Rexanne Becnel by The Bride of Rosecliffe Page A

encourage a battle with the English. If I do not marry him I put off that battle, but I cannot avoid it forever. Why must we ever be forced to fight for our own lands?”
    “There is another choice,” Newlin replied, ignoring her frustrated words.
    “Another choice? Yes, to battle the English alone, without the aid of any allies, or with reluctant ones,” she added, recalling her uncle’s words. “That choice is not much
better, for Owain will ultimately exact his revenge on us.”
    The bard stared steadily at her. “You could join forces with the English.”
    That was such a ludicrous idea, such a thoroughly ridiculous thought, that Josselyn laughed out loud. “Join forces with the English? Surrender to them, you mean. Give up our lands, our independence. Our way of life. No, that will never happen.”
    “You are thinking like a man. Think like a woman, Josselyn.”
    “What is that supposed to mean?”
    Newlin gave his one-shouldered shrug. “Sir Lovell admires our Gladys.”
    “Oh, no. Not you too!” she cried. “You want Welshwomen to marry these Englishmen? Where is your loyalty? Gladys deserves better than an Englishman. She deserves a good Welshman to serve as father to her Welsh children. To give her more Welsh babies.”
    “Gladys’s future is for Gladys to live. Her horizons are for her to seek.”
    Josselyn had never felt more confused. “Are you telling me she should marry Sir Lovell? That cannot help but lead to disaster.”
    They had reached the place where the hill fell away to the sea, where the forest gave way to gorse and heather. She could see the bay, enclosed by the two arms of land, and beyond, the gray churning sea. Somewhere to her right was the black stone outcropping with its tangle of wild roses, where the English raised the walls of their fortress. She sucked in great drafts of cold sea air and tried to think clearly.
    “Even if I leave Gladys to her own devices, there is still the matter of what I should do—and don’t say that I should marry an Englishman. Help me, Newlin.” She raised her arms then let them fall to her sides in a helpless gesture. “Help me, for I am much confused.”
    She thought he would not answer, he stared into the distance
so long. He began the subtle rocking typical to him, then stopped and turned his odd gaze upon her. “Yon English lord asks many questions.”
    The English lord? Josselyn didn’t want to talk about Randulf Fitz Hugh. She wanted to forget he existed at all. Only she couldn’t. Indeed, he was the source of her current misery. If he hadn’t come to Carreg Du she would not be in this dilemma. She sighed. “What sort of questions is he asking?”
    “Questions about the niece of Clyde ap Llewelyn.”
    Josselyn gasped and every one of her emotions focused on that remark. Alarm. Outrage. Panic. Then a perverse sort of thrill. He was asking about her. Then panic returned. There was only one reason he would care about Clyde’s niece: because she was the lone heir to these lands he wished to claim. “Does he know that I am that niece?”
    “It would seem he does not,” Newlin answered. “But eventually he must find out. As he learns our language he has but to ask any of the women who work for him.” Left unsaid were two facts: she was the one teaching him their language; and she was the one who’d brought other women to work in his camp.
    As if one of the black clouds out of the west had settled over her, the weight of Josselyn’s responsibilities pressed even more heavily upon her. “If he finds out, he will want to prevent any marriage I might make which could be detrimental to his interests.”
    “That is likely.”
    “Then I must … I must cease my role as his teacher. And stay well away from his encampment.”
    “Your uncle will want you to make your decision about Owain.”
    Josselyn looked away. “Yes. I know.”
    They sat in silence a long while. The wind blew in cold, erratic bursts, chilling her to the bone.