entertainments.” To Odo she said, “Fetch a silver denier from the offices. They deserve that much, I think.”
It was a measure of Odo’s enjoyment that he did not argue over her generosity. As he left Osborn stood. “I suppose it is past time when I must see to the guards and make my final rounds.”
“Yes, do,” Isolde murmured, only halfway listening as she watched the winded foursome gulp fresh ale. “I shall see to the hall. Good night.”
But Isolde had more on her mind than overseeing the settling down of the hall. The maids cleared away the goblets and collected food scraps to distribute to the hounds. The pages wiped down the tables and stacked them along the walls. Isolde oversaw their labors, but all the while she watched Reevius with a surreptitious gaze.
“Go to the man Reevius, the one with the beard,” she told a passing lad. “Bid him approach me, for I have a matter to discuss with him. Wait. Oh, never mind,” she amended. “I’ll do it.” She owed the minstrels her compliments. There was no need to command their presence before her as if she were some exalted personage.
But as she made a circuit of the hall, giving instructions here and there, and bidding everyone a good-night, she was conscious of Reevius’s eyes following her. Odo brought her the denier and she gripped it tightly in her damp palm. She was behaving like a silly child, she scolded herself. Like Gwen
might. He was just a traveling minstrel—an impudent, bold-eyed one, to be sure, but a minstrel all the same—and beholden to her for his supper.
She raked the coals under a three-legged cauldron so that water in it would keep warm over the banked fire. Then she lifted her chin, turned, and approached the minstrels. Their conversation ended at her approach.
“My thanks, kind sirs,” she began. “It has been many months since we have been so well entertained.” She extended her open hand with the silver denier upon it. “Please accept this token of our appreciation.”
Gandy grinned and bounced forward, the bell on his cap jingling. “Thank you, milady. Your generosity is much appreciated. I’m certain we can find a good use for this,” he finished, snatching the coin and making one of his flourishing bows.
“You have more than earned it.” She forced herself to look at the other minstrels, then drew a deep breath. “But I have a favor I would ask of you.” She said this last to Reevius, staring at him and struck again by the oddest sense of familiarity. Where had she seen him before?
“A favor?” he finally echoed in a voice as dark and deep as his eyes.
“Yes.” Her mouth went suddenly dry and she licked her lips. Why did this itinerant musician cause her to behave like such a goose? “I have long wished to learn how to play the gittern.”
He nodded. “Gandy told me as much.” Between his long hair, his heavy beard, and the failing light from the torchères, she could fathom nothing in his expression. “Do you play other instruments?” he asked.
“Yes. The lute, though not so well as Gandy. And also the pipe, but just a little.”
“If you teach her to play the gittern,” Gandy quipped, slanting his eyes at her, “she will not want our talents here when next we pass this way.”
Isolde laughed. “’Tis highly unlikely I could become that proficient. Even were that to happen, however, I would still desire that you return to Rosecliffe. My family would enjoy your entertainments so much.”
“Would they?” Reevius asked. “Where are they now?”
“Gone to London, to attend the coronation of the new king, Henry.”
His lips curved in a smile that showed in spite of his beard. “The coronation of England’s new boy king. Now there’s an entertainment, eh, Tillo?”
“Oh, aye,” the purple-robed old man said. “But ’tis too far a distance for these old legs to travel.”
“I will carry you,” Linus offered.
“I am content where we are,” Reevius stated, his gaze resting upon Isolde. “So, you wish me to give you instruction on the gittern.”
She nodded. “If you are so inclined. I will pay you,” she added.
“Will you?”
She nodded very slowly. “Of course.”
He nodded also. “Very well, then. We can begin now.”
“Now?” Isolde felt a flutter in her stomach. “Yes, I would like that, if it is not too late.”
“Just a few minutes to teach you how to hold the instrument. Besides, musical instruction requires concentration. No distractions. In such a busy hall, night is often the quietest time.” He glanced at his comrades behind him. “Seek you your beds. I shall join you later.”
Like a lord dismissing his underlings, Isolde thought. He was neither rude, nor unkind, but the man had an air of authority sore at odds with his lowly station in life.
“Good night, then,” Tillo said, shuffling away.
“Good night,” the dwarf and the giant chorused as they departed.
Only the little dog Cidu remained, and he eyed Isolde as if to say “What are you up to with my master?”
In truth, she did not know.
Reevius picked up the gittern and strummed across the strings. “Where shall we begin?” He sang the words. “First we need a chair,” he continued, one chord higher. “Then we need another, for the lady fair.”