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Authors: The Knight of Rosecliffe
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Why, in five years she’d be old enough to wed away from Rosecliffe. She’d overheard her father telling her mother that while he was at Bailwynn Castle he hoped to arrange a betrothal for Isolde.
If she was old enough to be betrothed, it seemed only right that she was old enough to linger in the hall after supper.
Her mother, however, did not agree. So here Isolde sat, huddled in the shadows, waiting for Jasper and hoping for the chance to share a few moments with him.
One of the heavy oak doors swung open. Pale light streaked
across the three stone steps, then shrank away when the door shut.
It was one of the other knights, not Jasper. The man ambled across the yard toward the stables and the barracks above it. Isolde sighed. She was sorry her father was gone, but thrilled that her uncle had remained.
If only he were not her uncle.
Marrying a member of your own family was forbidden, she knew. But cousins often wed one another. First cousins, even. So why could a girl not marry her uncle?
The door again swung wide and her heart began to pound. It was him! No one else in the castle was as tall and handsome as Jasper. She jumped up, eager and hopeful.
When Jasper spied her, he paused, but she could see he was distracted. He always had a smile and a joke for her. But tonight his smile was little more than a grimace.
“You’d best be forewarned, your mother is still about. Should she find you out here …”
“Mama is not nearly so strict as Father. She’ll fuss, but little more.”
His grin increased a fraction. “So, you have everyone figured out, do you?”
With damp, nervous fingers she smoothed the front of the new kirtle of holland cloth which she had just completed. “I had hoped to speak with you, Jasper. To tell you how glad I am that Father left you here to protect me—I mean to protect the castle. To protect us all.”
He reached out and patted the top of her head. “You needn’t worry, poppet. No harm shall befall anyone at Rosecliffe while your father is absent. Now go on. Be off with you.”
He steered her back to the hall, much to her dismay, then pushed her inside and closed the door behind her. Though she wanted to follow him, she realized that it would be pointless. He had something else on his mind.
But at least he’d called her poppet. She smiled and hugged that knowledge to herself. He called Gavin, Gavin, and Gwendolyn, Gwen. But he called her poppet. She was special to
him, and though she was only nine years old, in a few more years she’d be old enough.
She looked down at her chest and smoothed her hands over it. Nothing. Not even a hint of the breasts that one day would appear. Frowning, she made her way to the stairs that led up to the nursery. Maybe she wasn’t putting on enough of the ointment she’d gotten in the village from Enid. She didn’t like its foul odor, nor the way it caused her chemise to stick to her skin.
But that wasn’t important, she reminded herself. Jasper liked women with breasts. The sooner she got hers to grow, the sooner he would see she wasn’t a little girl anymore.
Rhys stood at the edge of the forest. Beyond him the fields unfolded, their boundaries marked with low stone walls. It was dark and he could see little, for the moon was but a thin crescent low in the chilly midnight sky. Still, he’d studied Rosecliffe Castle and the village beneath it so many times from this vantage point, he could map out the scene in his sleep.
The town wall was taller than those marking the fields, though still incomplete. He could gain access into town easily enough. But it was the castle he wanted. And though its walls appeared impregnable, he knew they were not. There was a way to take Rosecliffe Castle; he just didn’t know what it was. At least, not yet. But he would.
He would rout Randulf and Jasper FitzHugh and make Rosecliffe Castle a Welsh stronghold. That had always been his goal, but now it held a new urgency. He needed to show Rhonwen that
If she was old enough to be betrothed, it seemed only right that she was old enough to linger in the hall after supper.
Her mother, however, did not agree. So here Isolde sat, huddled in the shadows, waiting for Jasper and hoping for the chance to share a few moments with him.
One of the heavy oak doors swung open. Pale light streaked
across the three stone steps, then shrank away when the door shut.
It was one of the other knights, not Jasper. The man ambled across the yard toward the stables and the barracks above it. Isolde sighed. She was sorry her father was gone, but thrilled that her uncle had remained.
If only he were not her uncle.
Marrying a member of your own family was forbidden, she knew. But cousins often wed one another. First cousins, even. So why could a girl not marry her uncle?
The door again swung wide and her heart began to pound. It was him! No one else in the castle was as tall and handsome as Jasper. She jumped up, eager and hopeful.
When Jasper spied her, he paused, but she could see he was distracted. He always had a smile and a joke for her. But tonight his smile was little more than a grimace.
“You’d best be forewarned, your mother is still about. Should she find you out here …”
“Mama is not nearly so strict as Father. She’ll fuss, but little more.”
His grin increased a fraction. “So, you have everyone figured out, do you?”
With damp, nervous fingers she smoothed the front of the new kirtle of holland cloth which she had just completed. “I had hoped to speak with you, Jasper. To tell you how glad I am that Father left you here to protect me—I mean to protect the castle. To protect us all.”
He reached out and patted the top of her head. “You needn’t worry, poppet. No harm shall befall anyone at Rosecliffe while your father is absent. Now go on. Be off with you.”
He steered her back to the hall, much to her dismay, then pushed her inside and closed the door behind her. Though she wanted to follow him, she realized that it would be pointless. He had something else on his mind.
But at least he’d called her poppet. She smiled and hugged that knowledge to herself. He called Gavin, Gavin, and Gwendolyn, Gwen. But he called her poppet. She was special to
him, and though she was only nine years old, in a few more years she’d be old enough.
She looked down at her chest and smoothed her hands over it. Nothing. Not even a hint of the breasts that one day would appear. Frowning, she made her way to the stairs that led up to the nursery. Maybe she wasn’t putting on enough of the ointment she’d gotten in the village from Enid. She didn’t like its foul odor, nor the way it caused her chemise to stick to her skin.
But that wasn’t important, she reminded herself. Jasper liked women with breasts. The sooner she got hers to grow, the sooner he would see she wasn’t a little girl anymore.
Rhys stood at the edge of the forest. Beyond him the fields unfolded, their boundaries marked with low stone walls. It was dark and he could see little, for the moon was but a thin crescent low in the chilly midnight sky. Still, he’d studied Rosecliffe Castle and the village beneath it so many times from this vantage point, he could map out the scene in his sleep.
The town wall was taller than those marking the fields, though still incomplete. He could gain access into town easily enough. But it was the castle he wanted. And though its walls appeared impregnable, he knew they were not. There was a way to take Rosecliffe Castle; he just didn’t know what it was. At least, not yet. But he would.
He would rout Randulf and Jasper FitzHugh and make Rosecliffe Castle a Welsh stronghold. That had always been his goal, but now it held a new urgency. He needed to show Rhonwen that
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