“He?”
“Reevius.”
“Ah, yes. He calls himself Reevius.”
“There are three others,” she continued, twisting her fingers nervously. “Gandy and Linus and Tillo.”
“Tillo,” the bard echoed. “Another minstrel of surprising talents.”
Isolde cocked her head. “What special talent does Tillo have?”
But Newlin seemed disinclined to answer. He sat on the bench and stared steadily at the minstrels—or at least that was the direction one of his eyes stared. Then he began to sway back and forth ever so slightly, and she knew from experience that he was unlikely to say any more on that subject.
In truth, Isolde was more than content to end their conversation. Newlin was too perceptive. She often feared he could read a person’s thoughts. That would be bad enough under
normal circumstances, but today her thoughts were far too unchaste for him to know. For anyone to know.
Except, perhaps, for Reevius.
By the rood! She had made the transition from complete innocence regarding men to urgent curiosity about one in particular awfully fast.
Yet hadn’t she been given a sign in the chapel? She pushed a stray curl back from her brow. She had prayed to God for guidance, and at that very moment Reevius had come to her.
She stared at him across the fast-filling hall until he looked up at her. Only then did she look away, her heart racing. Oh, but this was getting out of hand! She needed to speak with someone about her confusing feelings for him. Not Father Clemson, though. She needed a woman’s advice. Her mother’s or Rhonwen’s.
But her mother was gone, and Rhonwen and Jasper had left Bailwyn to go to the coronation. She frowned. No one else at Rosecliffe would dare be forthright with her regarding Reevius, because everyone owed their positions to her father. Even the most foolish among them would guess
his
opinion regarding a minstrel suitor for his daughter.
Again she thought of her mother, the one person who might understand how she felt toward Reevius, and who also would not fear to contradict the Lord of Rosecliffe. Osborn did not fear him, either, but he would be horrified by her fledgling love for a minstrel.
Love?
She pressed a hand to her chest and felt the fierce pounding of her heart. She’d recognized that he tempted her, and she’d recognized the sin of lust dangling before her. But was lust a sin if love was a part of your feelings? She’d never felt anything this strong before, not even for her uncle or his young squire. It must be love, she decided. What else could it be?
Oh, but this was so confusing! She did not know what to do.
Then her agitated gaze fell once more on Newlin and she realized that embarrassment or no, she would have to speak to him. He would understand the feelings that buffeted her and he had never feared her father’s wrath. He would be honest with her if she were honest with him.
Rhys spied Newlin the moment the bowed and graying bard limped into the hall.
“
Taran
,” he cursed. Though Rhys had been ten years gone from Wales, though he stood taller and broader now, and wore a beard for disguise, he knew it would not fool Newlin. Once the wise man laid eyes on him, he would deduce the truth. “
Taran
,” he swore once more.
“What ails you?” Gandy asked as he clambered up onto the bench.
“The one man who can undo my plan has just entered the hall.”
“Who? Who?” The dwarf craned his neck, staring about.
Tillo eased his aged frame onto the same bench and poured a cup of ale. “He will not do it except, perhaps, to avoid bloodshed.”
“I don’t like to see anyone bleed,” Linus said. “I think it’s wrong.”
“Ah, he’s thinking now. Beware,” Gandy chortled. “The earth must soon come to an end.”
With one huge hand Linus ruffled Gandy’s head good-naturedly. “Don’t worry, my little friend. I will keep you safe.”
Gandy ducked and cursed, but Rhys ignored them and focused on Tillo. The skinny old minstrel sat leaning on the table, enjoying a cup of ale. “Why do you think he will not reveal my identity to Osborn?”
“Or to Isolde?” Tillo cackled. “Because he is wiser than you or I. Much wiser,” he added under his breath.
Rhys took a seat between feisty Gandy and complacent Linus. Tillo’s remarks eased his concerns but did not banish them. He knew less of Tillo than he did his other two companions, for Tillo spoke little of his past. Not of family, or place, or even of memories. For that reason Rhys had been slow to trust him.
But Tillo had reminded him of someone—of Newlin, he now realized. The two of them were old and crippled and seemingly ageless. Though Tillo had never displayed any of the powers credited to Newlin, he was nonetheless sensible and practical. Through the years his advice had proven itself over and over again. If Tillo felt Newlin would keep his own
counsel regarding the minstrel Reevius’s true identity, then he was probably right.
But Rhys was cautious about trusting Newlin for too long. He would have to move swiftly.
He sought out Isolde with his eyes, and caught her once again staring at him. She averted her eyes at once, as she had every other time their gazes had connected. And like all those other times, the muscles in his groin tightened in response.
She wanted him. That was plain. And he wanted her. But while she did not know that he was her enemy, he did not have the excuse of ignorance. He knew exactly who she was. That’s what made his desire for her so hard to accept.
But he had decided to accept that burden.
Now that Newlin was here and the threat of exposure hung over them all, the urgency of his mission had increased tenfold. Tonight he would entertain Isolde and her retainers after the evening meal. Perhaps he would even seek out Newlin and determine his intentions. But after that he would find Isolde and see what sort of lesson she wanted more. He could teach her songs to play on the tautly strung gittern. Or he could teach her the special music of desire, played on the taut places of her young body.
An image of her, smooth and pale and naked, rose in his mind, and his own body grew taut. He grimaced and looked away from her. Why could he not be drawn like this to the dairy maid, or the freckle-faced wench in the laundry? She’d offered to bathe both him and his clothes.
But it was his enemy’s daughter he wanted, and his enemy’s daughter he would have.
And once he had her, once the conquest was made, he would be content. Whether English knights on the field of battle, or English women on a field of linen bedsheets, his joy in life was to best his foes, then move on to the next of their ilk.
Isolde FitzHugh would be no different.
ISOLDE WAITED NEAR THE HEARTH IN THE GREAT HALL. SHE was behaving like a simpleton. Waiting for Reevius. Afraid he would come—then afraid he would not.
He’d entertained the entire company after the meal. This time the performance of the minstrels had been more boisterous than before, with tambourines and drums in lieu of gittern and lute. It had also been more bawdy. Osborn had howled with laughter when the giant Linus donned an apron and
couvrechef
and minced around, with little Gandy strutting in ardent pursuit. Isolde, however, had focused more on Reevius and the stirring song he’d sung. He had such a beautiful voice, especially when he sang of Paris who pined for his Helen, and David who had lost everything because of Bathsheba. Of Samson, the strong man of legend who’d been brought low by a woman.
But his songs of warning had not prevented the swaggering Gandy from pursuing his gigantress love, and in the end Gandy had been crushed by his lover’s passion—and her weight.
It had been hilarious, but for Isolde, it had also been sobering. Did Reevius imply that women always destroyed the men who loved them? Did he believe the warning he sang in his humorous tale?
So she waited now, doing the final check of the new cloth tapestry by lanternlight. It wanted sunlight to do the task properly, she knew. Then again, it wanted her complete concentration, as well.
She sighed. The hall was quiet. Only a few lingered still. Three men playing at dice. Gandy doing sleight-of-hand tricks for two amazed boys. Newlin and Tillo sat opposite one another conversing quietly while Reevius looked on. If he did not mean to approach her, then she must take the initiative and go to him. If she hesitated much longer for her lesson, the torchères would be spent. Besides, it was useless to pretend she was accomplishing anything. So she folded the heavy wall hanging to the side, and went up the stairs to her bedchamber to fetch the gittern.
When she returned to the hall Reevius was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs, one foot propped on the second step. Her heart skipped a beat when he looked up at her, and she would have stumbled had she not caught one hand on the wall.
“You are ready for your musical instruction?” he asked, his eyes burning into hers.
She nodded, then looked away. His intensity frightened her, and yet it also thrilled her. Beyond him the hall was quieter than before. Only Newlin and Tillo remained.
“Come,” Reevius said. He extended a hand to her.
It was a courteous gesture—for a nobleman. For a mere minstrel it would be considered excessively bold. But he did not look like a minstrel, not with those broad shoulders and thickly muscled arms. In her eyes he appeared as noble as any knight or lord her father might push at her. In her eyes he was everything her father could want for her. Certainly he was everything she wanted.
She took his proffered hand, watching as it swallowed hers up. That was how she felt: swallowed up by him, overwhelmed. Consumed. And he’d only touched her hand. What would happen to her should their touch become more personal, more intimate?
The very thought left her short of breath, and even at the bottom of the steps when she pulled her hand free—when he let it go—it seemed an intimate act merely to walk beside him.
They settled on a bench away from the two old men.
“Have you practiced further?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I have been busy with other tasks.”
“But now you have time.”
“Yes.”
He positioned the instrument in her hands and after a few shaky minutes she relaxed. It was only music instruction. Why was she behaving like an infatuated girl?
She gnawed on her lower lip. Because she was infatuated. Because God had sent her a sign—maybe.
She bent over the instrument, trying to concentrate on her lesson. She was working to fit her fingers to a particularly difficult configuration he’d shown her when he sighed. She looked up. “Is this wrong? I’m sorry I am so slow to understand.”
“You learn remarkably well.”
“I do?” She warmed to his compliment.
“You do.” Their eyes held a brief moment before he looked away. “This must be your last lesson.”
“The last one? But why? You need not leave Rosecliffe so soon. You are welcome to linger—”
“’Tis too hard to stay.”
“Too hard?”
Slowly he turned his head until their gazes once more met and locked. “’Tis too hard to be this near to you, Isolde.”
Though beyond earshot, across the hall Newlin looked up. So did Tillo. One of the hounds jerked alert, then seeing no cause for alarm, flopped down again in canine weariness.
Isolde saw none of it, however. All her senses, every one of them, focused upon Reevius and those few momentous words he’d uttered. “But … But I want you to stay.” She said the words fainter than a whisper. “Please don’t go.”
He shook his head. “To be near you and not have leave to touch you …’Tis too hard a thing to ask of me.”
“You can touch me.” The incendiary words were out of her mouth before she knew it, heaping fuel on the fire that burned already in his coal-black eyes.
“Your hand?” he mocked. “Your shoulder when we sit together, or mayhap your elbow?”
Isolde swallowed. She knew what he meant by touching. But what did she mean? “Perhaps … Perhaps in time it could come to more than that. More than my elbow or my shoulder,” she clarified.
He shifted a little nearer so that the length of his hard thigh
rested against hers. He circled her shoulder and covered her hand that held the neck of the gittern, much as he’d done that first time. She glanced in alarm at Newlin, but he appeared preoccupied by Tillo, and there was no one else in the hall.
Then Reevius spoke, a husky whisper very near her ear. “I asked you earlier today what you want of me, Isolde. Tell me now. Do not leave me in this misery of unrequited love.”
Love.
It was the magic word that moved her like no other. Not unrequited desire. Not unrequited passion. But unrequited love.
She leaned her weight fully against him and let her head fall back against his arm. “It is not … unrequited.”
At once his hand tightened over hers. The other lifted and he brushed his knuckles lightly down the curve of her cheek. Had they been anywhere but in the great hall, Isolde feared she would have succumbed to him on the spot, the effect of that gesture was so profound. That she wanted to do such a thing was terribly disconcerting. That she could not do it was unbearably frustrating.
She closed her eyes and let out a groan at the perverse tug-of-war inside her. He muttered an impatient curse, then released her and shifted, breaking all physical contact between them.
Bereft of his touch, Isolde stared longingly at him. She wanted this man in the way a woman was supposed to want only her husband. And he wanted her in the selfsame way. Did she dare act upon those feelings? Did she?
His eyes ran darkly over her and he seemed to read her mind. “Where can we be alone?”
The breath caught in her throat. She averted her eyes, and her hands tightened on the gittern. “My … my private chamber is but one floor above us.”
“What of your maid?”
She thought of Magda and her sweetheart, George. “She went off earlier.”
“Will she return?”
Isolde hesitated. Was she mad to consider such a meeting with him? At the moment the answer seemed very clear: she
was
mad. Mad with desire. Mad with love. Mad with all the
pent-up passions she’d discovered seething within her belly. What if her parents should hear of this?
Then she recalled a fact, well-known around Rosecliffe, but little discussed within their family. She had been born long before her parents wed, a child of their hard-fought passions. Though avowed enemies, they had fallen in love despite every obstacle. How could they blame her now for behaving as they themselves had done? At least she and Reevius were not enemies.
She took a deep breath. “No. She should not return before dawn. To. be sure, we can go to the third level.”
His brows arched in surprise. “To your parent’s chamber.” Then he smiled.
Without further discussion Isolde rose and, on wobbly legs, marched toward the stairs. She’d done it now. Sweet Mary, but she’d really done it now.
From across the hall Newlin watched Isolde disappear up the stairs. Although her young man remained upon the bench, it took no great insight to foresee where this evening would lead. Ah, well, he thought. It was inevitable. Perhaps it was even to the good.
Opposite him Tillo smiled thinly. “Young love. ’Tis a fine thing to see, but painful to live through.”
“I fear that the pain of this young love will rain down on all of us at Rosecliffe,” Newlin responded. Then his faded eyes focused, both of them at the same time, upon Tillo. “He has returned to exact his revenge. You know this.”
Tillo looked away. “I have heard his tale and so cannot fault him for wanting revenge. It is hard, though, to look into your enemy’s eyes, to get to know him, to sit at table with him and understand his humanity, and yet remain enemies.”
“As we sit?”
Tillo smiled. “We are not enemies.”
“No. Nor need they be.”
“Perhaps they will learn not to be enemies,” Tillo said, shrugging. “Perhaps this night will teach them that.”
Newlin’s eyes once more went their separate unfocused directions. “So long as he chooses to keep his secret there can be no trust between them. Secrets have a way of undermining friendship. Do you not agree?”
Tillo frowned, then pushed abruptly away from the table. “Those two will do as they see fit. He should not pursue her, but he does. She should abide by her parents’ wishes, but she does not. They are too young and too impulsive to do the things they ought.”
Newlin studied Tillo’s creased face. “You are angry now. Why is that?”
Tillo stared back at him with wary eyes. “Methinks you already know the answer to that.” He paused. “Do you?”
Newlin began slowly to rock back and forth. “I know many things. I know many secrets.”
“Mine? Do you know mine?”
After a long moment Newlin answered. “Yes.”
Tillo pulled his purple cloak tighter around his thin, aged body. “Then you know why I am angry.”
“No,” Newlin said. “That I do not comprehend.”
Their eyes met and held. Tillo was the first to break away. “Men,” the old minstrel muttered, hobbling away. “They are a troublesome lot, no matter their age.”
Newlin watched Tillo’s departure in bemusement. There were times when he grew weary of the special knowledge given him. Now he had this new surprise of Tillo’s. More importantly, however, he now had this new worry.
Though he’d always known Rhys would one day return, how matters would resolve themselves remained a mystery to him. For the several people involved possessed strong wills, and he could not be certain what decisions they would make. What actions they would take.
An echo of a long-ago conversation returned from across the years. Twoscore years, yet it seemed only yesterday. “Winter’s end is nigh.” Josselyn had repeated the phrase in Welsh, then French, and finally in the Saxon English. She’d possessed a quick mind, that Josselyn, and her daughter Isolde was just as quick.
And just as impulsive.
But perhaps winter’s end was nigh, he reasoned. Perhaps the third portion of the children’s chant would soon be fulfilled, and with it the true blossoming of spring upon this oft-buffeted bit of Wales. He began to rock and the voices of a hundred children—a thousand—echoed in his head.
When stones shall grow and trees shall no’,
When noon comes black as beetle’s back,
When winter’s heat shall cold defeat,
We’ll see them all ’ere Cymry falls.
”
’Ere Cymry falls. But perhaps it would be Cymry’s rise.
He gazed at the stairway. Rhys would soon mount those steps and seek out his enemy’s daughter. What route would those two follow? The world would turn. The future would come no matter what choices they made. Soon enough that future would be revealed.
Meanwhile, there was Tillo’s secret to ponder.