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Authors: Where Magic Dwells
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FitzWarin Wynne turned to the children. “Madoc, go back and wash up properly. And if any others of you have done a poor job of it, back you go as well.”
As Madoc turned reluctantly back toward the spring, Wynne remembered the parsley fern and felt a quick glimmer of satisfaction. This Cleve FitzWarin thought he could simply ride his tall destrier into Wales, pick out some child, and return to England with it, did he? Well, he was in for a bitter lesson, and she was only too happy to be the one to give it to him. By the time she finished with him, he would consider the uncomfortable itching of his hands nothing at all. She would see him and his men retching from the food they ate, purged by the drink they took, and made dizzy by the smoke they breathed. Their skin would itch and their bowels would burn. Even sleep would not give them peace, for she knew where to find the black mold that caused dreadful dreams to both the waking and the sleeping.
She turned to look at him, and a thin, gloating smile lifted her lips. He would rue the day he ever crossed her path, thinking to steal one of her children from her.
But if he wondered at her odd and unexpected smile, or suspected the wicked thoughts and plans that fostered it, his expression did not reveal it. He only nodded at her once, then rose to head toward the spring.
Let him wash, she thought, following his tall form with her vengeful glare. It would only soften the effects of the parsley fern, not banish it. Besides, that was only a taste of what she had in store for him.
They left the Cleft shortly after their meal. Wynne led the way up the rocky wall, followed again by the children and the Englishman. Once she clambered over the rim, she turned to help Isolde out, and then Bronwen. Rhys and Madoc insisted on climbing the last steep section unassisted. When Arthur peeped over the edge, he, too, declined her help.
“I can do it,” he insisted, panting from his efforts. He reached for the same exposed root the other boys had grasped, but when he pulled on it, it gave with a sudden snap.
“Arthur!” Wynne cried, grabbing wildly as he teetered backward. But she couldn’t get there fast enough, and as she watched in horror, he began to fall.
“Where do you think you’re going?” With a quick movement FitzWarin caught Arthur’s tunic. For a moment the boy dangled, arms and legs flailing in fear. Then the man pulled him against his chest, holding him safely next to the rough wall of the ravine.
“You’re all right now, my boy. Just catch your breath a bit.”
Wynne heard the labored rush of Arthur’s breath and was equally aware of her own relieved gasp for air. It had all happened so quickly, yet she felt now as drained as if she’d run a league and more. “Give him to me,” she demanded in a voice that shook.
The Englishman met her frightened eyes, and for an instant their gazes held. Gone was her anger, replaced now by an immense gratitude. How could she have been so careless? She knew Arthur did not have the physical skills of the twins. If this man had not been there …
She forced her gaze away from his and instead peered down at Arthur. “Are you all right? Here, take my hand.”
Once he was safely out of the Cleft, she pulled him into a smothering embrace. “Oh, Arthur, you frightened me so,” she murmured into his soft, wavy hair as she fought back a rush of tears. She breathed in the scent of him, of dirt and little-boy sweat and barley bread.
“Wynne!” He exclaimed, squirming away after a moment. “I’m not a baby, you know.” He slipped away from her, then glanced over at FitzWarin, and his pale face lit up with a smile of admiration. “It’s my good fortune that you were there,” he said, in his more usual adult phrasing.
“Yes, it was,” the Englishman answered gravely. Then he extended one hand to Arthur. “Do you think you could give me a hand up?”
Arthur leaped to the task, an eager grin on his face. Forgotten was
As Madoc turned reluctantly back toward the spring, Wynne remembered the parsley fern and felt a quick glimmer of satisfaction. This Cleve FitzWarin thought he could simply ride his tall destrier into Wales, pick out some child, and return to England with it, did he? Well, he was in for a bitter lesson, and she was only too happy to be the one to give it to him. By the time she finished with him, he would consider the uncomfortable itching of his hands nothing at all. She would see him and his men retching from the food they ate, purged by the drink they took, and made dizzy by the smoke they breathed. Their skin would itch and their bowels would burn. Even sleep would not give them peace, for she knew where to find the black mold that caused dreadful dreams to both the waking and the sleeping.
She turned to look at him, and a thin, gloating smile lifted her lips. He would rue the day he ever crossed her path, thinking to steal one of her children from her.
But if he wondered at her odd and unexpected smile, or suspected the wicked thoughts and plans that fostered it, his expression did not reveal it. He only nodded at her once, then rose to head toward the spring.
Let him wash, she thought, following his tall form with her vengeful glare. It would only soften the effects of the parsley fern, not banish it. Besides, that was only a taste of what she had in store for him.
They left the Cleft shortly after their meal. Wynne led the way up the rocky wall, followed again by the children and the Englishman. Once she clambered over the rim, she turned to help Isolde out, and then Bronwen. Rhys and Madoc insisted on climbing the last steep section unassisted. When Arthur peeped over the edge, he, too, declined her help.
“I can do it,” he insisted, panting from his efforts. He reached for the same exposed root the other boys had grasped, but when he pulled on it, it gave with a sudden snap.
“Arthur!” Wynne cried, grabbing wildly as he teetered backward. But she couldn’t get there fast enough, and as she watched in horror, he began to fall.
“Where do you think you’re going?” With a quick movement FitzWarin caught Arthur’s tunic. For a moment the boy dangled, arms and legs flailing in fear. Then the man pulled him against his chest, holding him safely next to the rough wall of the ravine.
“You’re all right now, my boy. Just catch your breath a bit.”
Wynne heard the labored rush of Arthur’s breath and was equally aware of her own relieved gasp for air. It had all happened so quickly, yet she felt now as drained as if she’d run a league and more. “Give him to me,” she demanded in a voice that shook.
The Englishman met her frightened eyes, and for an instant their gazes held. Gone was her anger, replaced now by an immense gratitude. How could she have been so careless? She knew Arthur did not have the physical skills of the twins. If this man had not been there …
She forced her gaze away from his and instead peered down at Arthur. “Are you all right? Here, take my hand.”
Once he was safely out of the Cleft, she pulled him into a smothering embrace. “Oh, Arthur, you frightened me so,” she murmured into his soft, wavy hair as she fought back a rush of tears. She breathed in the scent of him, of dirt and little-boy sweat and barley bread.
“Wynne!” He exclaimed, squirming away after a moment. “I’m not a baby, you know.” He slipped away from her, then glanced over at FitzWarin, and his pale face lit up with a smile of admiration. “It’s my good fortune that you were there,” he said, in his more usual adult phrasing.
“Yes, it was,” the Englishman answered gravely. Then he extended one hand to Arthur. “Do you think you could give me a hand up?”
Arthur leaped to the task, an eager grin on his face. Forgotten was
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