Rexanne Becnel (30 page)

Lord William ate silently, staring alternately at Arthur and then at Rhys and Madoc. Cleve sat beside a lovely young maiden, fair-haired and blue-eyed, clearly the youngest daughter, Edeline. The other daughters, most notably Bertilde, were not shy about their dislike of Wynne and her “passel of brats,” as one of them had muttered outside of her father’s hearing. Their husbands reflected the same resentment on their ruddy English faces.

Perhaps she should solicit
their
aid in returning all her children to Wales, Wynne thought as she pushed a thick piece of venison around her trencher with the point of her knife. Yet that would not help, for even if they could be trusted not to harm her boys—which risk she was not about to take—Lord William and Cleve, not to mention Druce and Barris, would never let this matter die. They were all determined to see Lord William’s heir identified and given his rightful place in the man’s household.

She sent an aggrieved look toward Druce, then of its own accord her gaze slid to Cleve. Men were truly the most troublesome of God’s creatures. Their lands, their castles, their sons. That was all they cared about.

No, she amended as Cleve’s gaze collided unexpectedly with her own and her heart began to thud in the most perverse manner. They also cared about women. But only insofar as women provided either pleasure or heirs. She had only to recall Lord William’s treatment of the long-dead Angel—or whatever her Welsh name had actually been.

She stood abruptly, breaking the hold of Cleve’s dark stare. “Come along, children. ’Tis time we make our ablutions and find our beds.”

“But … but what of the entertainments?” Lord William sputtered. “I’ve musicians at the ready. And acrobats.”

Wynne stiffened, and her fingertips pressed against the heavy trestle table. “The children are tired and more in need of a good rest than such entertainment. They’ve had sufficient excitement for one day.”

Even as she spoke, Rhys covered a huge yawn with one hand. She sent Lord William a challenging stare. “You will of course concede that I know the limits of these young children’s endurance far better than do you.”

She saw a glitter of irritation in his eyes, but she did not budge. “Ach, then go ahead,” he barked. He waved her away with one sharp gesture, then drank deeply from his goblet. But his eyes followed the progress of the column of children as she herded them down from the raised dais. Had she been stronger and more in control of the circumstances, she would have been most amused by the various emotions that played across the faces of those others remaining at the table. Anger, suspicion, mistrust. Admiration and envy.

She hesitated and peered more intently at the crowded table. Admiration and envy? But it was true. Druce was staring at the young Edeline with the most profound expression of admiration on his face. She’d never seen him so clearly captivated by any woman before. And the maiden in question—Edeline—why, she was gazing at Wynne with an unmistakably wistful look on her innocent face.

Wynne could not make sense of it. Was this the young girl who wished for the deadly nightshade to deepen her eyes? She hardly appeared the coquette.

Edeline lowered her eyes when Wynne looked at her. Then, as if the girl could not prevent it, she peered cautiously over at Druce.

Had the situation been different, Wynne would have laughed. It was that ludicrous. Cleve’s affianced was casting longing gazes at the boyishly handsome Druce, while Cleve sent equally potent looks toward Wynne. Lord William gazed with paternal hunger at her sons, while his legitimate family glared at them all.

She shook her head in disgust and pointedly turned her back on the lot of them. Perhaps Lord William should accept Druce as his heir. It would most assuredly please his unwed daughter.

“Do we have to wash?” Isolde asked, sleepily rubbing her eyes with her fist.

Wynne stared down at her exhausted niece and smoothed a wayward lock from her brow. “Just enough to get the road dirt from behind your ears and between your toes, sweetling. Once you’re all clean and have fresh gowns on, you’ll sleep better than ever.”

“Will you sleep with us?” Bronwen asked, an anxious look on her slender face.

“I’ll stay with you every single moment,” Wynne promised. “We’ll all bathe well, eat well, and sleep well while we’re at Kirkston,” she continued, trying hard to sound encouraging.

“Lord William says we shall ride out with him tomorrow,” Rhys began.

“To view his vast estates,” Madoc finished.

“And we shall have our own ponies,” Arthur added. “I shall have my very own pony. You know, Cleve says I have a horseman’s hands.”

Wynne only nodded as she directed them toward the kitchen and the shed beside it, which held the bathing caskets.
Bribing them, was he?
And even Arthur was susceptible, thanks to Cleve’s earlier encouragements.

Two maids hustled from the kitchen at Wynne’s approach. “Ah, milady. You’re a’ready here. An’ with the little darlin’s.” The older and stouter of the two beamed. Then she stopped and made an awkward curtsy. “I’m Martha. This here is Dagmar. Milord had us to heat water and prepare the linens. We’re to help you with the young’uns.”

Though she would have liked to turn away their help, a quick glance at the five exhausted children changed Wynne’s mind. She gave the woman a curt nod. “I had laid out their clean gowns in our chamber. If you would fetch them. And my own,” she added.

While Dagmar scurried away on that mission, Martha helped Wynne prepare the children for their baths. Like sleepwalkers each of the children reacted when nudged or prodded, raising their arms for their tunics to be removed, sticking out first one foot, then the other for stocking and shoes to be tugged off. Only when the boys were down to just their braies was there any objection raised.

“Go out, now. We can climb into the tub ourselves,” Arthur demanded, clutching fast to his rolled linen waistband. When the maids only stared blankly at him, however, he frowned. Then he repeated his words in halting English.

With his skinny legs and skinny chest he looked a meager fellow to be challenging the robust Martha, and a wry smile found its way to Wynne’s otherwise glum features. “Yes, Martha,” she interjected before Rhys and Madoc could chime in. “They are quite old enough to manage the rest on their own.”

The old woman clucked her tongue, but then she gave Wynne a good-natured wink. “I’ve bathed ever’ man of this castle, startin’ with milord hisself, and him but a babe in arms. They’s all got a time, near about five or six years, when they don’t want no help. But then, ’round about the stirring of their manhood, they come back to Martha for their backs to be scrubbed.” She cackled with glee. “Guess they want a woman’s hand on ’em by then, e’en an old woman’s!”

By the time Martha had backed from the room, Wynne’s smile had broken free, full and genuine. The girls were laughing, too, and even the boys appeared more relaxed when Wynne pulled the fustian curtain between the two huge caskets of water.

“She’s nice,” Bronwen murmured as Wynne helped her into the warm and fragrant waters of the women’s tub. “She’s like Cook, all smiles and happiness.”

“I wonder what Cook and Gwynedd and everybody at home are doing right now,” Isolde murmured, sinking up to her chin in the swirling bathwater.

Wynne wondered too. “Cook is probably helping Gwynedd into a nice warm bath, just like this,” she answered as a wave of homesickness caught her. In all the days of her journey she’d been too unsettled, too worried and angry and frustrated, to allow herself to miss Radnor Manor. But now as she removed her girdle and untied the side laces of her soiled gown, she was overcome by it.

It was Martha’s fault, of course. The old servant had that same warmth and matter-of-fact attitude shared by so many lifelong servants who knew how vital they were to the households they kept. Just like Cook.

She rolled down her stockings, then peeked around the curtain at the boys. Three damp heads rested against the sides of the tall wooden tub. There was no horseplay, no splashing or ducking of heads. They were simply too spent.

“Wake up, sweetlings,” she called. “Use the soap and the bathing linens quickly, then we’ll see you soon to your beds.”

“I’m too tired.” Rhys sighed. Then his brother jumped with a splash.

“Who did that? Who pinched me?”

Arthur smiled through heavy-lidded eyes. “I think there’s a crab in this tub. ’Tis an old English custom, to put a crab in the bath,” he added mischievously.

“You lie,” Madoc retorted. “He lies, doesn’t he, Rhys?”

Rhys couldn’t hold back his mirth. “Here’s your crab,” and he sent his hand across the water, making pinching motions with his fingers.

“Are there really crabs?” Isolde cried from the other tub. Wynne shook her head at the boys’ antics. She supposed nothing, not even exhaustion and completely foreign environs, could long keep that trio down. She let the curtain fall, then turned to the girls. “They do but tease and play. Come,” she added as she removed her own clothes and her amulet. “I promise to pinch back any crab that I find swimming around in our bath.”

She let out a groan of satisfaction when she settled herself onto the bench in the tub. The water was warmer and more relaxing than she’d guessed. Mint leaves and rose petals floated on the surface, and the faint scent of them filled her head as was intended, cleansing her mind of troubling thoughts and driving her demons away, at least for a little while.

She let her head sink below the surface, shaking her head and combing her fingers through the tangled length of her hair. “Ah, that feels good.” She smiled at Isolde and Bronwen as she reached for the soap. “Shall I wash your hair before I do my own?”

“I can do my hair by myself,” Isolde answered.

“Me too,” Bronwen echoed.

“Boys, be sure to wash your hair, your ears, and under your necks.”

“Under your arms,” Bronwen added.

“Between your toes,” Isolde grinned.

“You don’t have to tell us what to do,” Arthur replied from beyond the curtain wall. “We know.”

As Wynne lathered her hair, she sniffed at the bar of soap. It was of a very good quality. Hard and even. She wondered if it was made at the castle. She would have to ask Martha, for her own soaps were not nearly so fine-textured. She ducked underwater again, rinsing her hair and rubbing her scalp hard, when a commotion outside brought her sputtering to the surface.

“Which one was it? Which one?” came Lord William’s excited voice from the kitchen beyond.

“Wait, milord. ’Tis not seemly—”

But Martha’s nervous words were ignored. Lord William burst into the bathing chamber, much to Wynne’s complete outrage.

“Begone from here, you … you crude Englishman. Can we not at least bathe in peace?”

“ ’Tis my castle,” Lord William bellowed. “ ’Tis my son! Now, which one was it?”

As Wynne sat there, naked in the tub with the two terrified girls trembling in her arms, a veritable crowd of people pressed into the small bath house. The curtain between the tubs was thrown aside, and to her horror both tubs were surrounded by an avid audience.

“Milord, if you please,” Martha began, casting an uneasy eye from her master to Wynne and back again.

“Yes, Father,” Edeline murmured, clutching at her father’s arm. “Can this not wait long enough for them to at least clothe themselves?”

“Show me their feet,” Lord William demanded, shaking off Edeline’s arm and ignoring her completely. He advanced to the edge of the tub and grabbed Rhys. “Show me your feet!” he insisted.

But Rhys was too afraid to comply. He fought to be free of the man’s frantic grasp. Then, when that failed, he bit down on Lord William’s hand. Hard.

“By damn! By damn, he bit me!” Lord William shook his hand at the pain and peered at it as if expecting to see blood, or at the very least tooth marks. Then he raised his head and swung it around, eyeing the appalled spectators. “He bit me! God’s blood, but he’s a true fighter, that one is. Is
he
the one? Is
he
my son?”

“No!” Wynne cried, finally finding her voice amidst these mad proceedings. Had the entire world turned upside down? “They’re none of them yours. None of them!” She started to rise, for she needed to save the trio of boys from this ruthless barbarian of a man. But a large hand on her shoulder kept her firmly in her place.

“Milord, this is not the way to handle this matter.” Cleve stood steady when Lord William turned an impatient frown upon him. “If everyone will clear the chamber,” he continued, “we can see your question promptly answered.”

For a moment there was absolute silence, save for the nervous shifting of feet. Then Martha clucked her tongue and began to wave her apron in a shooing fashion. One by one Lord William’s daughters, sons-in-law, and curious retainers shuffled away. When only Cleve, Lord William, Druce, and Barris remained, Martha closed the door.

“Now, back with the rest of you. All of you,” she insisted, glaring at her master. “I never thought to see the Lady Alvinia’s son act in so unseemly a manner. Terrifying women and children at their bath. Were she to see you now, why she would …” Martha trailed off once it was clear Lord William was appropriately subdued. She drew the curtain, then rounded on Cleve, who stood beside the tub, his hand warm upon Wynne’s bare shoulder. “You too,” the old servant ordered, scrutinizing him closely.

Cleve’s hand gentled on Wynne’s shoulder and slid lightly, rubbing beneath the water’s surface, slipping along her flesh. His fingers stroked lightly up the sensitive skin along her neck until he cupped her chin, forcing her to face him.

“Give us a moment, if you please,” he said to Martha, though his eyes never strayed from Wynne’s.

There was another disapproving cluck from Martha, but she obliged. Though Lord William’s muttered demands and the old woman’s soothing murmurs came through from beyond the curtain, Wynne’s every sense was attuned to Cleve. He was the only one who could help her.

“Don’t let him do this, Cleve. I beg you. Please, don’t let him take any of my children.”

Though her eyes swam with desperate tears, she saw clearly the regret on his face. For a moment she believed he would do it. He would intercede and somehow, in some way, he would make things right again. But then he swallowed and shook his head.