Rexanne Becnel Read Free Page B

worried her. Though the other four children made allowances for his dreamy inclinations, she knew he would always be one easily taken advantage of, especially by other boys.
    But what could she do? She had willingly undertaken to raise the five of them, five wonderful, exasperating six-year-olds who would not be placated by her explanations about their absent parents forever.
    Though the invading English had ultimately been routed and driven from Wales, they yet survived here in the blood of their bastard offspring. One day she must explain it to the children, and yet it was still hard for her to understand herself. How did you explain to a child about war? About rape? How did you make a little child understand that your father had not created you with love and respect, but with hatred and violence? How did you explain that your father and his people were the worst enemies you would ever have?
    She suppressed a shiver, then reached out to cup Arthur’s cheek. He was warm and so sweet. They all were, and she loved them as fiercely as if they truly were her children. Just the feel of his soft breath was reassuring, and she swallowed the uneasiness that had plagued her the whole day through and on into the night. Everything would be all right. She was sure of it. Whoever it was who trespassed upon her forest would not be there forever. He would wreak whatever mischief he might be planning, but he would not disrupt their lives for long.
    Hers was a race that had survived many a foreign onslaught. Besides, it was not an army encamped in her woods. She knew that instinctively. A few men were no real threat.
    Perhaps they would be gone by sunset today.
    Cleve squatted beside a narrow brook, watching a deep, still pool just downstream from him. Someone was coming, and his naturally suspicious nature prompted him to observe the traveler a little while before revealing himself.
    With a remarkable absence of sound a man picked his way down a barely visible trail. On his shoulders he bore a small, oddly made boat. The Welsh called it a coracle, Cleve remembered. It was an awkward-looking craft woven of willow and covered with leather.
    The man was alone, which was good, and he appeared to carry only a small dagger in a leather sheath strapped to his thigh. When he put down his light craft, Cleve was surprised to see, however, that he was an old man, a graying grandfather come to do some fishing. This was a good sign, for an old fellow like this would surely know all the goings-on in these parts. Cleve eased his hand from the carved bone hilt of his own dagger.
    “Good morrow, father,” he called, rising to his full height. The old man started and then warily drew back. But Cleve smiled and walked forward with no threat in his demeanor. “What manner of fish do you seek this fine day?”
    The old man stared at him as if he were an oddity never before seen, and Cleve frowned. Was his Welsh so bad as to be unintelligible?
    “I mean you no harm,” he tried again, enunciating carefully.
    “The English always say that,” the man replied warily.
    Cleve’s expression lifted in relief. He was not surprised the man identified him as English, for he knew his pronunciation gave him away. But at least he was able to make himself understood. “Our leaders are not at war,” he replied. “Neither should we be.”
    The man snorted in answer. Whether his disdain was aimed at Cleve or at the English and Welsh leaders was hard to say.
    Cleve tried again. “Is this the Radnor Forest?” He squatted down a little distance from the man and began idly to toss bits of twigs into the dark water.
    After a long minute’s consideration the man nodded.
    “Ah, that is good. Mayhap my journey is near to its end.”
    The man began to ready his boat for launching, but he nonetheless kept a wary eye on Cleve. Finally, as if he couldn’t bear not knowing, he spoke up. “And where is it ye journey to?”
    Cleve tossed another twig into the water. “I’m