Rexanne Becnel Read Free Page A

heart remained heavy as she watched the gaiety of her family’s departure. Gwen and Josselyn rode their own palfreys, with young Elyssa riding before her nurse. Five knights, seven servants, six men-at-arms, and eight pack animals accompanied them, a considerable party for the month they would be gone. As one of the most powerful Marcher lords, however, her father would be expected to travel with a goodly number of retainers and to put on a handsome display.
    Everyone remaining behind at Rosecliffe Castle envied them their grand adventure. Everyone but Osborn, Isolde amended. He was content to stay at home and maintain the peace, not that much effort was required in that vein. The English townsfolk revered her father and the Welsh ones respected him. As for her mother, everyone adored the Lady Josselyn, even the people of Carreg Du and Afon Bryn, the nearest Welsh towns. Except for the occasional petty grievance—mostly between English and Welsh—there was little enough peacekeeping to be done. Of late the greatest grievance, however, had been between father and daughter.
    From her spot on the wall walk Isolde turned away from the view of the traveling party and leaned morosely against the solid stone crennels. Osborn shot her a knowing look.
    “Having second thoughts, girl?”
    Yes. “No.”
    “I see.”
    “I am far happier remaining here to finish the chapel and then begin my next project in the great hall. A visit to London would be interesting,” she conceded. “But my father exacts too great a price.”
    She did not expect Osborn to concur. He was her father’s oldest friend, and while they’d been known to disagree among themselves, she’d never once heard Osborn criticize his liege lord to another.
    “’Tis hardly a sin to want your daughter safely wed,” he remarked after a moment.
    “Did his father force him to wed a woman he did not want?
No,” she answered her own question. “He wed Mother, a most unlikely choice, wouldn’t you say?”
    Osborn chuckled. “Unlikely on the surface, perhaps. But from their first meeting, it was clear they were destined for one another.”
    That drew a great heaving sigh from the depths of Isolde’s chest. “That is precisely my point, Osborn. Don’t you see? What I want is to meet the man destined to be my husband.”
    He leaned back against the wall beside her and studied her shrewdly. “Then you should have gone to London. The city will be crowded with noblemen attending the coronation. You’ll not meet anyone new here in the wilds of northern Wales.”
    “But how could I go with him throwing me at Mortimer? My only hope is that his father will be so offended by my absence he breaks the contract—or that Mother can reason with Father.”
    Again Osborn chuckled. “Josselyn will no doubt prevail. Have patience, Isolde. This paragon of a fellow you seek will eventually find you.”
    “Humph,” she snorted. But she was somewhat reassured. She shot a last glance over her shoulder. The travelers had passed the town gate, and were nearing the domen , the burial tomb of forgotten ages. Beyond that lay the old forest road. “A whole month?” she said.
    “A month, mayhap more. Sufficient time, I suspect, for you to make enough changes to Rosecliffe to infuriate your father.”
    At that Isolde’s lips curved in a small grin. Osborn had always known how to cheer her up. “Yes. A month will provide me with ample time for that. I suppose I shall simply have to take my pleasures where I can.”
     
    At the domen Rand paused. Newlin had not been much present of late, but he was here now, sitting atop the great stone slab as always. His voluminous green cloak settled around him in deep folds, disguising his deformed body and leaving only his grizzled head to identify him as a man. A very old man, Rand realized. Twenty years ago the bard had been an ancient creature. How old must he now be?
    Rand flexed his hands, feeling the stiffness of age in his
own fingers.