Rexanne Becnel (12 page)
Authors: The Knight of Rosecliffe
Jasper had never felt so helpless, nor so outraged. God curse the man who would stoop so low as to use a child as a weapon in his battles!
The messenger shifted anxiously from one foot to the other. In the hearth the logs popped and creaked, but all else in the hall was deathly still. Two maids huddled in one corner. A manservant held one of the hounds by its collar. Gavin and Gwendolyn had been sent to the nursery with their maid. Everyone who was not actively involved in the search for Isolde was huddled somewhere else, praying for the young girl’s safe return.
But it would take more than prayer, Jasper knew. He hadn’t believed for a moment that the child had simply wandered off. Seeing his suspicions confirmed, however, did not make him feel better. Worse, he suspected that more Welsh loyalists than Rhys ap Owain were involved.
And first among his suspects was the beautiful, but devious, Rhonwen ap Tomas.
The night was long. The sky rumbled low, unhappy threats, and lightning flashed its warnings. But the rain was slight, and by dawn’s gray light the countryside looked no different than any other morning. Green and muddy. Chilly and damp.
Only it was different. Isolde was gone, held captive by that damnable Welsh outlaw.
Jasper had sent a rider south to inform Rand. He didn’t like to think of his brother’s reaction to the dire news. Rand had left Jasper with the simple task: Keep his family and lands safe. And what had happened? Jasper had let himself be distracted by a woman who’d already tried once to kill him.
He tightened his fist until it shook. Damnation but he was a fool! When Rhonwen had appeared at Rosecliffe, he’d thought his gallant gesture of releasing her that first time had altered her attitude toward him. Like a fool, he’d panted after the beguiling she-devil, and in so doing had allowed
his innocent niece to be captured by his most ardent enemy.
his innocent niece to be captured by his most ardent enemy.
God help the pair of them if they harmed even one hair on Isolde’s head!
His horse stamped restlessly, while Jasper’s gaze scanned the village constantly. He’d not slept, nor had any of the men with him. A search of the woods from Rosecliffe to Carreg Du had revealed nothing. The villagers were equally taciturn. Even Nesta, who loved Josselyn’s children dearly, could tell him little. Rhonwen had lingered behind, near the very tree where the message was found. That was all the woman knew, she swore through her tears.
Though Jasper knew he should not, he felt betrayed. Rhonwen had been so sweet and yielding when he’d kissed her, so passionate and yet at the same time innocent. What an idiot he’d been! She’d taken him in completely, and fool that he was, his sudden obsession with her had ruined him for any other woman.
What a deceiving bitch she had turned out to be! But he should have known. He should have known.
He stared at his right hand, at the place where his severed finger had been. Rhonwen might have saved his hand ten years ago—and maybe even his life. But she’d done it for her own purposes, not to spare him any suffering. Since then she’d tried to kill him, stolen his horse, and then stolen his niece from beneath his very nose. Whatever debt he might once have owed the Welsh bitch was long past paid. The only thing he owed her now was vengeance—and that, by God, she would have from him.
That she would have.
He stared up at the flinty hills that rose beyond Carreg Du. He remembered a place, a clearing, a ravine carved out by a spring-fed creek. That whelp Rhys and his rebel band had a hidden camp somewhere in the wildwood, one they moved from time to time. Why could it not be in the same place the treacherous boy’s father had once used?
He wheeled his horse abruptly and within a few minutes his new plan was in place. A large noisy group—almost half the search party—set off through the woods by horse. They whis-tied
and called back and forth to one another, and sent their mounts crashing through the fern and bracken.
and called back and forth to one another, and sent their mounts crashing through the fern and bracken.
Jasper led the other half of his men into the forest also, but they swiftly abandoned their horses and silently, on foot, made their way toward the ravine Jasper recalled.
The wind was in their faces, damp with the scent of the deep woods. For an hour they toiled on, spread wide as they pressed forward. Then another hour.
Suddenly Jasper stopped. A new scent caught his attention. Fire. A fire somewhere ahead.
He signaled to Uric and the message was relayed up and down the line. Their pace slowed. Their weapons slithered out from their sheaths. As the men crept forward, Jasper’s flesh prickled in anticipation. His knuckles turned white, he gripped his sword so violently.
Twelve years he’d trained for war, but he’d had few opportunities to use that training, save on the practice field. But today … today would see the fruition of his labors.
The sound of a voice focused his thoughts and he and the others froze. Jasper proceeded forward alone. A Welshman said, “Come, now, man. How much longer till it’s done?”
“Eat it raw if you like,” came the muttered response.
Jasper edged behind a stone jutting up from the hillside. A rotted stump provided further cover. When he peered warily past them, he saw a handful of men standing around a fire where something boiled in a pot. The clearing was barren of undergrowth; it had obviously been their camp for some time. A lean-to shelter looked empty and for a moment he feared he had the wrong group of men. Then he spied a flash of yellow fabric and a small foot projecting from the lean-to.
Isolde. It could be no other. The foot drew back, out of sight, but Jasper had seen enough. A rage like nothing he’d previously known rushed over him. Isolde was not his child, but she was of his blood and under his protection
His eyes shifted back to the men near the fire. Seven of them. Was there another guarding Isolde? Then a figure burst into the clearing and he tensed. Rhonwen!
Fast behind her was a man, young and yet fierce. It could be none other than Rhys ap Owain himself.
The man caught up to Rhonwen only because she skidded to a halt when the men at the fire all turned toward her. Their grins and winks made it clear what had been going on. So did the way Rhys snatched her hand.
Damn her! Damn the bitch, Jasper silently swore. That she was Rhys ap Owain’s woman did not surprise him. He’d suspected that from the moment Isolde disappeared. But his rage at seeing them together, at watching the man finger a lock of her hair, then grin when she batted his hand away—that stunned him. He wanted to murder the lanky bastard.
“Say,” one of the men at the fire called, “how long d’ ye think those fools will thrash about in the woods around Carreg Du?”
Rhys watched Rhonwen walk away before he turned to answer. “Until the fool that leads them is taken to task by his brother.”
Jasper marshaled his fury and leaned forward to study the Welsh outlaw. He’d killed his father; it seemed inevitable he must kill the son as well. He was but a half-grown youth, Jasper realized, for ten years ago he’d been but a lad of six or so. Jasper understood why the boy hated him, but that changed nothing. He’d taken Isolde. He would pay with his life.
Jasper gathered himself for the attack. His heart pounded; every muscle tensed. Behind him he sensed his men’s readiness to charge. Then Rhys ap Owain sauntered over to the other, older men. “Randulf FitzHugh will skewer his sot of a brother for this,” he said. “And then I will skewer Randulf FitzHugh—”
The rest was lost in Jasper’s battle cry. As one the Englishmen rushed the Welsh, screaming murder as they brandished their swords.
The Welsh reacted instantly. Within seconds metal clanged on metal. Welsh curses echoed English ones.
Jasper slashed with his sword, felling one hapless fellow, then attacking another. But all the while his eyes focused on
Rhys ap Owain, who fought two attackers. Skewer him, would he? The truth of that would be learned soon enough.
Rhys ap Owain, who fought two attackers. Skewer him, would he? The truth of that would be learned soon enough.
For his part, the young Welsh rebel fought gamely. He dispatched one of the foot soldiers and held off one of the knights like a man well trained in warfare. But the English were better armed and had the element of surprise with them. One by one the Welshmen went down. Step by step the survivors fell back, until only Rhys fought, and he surrounded by Englishmen.
At a signal Jasper’s men dropped back so that Jasper faced his enemy alone. Jasper lifted his sword to the ready, breathing hard from his exertion. Rhys labored for breath as well. Blood streaked down his cheek from a glancing blow. Jasper also had been wounded, pricked in his left thigh. But he felt no pain, only the need to fight on.
So this was the bloodlust Rand spoke of. It overcame fear and pain, and once roused, it was a vicious beast to tame. Still, Jasper had learned the rules of knighthood well, and honor demanded that he draw the line at murder. To attack this solitary Welshman while his men surrounded him would be murder.
“Throw down your sword,” he ordered. When the narrow-eyed youth did not respond, he repeated the order in Welsh.
“Fuck you,” the boy said, first in his language, then, insolently, in English. Jasper’s men crowded in on him, ready to slay the cocky young rebel, but Jasper stayed them.
“Fetch Isolde,” he told the nearest man. “And bring the woman too.” That drew a wary look from Rhys. He glanced toward the lean-to and Jasper laughed. But there was no real mirth in it.
“’Twas a fool’s plan, to think you could drive us out of Rosecliffe Castle. Now, instead of you holding Isolde, I hold you—and Rhonwen.”
Their eyes met and held, and for a moment the boy’s expression was so fierce Jasper was certain he would attack. He hoped he would attack, for Jasper was not ready to sheathe his sword. He needed to fight—especially to fight this man.
He raised his sword, taunting the youth. “Did she tell you
how willing I was—and how willing she was?”
how willing I was—and how willing she was?”
“You bastard—”
Then an urgent cry interrupted them. “She’s not here. The girl’s gone—and so is the woman!”
Rhonwen had no choice but to be ruthless.
She dragged Isolde away at the first rush of the English soldiers. Though she had no time to search for Jasper among them, she knew he was there. So she hauled Isolde out of the lean-to, prodded her up onto one of the few horses they had, then clambered up behind her and sent the horse plunging into the forest.
She knew little about riding, nor had she much experience taking hostages. But she rose to the occasion. She bullied both Isolde and the horse, and not until they were completely lost and night had settled over them like a cold, black blanket did she at all relent.
By then she was exhausted, as was the drooping girl and the laboring horse. In the shelter of a mammoth fir tree she slid off the weary animal, then helped Isolde down. It was a measure of the child’s exhaustion that she did not fight her. But once on the ground, the girl turned away and curled into a ball of misery.
Rhonwen stared around her, feeling just as miserable as Isolde. What was she to do now? Their headlong flight had kept her going, but now panic threatened to overwhelm her. What had happened back there? Had Rhys and the others escaped? Had they even survived?
Had Jasper?
She bowed her head and buried her face in her hands. Dear God, was the whole world coming to an end around her? Nothing that had happened in the past several days made any sense.
She
didn’t make any sense. Was she a murderer? A spy? A child thief? All that and more could be said of her now. To make matters worse, she no longer seemed to fit anyplace. Not in her mother’s household. Not in one of her own. Even her friends would turn against her now. Nesta. Josselyn.
She
didn’t make any sense. Was she a murderer? A spy? A child thief? All that and more could be said of her now. To make matters worse, she no longer seemed to fit anyplace. Not in her mother’s household. Not in one of her own. Even her friends would turn against her now. Nesta. Josselyn.
She cringed to think of Josselyn’s terror since Isolde had disappeared. And it was all on account of her.
And if Rhys was dead … or Jasper …
“Oh, God,” she prayed. “Oh, God, please, not that.” God did not answer her. But Isolde did, and in her thin child’s voice, the accusation of God seemed to resound. “I hate you. I
hate
you!”
hate
you!”
Tears welled in Rhonwen’s eyes and she could not stop them. She did not begrudge the child her anger. Indeed, in that moment, in that dark corner of the wildwood, she hated herself. She raised her head and wiped the tears away and tried to think. She could not resolve all her worries or any of Isolde’s fears, not tonight. They were lost and hungry, and soon they would be cold. Shelter first; food second.
As for what had happened back there … tomorrow she would try to find out.
Squaring her shoulders, she looked at Isolde. “I know you hate me. Nevertheless, you have to trust that I will protect you.”
“Protect me? Protect me? ’Tis you who are most likely to kill me!”
“I will not!”
“Then why did you make me your hostage?”
Why indeed? Rhonwen sighed and pressed her lips tightly together. “That was never my aim. I will return you to your home—as soon as I determine how to get there.”
Isolde stared at her suspiciously. “To my home? To Rosecliffe?”
“Yes, Isolde. To Rosecliffe Castle.” But only after she determined
what had happened back there—and whether or not any of her countrymen had been captured. If that was the case, perhaps she could barter Isolde for their freedom.
what had happened back there—and whether or not any of her countrymen had been captured. If that was the case, perhaps she could barter Isolde for their freedom.
And if Rhys and his men were all dead?
Rhonwen wrapped her arms around herself and shuddered at the suddenly oppressive cold. If they were dead—if Jasper FitzHugh had killed them all—it would fall to her to avenge their deaths. Though she could not do so through Isolde or any other child, she could strike back at Jasper. Beguiling he might be. Handsome. Charming. Virile. But he was an Englishman first and her enemy forever.
She would never make the mistake of forgetting that again.
Newlin brought the news to Rosecliffe Castle.
At dawn the squat bard sat on the stone ledge where the moat bridge rested when the gate was lowered. The bridge guard spied him and sent word to Jasper. Somehow Josselyn heard of it also, for she reached the gate tower at the same time Jasper did.
“Lower the bridge,” she ordered. When the man looked to Jasper for approval, she turned also to him. “Tell him, Jasper. Tell him to lower the gate. Newlin knows something.”
No doubt he did. But Jasper was not certain he wanted Josselyn to hear that news.
After their victory, they’d searched for Isolde and Rhonwen, but to no avail. She’d melted into the deep forest like a wild creature, taking Isolde with her. They could not have gone far, he knew. But like the hunted creatures they were, they’d gone to ground. He’d been torn between tearing the forest apart and transporting his prisoners back to Rosecliffe. Had two of the Welshmen and one of his own men-at-arms not been so badly wounded, he would have stayed. But they’d desperately needed the village healer’s aid. Though he knew better now than to trust Rhonwen, he reassured himself that she would not harm Isolde. Indeed, so long as he held Rhys ap Owain, Rhonwen was not likely to stray far.
Still, he’d dreaded returning to Rosecliffe and to Josselyn without Isolde safe under his protection.
Josselyn had been waiting, and though distraught, she’d accepted the news with surprising stoicism. She’d arranged for bandages and salves, and worked alongside the healer, even stitching up two of the men herself.
It had been very late before any of them had stumbled into their beds. But even then Jasper had lain awake a long while worrying about Isolde, raging at Rhonwen, and berating himself for letting her escape. It had taken three glasses of wine to deaden his brain. Now, however, just three hours later, he was back at the gate tower, clenching his teeth against the piercing grate of the lowering bridge, and dreading what news the elusive Newlin carried to them.
Josselyn started across the bridge before it was fully seated. Despite his pounding head, Jasper forced himself to keep up with her. At least Newlin’s expression was not grim.
“Do you bring us word from that deceiving bitch?” he asked before Josselyn could.
Newlin shrugged. “To some she appears deceptive. To some she appears a bitch. But to others, she appears loyal and brave.”
“Is Isolde safe? Does Rhonwen have her?” Josselyn asked, wringing her hands in anxiety.
“Put an end to your fears,” Newlin said, fixing both of his wandering eyes on Josselyn. “Your daughter is safe. No one means to harm her.” Then his eyes once again wandered independent of one another and he turned to Jasper. “She wishes to bargain with you. Her prisoner for yours. What will be your answer?”
Both relief and satisfaction surged through Jasper. He’d been right about Rhonwen. Then he reminded himself that this was the first time he’d been right about her, and his enthusiasm faded. “A trade?” he said. “Why should we agree to—”
“We agree,” Josselyn interrupted him.
“Perhaps we agree,” Jasper countered. When she turned to contradict him, he took her by the shoulders. “We will trade for Isolde and get her back. But this is a complicated matter. Rhonwen has one hostage, but we have five.”
He looked at Newlin. “I’ll make the trade. Four Welsh hostages
for Isolde. But Rhys ap Owain is not part of the deal. He remains in Rosecliffe’s gaol.”
for Isolde. But Rhys ap Owain is not part of the deal. He remains in Rosecliffe’s gaol.”
If it were possible to decipher the expression on Newlin’s twisted face, Jasper would have guessed he was surprised, maybe even impressed. “Isolde for four Welsh rebels. I will relay your offer to Rhonwen.” He turned to leave, but Josselyn caught his sleeve.
“Is Isolde all right? Is she hurt?”
He patted her hand. “She is a brave little soul, much like her mother at that age. She is doing well.”
“Tell her I love her.” Josselyn squeezed his arm tighter. “You’ll tell her, won’t you?”
“I will.” Then he left, trundling down the road with his curious sideways gait.
In less than an hour he had returned. This time he awaited them at the
domen
, near the edge of the wildwood. “Is she agreed?” Jasper asked, scanning the woods beyond them. Newlin had not been gone long. That meant Rhonwen and Isolde were nearby.
domen
, near the edge of the wildwood. “Is she agreed?” Jasper asked, scanning the woods beyond them. Newlin had not been gone long. That meant Rhonwen and Isolde were nearby.
“She has not agreed,” Newlin announced.
“What?” Jasper’s gaze jerked back to the tiny bard. The dregs of his headache rose again to torment him.
“I feared this,” Josselyn murmured. “’Tis Rhys she most wants freed, Jasper. They are very close.”
Very close. His hands knotted into fists. “He will remain my prisoner.”
“And what of Isolde? What of my daughter—your niece?” Josselyn cried. “If Rand were here he would release the devil himself in order to gain his daughter’s freedom.”
Jasper stifled a curse beneath his breath. It was true. Rhys ap Owain was not nearly so valuable as Isolde. He should never have implied otherwise. He stared at Newlin, who swayed back and forth, ever so slightly. The bard remained silent, waiting while Jasper’s mind raced. There had to be another way. He could stall for a bit, and meanwhile send his best trackers back into the woods to search.
“She is not here,” Newlin said, as if in response to Jasper’s
thoughts. “She has hidden herself far from Rosecliffe and Carreg Du.”
thoughts. “She has hidden herself far from Rosecliffe and Carreg Du.”
Jasper crossed his arms. “You were not gone an hour. She cannot be so far.”
The bard’s smile was sweet and simple. His words were less so. “Not all the truths in this world are immediately obvious. Some truths require faith to discern.”
“Am I to make sense of such maunderings?”
Josselyn caught him by the arm. “Newlin has knowledge that others of us do not possess or understand. But he never lies. I believe him when he says Isolde is not nearby. You should believe him too.”
“He knows where she is. He could tell us.”
“’Tis far more complex than that, Jasper. You want this country to be English, but it is not. It is Welsh. I am Welsh. Our ways are not so easy to understand.”
His eyes narrowed. In that she was right. The Welsh were a mystical lot, superstitious and strange. But they were brave and loyal also, a trait he realized he could trade upon.
“Very well,” he said. “If she wants Rhys freed, I will do it. But it will cost Rhonwen her own freedom. Isolde for the four. Rhonwen for Rhys ap Owain.”
Why he did it, he could not say. As he stalked the wall walk two hours later he berated himself for a fool.
Newlin had smiled. In approval? Jasper didn’t know.
Josselyn had been ecstatic and grateful. No doubt she paced her solar this very minute in happy anticipation of her daughter’s imminent return.
But Jasper was not happy. Would Rhonwen agree? And did he want her to? He wasn’t certain about his feelings in the matter. Though he did not want to release Rhys, he had to get Isolde back. He also wanted to get hold of the devious Rhonwen. He wasn’t sure, however, what he would do with her. And how long would he keep her?
Long enough to assuage this ungodly desire she roused in him, he swore. Long enough to teach her the consequences of her deceitful ways.
He fought the rise of inappropriate desire, angry at the
power she yet held over him. He would make Rhonwen his prisoner—and his mistress. Meanwhile, her presence would deter Rhys ap Owain from attacking the people of Rosecliffe.
power she yet held over him. He would make Rhonwen his prisoner—and his mistress. Meanwhile, her presence would deter Rhys ap Owain from attacking the people of Rosecliffe.
But Jasper would taunt the Welsh rebel with the conquest of his woman, he vowed, staring blindly past the crenellations to the town and forest beyond. He would make certain Rhys learned of it when Rhonwen warmed his bed, and he would draw the rash young man out—and capture him once more.
He struck his leather-gloved fist against the chiseled edge of the stone cap piece. He would have Rhonwen, and he would recapture Rhys. Then he would quit this damnable land once and for all.
Meanwhile, it was past time for him to have a little chat with Rhys ap Owain.
Rhonwen rode with Isolde before her. Newlin had declined to ride with them. Still, at the end of the three-hour journey, down rocky trails and through shadowy forests, Rhonwen knew he would be waiting for them at Carreg Du. She didn’t wonder how he did it. Some things were not for ordinary folk to comprehend. Better for her to ponder the consequences of what she’d agreed to—that is, assuming Jasper FitzHugh meant to abide by their agreement.
What if it was a trick?
She frowned. Isolde’s head dropped, then fell back against Rhonwen’s shoulder. Rhonwen shifted so that the child rested more comfortably in her arms. The fact was, whether or not Jasper meant to deceive her, she must return Isolde to her family. They were wrong to have taken the girl hostage. Now she must pay the price for her error in judgment.
But what would that price be?
The horse picked its way along the forest trail. It seemed to know where it was going, and Rhonwen was happy to give it its head. The wildwood was solemn. The clouds prevented the fog from burning away, and the damp earth seemed to suck all sound into itself.
In an hour she would be there. In an hour she would face Jasper across the meadow. Rhys and Fenton and the others
would be there too. They, however, would walk to freedom, as would Isolde. She alone would be walking into captivity.
would be there too. They, however, would walk to freedom, as would Isolde. She alone would be walking into captivity.
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