Read Online Rexanne Becnel by The Knight of Rosecliffe - Free Book Online Page B

he was a better man than Jasper FitzHugh. Something had occurred between her and that Englishman. Rhys was certain of it. But he would prove to her that he was the right man for her. The only man.
    A light flickered in the dark village, drawing his attention. It moved slowly through the streets. Someone carrying a lantern. The late walker disappeared into a stone cottage where a considerable fire had been built, judging from the plume of smoke escaping its squat chimney. Perhaps someone was ill, or the midwife had come to tend a childbirth.

    His hands tightened into fists at that thought. Eight Englishmen had taken Welsh wives. Fourteen of their bastards peopled Rosecliffe village. Would tonight see a fifteenth added to their number?
    God, but he must eject these English from his lands!
    Behind him one of his men shifted. Dried leaves rustled. A twig broke with a brittle snap. Then someone cursed and the night silence turned to hysteria.
    “God help us!”
    “Sweet Mary!”
    “Beware—”
    Rhys spun around, his short sword at the ready. Had they been found out? Was this his night to finally meet his enemy in battle?
    But it was not Jasper FitzHugh or any of his men who panicked the Welsh rebels. A short shadow trundled into their midst and Rhys let out a low, vicious curse.
    “Damnation! Are you a pack of gutless cowards?”
    Newlin, the deformed, walleyed seer, made his way through the chagrined Welshman with a benign expression on his deeply lined face. Though he had never been known to harm a soul, he nonetheless inspired considerable fear among the superstitious. Rhys, however, had never been superstitious. He did not hold with spells or magic—nor with the power of prayer. A man accomplished as much as his brain and body allowed, nothing more. If he had a strong will, he made the most of what he was born with. If his will was weak, he died young—and along the way lived a wretched life of cold and hunger.
    Rhys had been cold and hungry as a child, and his life had been wretched. But his will had overcome that. He didn’t intend for his life to be wretched much longer.
    So he gave Newlin an annoyed glance. “Do you take a great pleasure in terrifying simpletons?”
    The ageless little bard smiled. “To terrify simpletons requires no particular talent. But to terrify a man of intelligence—now, that would be something, indeed. Still, I am not come here to strike fear into the hearts or heads of anyone.”

    “Then why come you here?” Rhys snapped.
    Newlin gave him a bland look that managed, nonetheless, to chastise him for his unnecessary rudeness. “I but make my way home.”
    He pointed to the ancient domen , the huge stone balanced above three lower ones. It stood outside the town, near the forest and the fields. The Welsh respected it as a holy site; the English gave it a wide berth. But Rhys knew that Randulf FitzHugh spoke often with the bard. Perhaps he might learn something of the English lord’s plans from the bard.
    “You saw FitzHugh off?”
    Newlin shrugged with his one good shoulder. “I know that he is gone.”
    “Do you know why he left? Do you know where he went and how long he will be away?”
    Newlin stared up at Rhys with his odd, unfocused eyes. “I know, as do you, that there is trouble among the English. Two of them would rule where only one can. I know, as do you, that he is gone to Bailwynn Castle in the south, to parlay with the other English lords. I know also, as do you, that he will not wish to long be absent from his wife and his children. Is there anything else you know that you wish to ask me?”
    One of Rhys’s men snickered, albeit from a safe distance, and Rhys’s anger rose. “He takes you into his confidence and yet you refuse to provide aid to your own countrymen.” He advanced on the bard. “Mark this, old man. I plan to attack the British stronghold. I plan to take Rosecliffe Castle and hold it for the loyal people of Wales.” He stepped aside and made a