Rexanne Becnel by The Mistress of Rosecliffe

surprise. “To your parent’s chamber.” Then he smiled.
    Without further discussion Isolde rose and, on wobbly legs, marched toward the stairs. She’d done it now. Sweet Mary, but she’d really done it now.
    From across the hall Newlin watched Isolde disappear up the stairs. Although her young man remained upon the bench, it took no great insight to foresee where this evening would lead. Ah, well, he thought. It was inevitable. Perhaps it was even to the good.
    Opposite him Tillo smiled thinly. “Young love. ’Tis a fine thing to see, but painful to live through.”
    “I fear that the pain of this young love will rain down on all of us at Rosecliffe,” Newlin responded. Then his faded eyes focused, both of them at the same time, upon Tillo. “He has returned to exact his revenge. You know this.”
    Tillo looked away. “I have heard his tale and so cannot fault him for wanting revenge. It is hard, though, to look into your enemy’s eyes, to get to know him, to sit at table with him and understand his humanity, and yet remain enemies.”
    “As we sit?”
    Tillo smiled. “We are not enemies.”
    “No. Nor need they be.”
    “Perhaps they will learn not to be enemies,” Tillo said, shrugging. “Perhaps this night will teach them that.”
    Newlin’s eyes once more went their separate unfocused directions. “So long as he chooses to keep his secret there can be no trust between them. Secrets have a way of undermining friendship. Do you not agree?”

    Tillo frowned, then pushed abruptly away from the table. “Those two will do as they see fit. He should not pursue her, but he does. She should abide by her parents’ wishes, but she does not. They are too young and too impulsive to do the things they ought.”
    Newlin studied Tillo’s creased face. “You are angry now. Why is that?”
    Tillo stared back at him with wary eyes. “Methinks you already know the answer to that.” He paused. “Do you?”
    Newlin began slowly to rock back and forth. “I know many things. I know many secrets.”
    “Mine? Do you know mine?”
    After a long moment Newlin answered. “Yes.”
    Tillo pulled his purple cloak tighter around his thin, aged body. “Then you know why I am angry.”
    “No,” Newlin said. “That I do not comprehend.”
    Their eyes met and held. Tillo was the first to break away. “Men,” the old minstrel muttered, hobbling away. “They are a troublesome lot, no matter their age.”
    Newlin watched Tillo’s departure in bemusement. There were times when he grew weary of the special knowledge given him. Now he had this new surprise of Tillo’s. More importantly, however, he now had this new worry.
    Though he’d always known Rhys would one day return, how matters would resolve themselves remained a mystery to him. For the several people involved possessed strong wills, and he could not be certain what decisions they would make. What actions they would take.
    An echo of a long-ago conversation returned from across the years. Twoscore years, yet it seemed only yesterday. “Winter’s end is nigh.” Josselyn had repeated the phrase in Welsh, then French, and finally in the Saxon English. She’d possessed a quick mind, that Josselyn, and her daughter Isolde was just as quick.
    And just as impulsive.
    But perhaps winter’s end was nigh, he reasoned. Perhaps the third portion of the children’s chant would soon be fulfilled, and with it the true blossoming of spring upon this oft-buffeted bit of Wales. He began to rock and the voices of a hundred children—a thousand—echoed in his head.

    When stones shall grow and trees shall no’,
When noon comes black as beetle’s back,
When winter’s heat shall cold defeat,
We’ll see them all ’ere Cymry falls. ”

    ’Ere Cymry falls. But perhaps it would be Cymry’s rise.
    He gazed at the stairway. Rhys would soon mount those steps and seek out his enemy’s daughter. What route would those two follow? The world would turn. The future would come no