not to make her life harder still. My wife is gone, as is her husband. Besides, she has children she should be tending to, not our kitchens.”
“Her children are well tended, now. Gladys took her husband’s death hard,” Josselyn said, forcing herself to be cruel. “In the aftermath she was a poor parent, and her children were taken from her. She wants them back and every day she comes nearer that goal. How do you think her people would feel if she took up with an Englishman? How quickly do you think they would return her children to her? And even if they did, her eldest child would never forgive her. Look behind me, Sir Lovell. Search the forests for a little girl. She is Gladys’s eldest and she hates that
her mother works here. She worries, and can you blame her? ’Tis said her father—Gladys’s husband—was killed by the English.” Though it is more likely Owain did it .
But Josselyn could not concern herself so strictly with the truth, not when Sir Lovell desired Gladys—not when Randulf Fitz Hugh’s plan was working, and after only two weeks’ time! She pressed on before he could reply. “If you care for Gladys, you will let her be. You will not force her to choose between you and her own people. Between you and her children.”
He nodded and backed away, mumbling. But his shoulders sagged and his head was bowed. As he departed, Josselyn beat back an awful wave of guilt. He cared for Gladys; that was clear. But did he care enough to do what was right for her, or would he be selfish and think only of himself?
She watched him angle across the long slope of the hill, a lonely figure heading back to Rosecliffe. She turned in the opposite direction. She’d done the right thing. It seemed cruel, but in truth, it was a kindness. There was no hope for a match between those two. Perhaps if Gladys did not already have children. Perhaps a Welshwoman with no family of her own might find contentment with an Englishman. But even then there were too many years of animosity between their people.
Like the enduring animosity between Owain’s family and her own, a niggling voice whispered from the depths of her mind. The fact was, waging peace through intermarriage was a common practice in Wales, as in all of Britain. Randulf Fitz Hugh sought to do no more than her own uncle did.
“Taran, ” she swore. She turned her back on Sir Lovell’s distant figure and headed north, toward the bay and the sea beyond it. If only her father were here. She would not be so beset by troubles if Howell ap Carreg Du were still alive. He would chase the English away and cow Owain and his
thugs as well. And he would help her find a good, strong man to wed.
“Your father loved this spot.”
Josselyn jumped in alarm. “Newlin!” She pressed a hand to her racing heart. “You startled me. How did you know I was thinking of my father?”
The bard smiled. “He often brought you here. Do you not remember?”
Josselyn stared around her. “I remember sitting in a tree with him. That tree.” She pointed at a gnarled oak that looked older than time itself. “I remember him climbing to the top while I clung to his back. He called me his little squirrel.”
“’Tis the tallest tree in these forests. From its topmost branches you can see the horizon.”
“The horizon is always visible,” she reminded him. “From wherever a body stands, she may see some sort of horizon. You taught me that.”
His warped face turned up in a grin. “So it is. But is it the horizon she wishes to see?”
That sobered her. What horizon did she wish to see now? What future did she want? Despair settled heavily upon her. “I don’t know what to do,” she confessed. “I am sore beset and caught between two enemies, the English and Owain ap Madoc.”
He nodded, then turned and continued walking in the direction she’d been heading. “You have considered all your choices.” He did not term it as a question.
“I have. If I marry Owain I
“Her children are well tended, now. Gladys took her husband’s death hard,” Josselyn said, forcing herself to be cruel. “In the aftermath she was a poor parent, and her children were taken from her. She wants them back and every day she comes nearer that goal. How do you think her people would feel if she took up with an Englishman? How quickly do you think they would return her children to her? And even if they did, her eldest child would never forgive her. Look behind me, Sir Lovell. Search the forests for a little girl. She is Gladys’s eldest and she hates that
her mother works here. She worries, and can you blame her? ’Tis said her father—Gladys’s husband—was killed by the English.” Though it is more likely Owain did it .
But Josselyn could not concern herself so strictly with the truth, not when Sir Lovell desired Gladys—not when Randulf Fitz Hugh’s plan was working, and after only two weeks’ time! She pressed on before he could reply. “If you care for Gladys, you will let her be. You will not force her to choose between you and her own people. Between you and her children.”
He nodded and backed away, mumbling. But his shoulders sagged and his head was bowed. As he departed, Josselyn beat back an awful wave of guilt. He cared for Gladys; that was clear. But did he care enough to do what was right for her, or would he be selfish and think only of himself?
She watched him angle across the long slope of the hill, a lonely figure heading back to Rosecliffe. She turned in the opposite direction. She’d done the right thing. It seemed cruel, but in truth, it was a kindness. There was no hope for a match between those two. Perhaps if Gladys did not already have children. Perhaps a Welshwoman with no family of her own might find contentment with an Englishman. But even then there were too many years of animosity between their people.
Like the enduring animosity between Owain’s family and her own, a niggling voice whispered from the depths of her mind. The fact was, waging peace through intermarriage was a common practice in Wales, as in all of Britain. Randulf Fitz Hugh sought to do no more than her own uncle did.
“Taran, ” she swore. She turned her back on Sir Lovell’s distant figure and headed north, toward the bay and the sea beyond it. If only her father were here. She would not be so beset by troubles if Howell ap Carreg Du were still alive. He would chase the English away and cow Owain and his
thugs as well. And he would help her find a good, strong man to wed.
“Your father loved this spot.”
Josselyn jumped in alarm. “Newlin!” She pressed a hand to her racing heart. “You startled me. How did you know I was thinking of my father?”
The bard smiled. “He often brought you here. Do you not remember?”
Josselyn stared around her. “I remember sitting in a tree with him. That tree.” She pointed at a gnarled oak that looked older than time itself. “I remember him climbing to the top while I clung to his back. He called me his little squirrel.”
“’Tis the tallest tree in these forests. From its topmost branches you can see the horizon.”
“The horizon is always visible,” she reminded him. “From wherever a body stands, she may see some sort of horizon. You taught me that.”
His warped face turned up in a grin. “So it is. But is it the horizon she wishes to see?”
That sobered her. What horizon did she wish to see now? What future did she want? Despair settled heavily upon her. “I don’t know what to do,” she confessed. “I am sore beset and caught between two enemies, the English and Owain ap Madoc.”
He nodded, then turned and continued walking in the direction she’d been heading. “You have considered all your choices.” He did not term it as a question.
“I have. If I marry Owain I
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