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Everything happened too fast. Fitz Hugh ducked and spun around. Beyond him Josselyn saw Rhonwen struggling to escape a stocky fellow. But before she could reach the child, Josselyn was tackled, thrown to the frigid earth, and crushed beneath Fitz Hugh’s hard, unyielding weight.
For the first few seconds afterward Josselyn couldn’t breathe. Stars swam before her eyes and she had the oddest sense of sinking into a dark, shadowy hole. Even her vision began to fade. She was going to faint.
But a part of her knew she could not let that happen, and somehow she fought her way back to the light.
The weight above her shifted, but still she could not catch her breath. Then she was rudely hauled upright, bent over a man’s brawny arm, and struck sharply on her back.
At once she gasped and was rewarded by a huge rush of cold air into her chest. With the air came also her reason—and the realization that she was bent over the arm of the English leader himself. The enemy she’d come to spy on held her like an armful of wet laundry. She would kill
Rhonwen for getting them into this predicament. That is, assuming they survived it.
“Now that ‘un’s more of an age to be useful,” the man who held Rhonwen remarked with a chortle. “What d’ye say, milord? Will you trade wenches with me?”
Josselyn struggled to regain her balance and tried to twist out of Fitz Hugh’s grip, but it was impossible.
“I don’t think so. This one has too much spirit for the likes of you, Harry.” With one hand Fitz Hugh clamped Josselyn’s arms to her sides; with the other he pushed her unbound hair out of her face.
All at once she was face-to-face with him, and held so tightly that her legs and belly pressed intimately against his. The shock of his nearness, of having his dark eyes run over her face, silenced her for a moment. His eyes were such a dark gray they could have been mistaken for black. The black of midnight. The black of a mountain wolf.
Then his hand moved down the back of her head, tangling in her hair as he ran his fingers through it, and he gave her a wolfish grin. “She’s too fair for the likes of you as well,” he added, though in a lower tone, one the other man probably did not hear.
Josselyn shivered with fear and also a disturbing sort of awareness. No man had ever held her so, least of all against her will. He had no right.
Brutally she repressed her fear. “I’m too fair for the likes of you also,” she snapped in his native tongue. “If you have any honor whatsoever, you will release me at once. The child also.”
His brow arched in surprise, and Josselyn took a small satisfaction from that. While she had the advantage she must make use of it. “If you would be so kind as to release me?” she added, knowing that she must not show her fear.
“You speak like an English aristocrat,” he replied, but without loosening his hold in the least. “How is that?”
She tilted her chin up. “We Welsh are a brilliant people.”
“No more brilliant, I’m sure, than any other. I’ll ask you again,” he said, letting his hand slide farther down the length of her hair to rest at the small of her back. “How do you come to speak my language so well?”
Josselyn trembled. There was no harm in revealing the truth, and perhaps a great harm—to herself and Rhonwen—in hiding it. “Newlin taught me,” she bit out. “There. Now will you release me and the child?”
To her surprise he did release her. She backed away, hugging her arms about her. She gestured to Rhonwen. “Have your man let her go too.”
With one nod of his head it was done. Rhonwen bolted from her captor, then halted behind a bare-limbed elm tree.
“Josselyn, come. Run
!”
But Josselyn knew running was the wrong reaction. She’d wanted to spy on the English. What better way to do it than by ingratiating herself with their leader, the fierce Randulf Fitz Hugh? She faced him, conscious that even without his knightly trappings, he exuded a raw power that was intimidating. She had to remind herself that he’d approached her uncle in peace last night. Surely he would not try to destroy that peace now.
“I thank you,” she said, though not with much sincerity. “The child meant no harm. She was merely curious.”
“And you? Is that what drew you here as well? Curiosity?”
This was our land long before you claimed it for your campsite
. That’s what Josselyn wanted to say. Instead she answered, “I suppose I am curious. But I have another reason.”
Their eyes met and held, and she felt his awareness of her as a woman. It was no compliment, she told herself when his gaze moved over her in a slow, assessing fashion. These were men without women. Anything with breasts would satisfy them. When she self-consciously crossed her arms across her chest, he grinned again.
“What is this other reason that brings you here?”
She lifted her chin a notch. “You said you have jobs to offer. Well, I find myself in need of employment.”
“I’ll hire her meself,” the man called Harry chortled, swaggering across the snow-covered ground. “I can keep ’er busy—and happy too.”
Josselyn’s eyes narrowed to slits. “
Asyn
,” she spat at the crude oaf.
“Asyn,” Fitz Hugh mocked. “I wonder what that could mean.”
Josselyn’s glare shifted back to him. “It means that Welshwomen are not the meek and spineless creatures you lowlanders breed. It means that a man who tries to—” She broke off, only belatedly realizing that her anger could swiftly trip her up.
“It means that you all carry daggers.” Fitz Hugh’s amused gaze fell to the hip sheath that held her short-bladed weapon.
Josselyn moved her hand to the hilt of it, then gasped when it was not there. She glowered at him, infuriated all the more by his insolent grin.
He extended his hand with her small dagger in it. “Here. Take it.”
Unaccountably, her heart began to race. He held his arm steady, daring her to approach him and take back the weapon. Josselyn glared at him. If she’d disliked and mistrusted him before, now she truly hated him. He was a bully, brother under the skin to Owain and all men of that ilk. They thought they could take whatever they wanted, no matter the cost to others.
But they succeeded only if their prey panicked, only if their target was impetuous and unwise. He could only bully her if she allowed him to.
She refused to do so.
“Do you have employment to offer, or was your claim a false one?”
“My claim,” he echoed. “What have you heard of my claim? You were not there last night—” He broke off and
his perusal of her became more intense. Then he grinned. “You
were
there. The second translator. That’s why your voice sounded familiar. You were dressed as a boy.”
It was Josselyn’s turn to give him an arch smile. “That was my brother,” she lied, just to spite him.
“Your brother. And is this your brother’s dagger?”
Steeling herself, Josselyn strode up to him. “No. It’s mine.” She calmly took it from him, then forced herself not to back away as she slid the weapon down into its sheath. Then she looked up at him.
He was too close to her. He could grab her again, although somehow she knew he would not. Still, he was too close.
“What sort of employment are you offering?” she asked in a voice she feared was not so nonchalant as she would like. “Respectable employment,” she added when the other Englishman edged into her line of vision.
“I would respect you,” Harry offered, leering at her. “I respect ev’ry wench I ever gave it to, and you would—”
“Enough!”
Harry broke off at Fitz Hugh’s sharp command, and it was a good thing. If he hadn’t ceased his vile remarks, Josselyn feared she would have had to slit the vermin’s throat.
“Get back to work,” Fitz Hugh ordered the man. “Tell Sir Lovell that I’ll be with him directly.”
He turned his attention back to Josselyn, but she made the mental note. Sir Lovell. Was that Redbeard’s name?
“So you wish to work for English coin. What’s your name?”
Josselyn’s thoughts spun. There was no harm in the truth, was there? “Josselyn. Josselyn ap Carreg Du.”
“Josselyn. What work do you propose to do for me, Josselyn?”
He was still too close, but she deemed it not unreasonable for her to step back now. She’d shown him she wasn’t afraid. “I can cook. I’m known for my stews and roasted
meats. I also sew, mend clothing, and do laundry.”
“Can you teach me to speak Welsh?
Cymraeg
?” he added.
She hesitated before answering. “I can.”
That’s not to say you are bright enough to learn it though.
He stuck his hand out and, to Josselyn’s shame, she flinched back as if struck. In the background she heard Rhonwen’s fearful cry:
“Come away from him, Josselyn. He’s an evil man. He will hurt you!”
But he only held his hand out to her.
“I will pay you one denier every week. When I am fluent in your language, there will be a bonus of three deniers. Are we agreed?”
Josselyn stared at his hand, then raised her gaze reluctantly to his hard, lean face. Despite the scars she’d noted on it last night, his face was strong and manly. Handsome, in its own harsh way.
But handsome or no, she didn’t want to touch him. She was afraid to seal their agreement by taking his hand. It was purely illogical, she knew. But knowing that changed nothing. Unfortunately, there was no other way.
She extended her hand and tried to grip his with the same, impersonal force he used. It was impossible. His hand enveloped hers. The warmth of it banished the cold that made her fingers numb. How could he be so warm?
“We are agreed,” she muttered, then promptly yanked her hand back.
“Good. So, tell me. What does
carreg du
mean?”
“It means ‘black stone.’ I cannot begin working for you this very minute,” she added in an irritated tone.
“Why is that?”
She gestured to Rhonwen, who lingered nervously at the edge of the woodland. “I must see the child back to the village.”
He shrugged. “She can join us.”
“Her mother will worry,” Josselyn countered. “I will come tomorrow.”
He grimaced and rubbed his chin, all the while staring thoughtfully at her. “So be it. Tomorrow.”
Josselyn stared at him another long moment, then without comment turned toward Rhonwen. Tomorrow would come soon enough. Between now and then she must tell her uncle what she was up to, weather the explosion that was bound to follow, then restore his calm sufficiently to discuss the precise nature of the information she should try to uncover about the English lord and his plans.
All in all, she’d had a very good day, she decided when she reached Rhonwen’s side. It hadn’t gone as she’d expected, but then, whatever did?
“Let us begone from here,” she said, taking the child by the hand.
“Bloody English bastards!” the girl spat back at the Englishmen.
“Rhonwen! That is not proper language for a child, nor for a lady.”
“My mother says it all the time. I hate the English. They killed my father; now I wish they were all dead.” She pulled her hand from Josselyn’s and stared suspiciously at her. “Why were you talkin’ to him so long?”
Josselyn stared into the girl’s face. She was so young and yet, somehow, so old. “I’m going to work for him. Spy on him,” she added before Rhonwen could protest. She caught the girl by the shoulders and crouched down so that they were face-to-face. “I know he’s our enemy, Rhonwen. But I also know he’s stronger than I am. If we are to defeat him and all the others that Henry will send to replace him, we must do it with cunning and stealth.
“I am a woman, as you soon will be, and weaker than a man. But if I am smarter, I can defeat him just the same. And I do plan to defeat this particular man.”
She looked back, following the line of their footprints in the snow toward the place where Randulf Fitz Hugh had been. “Mark my word on it. I plan to defeat him.”
“A
nd just what is it you think that cursed parchment can tell you?”
Josselyn heaved a sigh of relief. For the past hour her uncle had railed at her, threatening to confine her to the hall—anything to prevent her from returning to the English encampment on the morrow. Aunt Ness had despaired, wringing her hands together, then throwing her apron over her head and running from the hall when she could bear no more.
But Josselyn had stood her ground and eventually her uncle’s temper had eased—and not a moment too soon. Between her outrage over the irresponsible Gladys, her fury at that cocksure English lord, and this heated confrontation with her normally taciturn uncle, Josselyn was utterly worn out.
She wanted nothing more than to retreat to her chamber, crawl beneath the heavy sheepskin, and give herself up to sleep. But that was not to be. Now that her uncle Clyde had capitulated, they needed to plan.
She rubbed an aching knot at the back of her neck. “I suspect that parchment depicts the arrangement of the castle they plan to construct. I’m sure Redbeard—Sir Lovell—is the master builder.”
“A castle takes years to build. Knowing their final plan
is of no import. We must drive them out before the first walls go up.”
“And how are we to do that?”
He met her gaze only a moment before looking away. “You know how,” he muttered.
“Owain ap Madoc is a pig,” she spat, unable to be tactful. “He may be a Welshman, but he is a pig nonetheless.” She leaned forward and placed a hand on his arm, imploring him to understand and support her plan. “I understand the predicament we are in. Without his aid we cannot defend ourselves against the English, let alone drive them out. They are too many. But before I sacrifice myself to the likes of Owain, don’t I deserve a chance to find some other way to defeat the English?”
He shrugged off her touch, then scrubbed his hands over his face. “Enough. I have agreed. What else would you have of me?” He glared at her as he picked up a half-filled cup of wine and quaffed the contents.
“Tell me what to look for, what signs to observe. How to know what will be helpful to our cause. I know nothing of castles and warfare.”
He sighed, then shoved his cup away and leaned across the table. “Very well. Let me think.” His heavy brows knit together in a frown. “The dimension of the storerooms and stables—and the barracks. That will give us an inkling of the size of the garrison they expect to house in our midst. Also the system of guards, the rotation. We need to know their weakest points, their least guarded moment.” He looked her straight in the eye. “Also, where their leader sleeps. How well he is guarded.”
Josselyn did not blink at the implication that the English lord might be killed. If she had, she knew her uncle would have resumed his objections, for there was no room for softness in war. And this was a war, she realized. She must help vanquish Randulf Fitz Hugh if she were to avoid a hellish union with Owain ap Madoc. The unadorned truth was that many would die.
But though she did not blink, something inside her rebelled at the idea of Randulf Fitz Hugh dead.
She and her uncle talked into the night. Ness returned, peeking warily into the main hall, then bustling about in relief when she saw that calm had returned. She and Rhonwen prepared the two younger children for bed, then they too said their good-nights and made their way to their beds.
But as Josselyn and Clyde spoke of wheat stores and armorers, of warhorses and stock cattle, Rhonwen sat at the top of the freshly swept stairs, huddled in a shadow and listening. She listened and she vowed to be just as brave as Josselyn was. Just as daring.
She’d been so scared when that man had captured her. Then Josselyn had rushed to her defense, brave despite her fear. For those long, awful minutes, Rhonwen had been sure they would both be killed. Or worse.
She didn’t think anything could be worse than death, but her mother had once sworn that there was indeed a fate even worse than death.
But Josselyn had managed to get them safely away from the English camp and her words were now forever imprinted in Rhonwen’s mind. No matter that a man was bigger and stronger than a woman. If the woman were smarter, she could still defeat him.
Sitting there in the cold, dark stair hall, listening to the low murmur of Josselyn plotting revenge on the English, Rhonwen vowed to make herself smarter than any man could ever be. She would never let herself be dependent on a man for her safety or her well-being. She would never be like her mother. Instead she would be smart and brave, a warrior in her own right.
She would be like Josselyn.
 
Rand anticipated Josselyn’s arrival at his encampment. Last night he’d given strict orders that the local women were not to be threatened in any way. He’d outlined harsh punitive repercussions for anyone who disobeyed that order.
Most particularly, the Welshwomen were not to be raped or threatened into having sex. They could be bribed, of course, with coin or trinkets or food. He would not begrudge his men that much. But the women had to be willing. Their wishes had to be respected.
Then he’d lain awake half the night wondering whether Josselyn of the midnight hair and flashing blue eyes would sell her charms to him for the price of a coin or two.
Osborn had questioned the wisdom of allowing one of their enemies access to their camp. But Rand was not worried. She was just a woman, curious enough to spy on them from afar and brave enough to leap to the defense of a child, but still only a woman and not to be feared.
And such a woman. Her breasts were soft and full, and her waist was slender. No doubt he could span it with his two hands. Her legs were long and, in his imagination at least, shapely and strong. Visions of those legs wrapped around his thrusting hips had haunted his dreams all night.
That she was fluent in French was an added blessing. It gave him reason to spend time with her. As important as he considered learning Welsh, however, at the moment what he most wanted to hear had nothing to do with politics, castle building, or even survival. He wanted whimpers of desire, moans of passion, and cries of completion.
Rand rubbed the back of his neck in frustration. It was bitterly cold in this godforsaken place, but the thought of that raven-haired wench had him as randy as a boar in rut.
He looked around, trying to banish Josselyn from his mind. His tent was pitched on the site where the great hall would eventually rise. The land was reasonably flat there. The inner wall would be built where the downward slope of the hill increased, with the outer wall below it, following at least partially a natural outcropping of stone. Beyond that a town would someday crowd up to the castle walls, filled with people of both English and Welsh descent. And his red wolf pennant would wave over all.
Not that he meant to linger in this place that long. He
would build Henry’s castle for him. He would give the king a mighty fortress to protect his interests in the cold, frozen place. But he would not live out his life here, not so long as the center of power resided in London—as it always would.
“Power is a fey creature,” a voice spoke as if from the depths of Rand’s own mind. But it wasn’t his mind. Something moved to his left, and even as Rand jerked and spun to face this silent-footed creature, he knew he’d overreacted.
Newlin stood there, staring at him with his strange, unfocused eyes. A chill ran down Rand’s backbone and his right hand twitched with the urge to grasp the hilt of his sword. The bard was strange enough as it was. The last thing Rand’s edgy band of men needed to believe was that the spooky little character could read minds.
“There’s not a man alive who doesn’t lust for more power than he already possesses,” Rand said when the bard only stared at him.
Newlin gave a one-sided shrug. “A man controls his lusts. He does not allow his lusts to control him.”
Rand’s eyes narrowed. Were it not for his wish to keep peace with the Welsh, he would send Newlin and his irritating observations on his way. But the man was an honored bard among the Welsh. The fact that most of Rand’s men were afraid of the odd fellow made it even more important that Rand appear unaffected by him. In short, he had to endure the bard’s presence.
But Rand would be damned if he’d let the man disconcert him.
“Tell me about the woman Josselyn,” he demanded, changing the subject. “She has agreed to teach me your language. Why did she disguise herself as a lad the other night?”
Newlin smiled. “Josselyn. Yes, she is a woman now. But she is not far removed from the orphaned child I found crying, lying atop the
domen.
”
“You took her in?”
“We all took her in. From me she learned language. From Dewey how to use a dagger. From Ness how to cook. From old Mina how to sew.”
Rand considered his next question.
“No, she has no husband,” the twisted little man answered before Rand could phrase the question.
Rand clenched his jaw and beat down the irrational notion that the bard really could read minds. The woman was comely. Any right-thinking man would wonder if she were already wed. It was no great feat for Newlin to deduce that. “Why did she disguise herself as a lad the other night?” he persisted.
Newlin was slow to answer. “We men of
Cymru
allow our women many freedoms. But we are no different than you English when it comes to war. ’Tis men that fight, not women. She was told not to come but she hid her true identity beneath the garb of a warrior youth.”
“She revealed herself when she spoke. Was she punished for her deception?”
Newlin smiled and his odd gaze drifted away from Rand to focus somewhere down the hill. This time it was Rand who deduced Newlin’s thoughts. “She comes,” Newlin said, even as Rand spied her silhouette.
She strode up the hill without hesitation. The workers paused as she passed, staring after her as men deprived of women are wont to do. If those hungry stares bothered her, it did not show. She moved swiftly, straight toward him, and though she was covered in the same heavy green cloak, with a
couvrechef
knotted over her head, Rand felt the unmistakable rise of lust.
He was no better than his men, he berated himself. And yet why should he be any different? He was a man gone three weeks without a wench. Were Josselyn a toothless hag, his surging manhood would be no less demanding. He tamed the beast in his braies with a stern exercise of willpower.
She stopped before him, but after a brief glance, turned to Newlin.
“Dydd da,
” she said, giving the man a smile. Then she looked back at Rand and her smile disappeared. “That means ‘I bid you a good day.’”
“
Dydd da,
” Rand repeated.
“Chwithau,”
she responded, giving no indication of either approval or disapproval of his pronunciation. “The same to you.”
“When I taught you,” Newlin said, “I began with the world around us. The stones and trees. The sky and sea.”
“So you did.” She stared at the bard as if trying to decipher some further meaning in his words.
Meanwhile, Rand made his own interpretation. Josselyn didn’t really want to teach him her language. She’d rather cook or clean to earn her coin. But since she’d agreed to teach him Welsh, Newlin was advising her to do her task well, even if it were not what she preferred.
A good man, that Newlin. Good, but odd. Rand decided to take control of the situation before Josselyn could.
“You can follow me around and teach me as Newlin advised. Once I’ve mastered the important words, you can explain how to put them together.”
“As you wish,” she replied in a bland tone.
But though Josselyn’s voice displayed no emotion, inside she seethed. Follow him around! She was no cur dog to trot at his heels! But she would let him think she was, if that’s what it took to lull him to complacency. She would be mild and pliable and as earnest an instructor as he’d ever had—if indeed he’d ever been instructed in anything beyond murder and mayhem.
She turned to Newlin. “Nessie sends word that she is cooking crust rolls today. Your favorite, I believe. You are welcome to the evening meal.”
He nodded to her then to the Englishman, and without further comment, meandered away. Josselyn watched him depart, comforted by his brief presence and the familiar dip and sway of his gait, even though he was leaving her alone
with the English lord. But then, it had been her decision to come here yesterday, and her decision to seek employment from him. If she did not want to be here, she could have stayed away.
She took a fortifying breath, then turned to face her new employer. Her ancient enemy. “Shall we begin?”
He studied her with a gaze far too intense for her liking. “Have you had breakfast?”
“
Brecwast.
Breakfast. Yes.
Do
.”
“Very well.” He continued to stare, as if challenging her, and Josselyn was hard-pressed to restrain her temper.
“You are building a ditch there.
Ffos,”
she said, pointing to where a crew of men with picks and shovels labored in a long trough.
BOOK: Rexanne Becnel
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