back you’ll see it off to your right.”
He nodded slightly, not saying a word, but only studying her until she grew decidedly uncomfortable. “For today I’ll forgo the dragon. And I’m Norman, not English.”
Wynne lifted her brows. “Really? Tell me, why is it English nobility still identify themselves with Normandy? ’Tis at least a hundred years that you’ve been in England, yet you refuse to call yourselves English.”
“We’re Cymry. Welsh,” Isolde boasted. She moved nearer her aunt, and Wynne drew comfort from the child’s loyalty.
“Perhaps then I should term myself Norman English,” he conceded. “And I have a name,” he went on. “I’m Cleve FitzWarin. I’d like you to call me Cleve.”
Wynne gave him a contemptuous look. “Well, Sir Cleve , the children and I have a purpose for being here today. As interesting as this conversation has been, we must be about our work.”
“May I be of any help? Wynne,” he added with subtle but still obvious emphasis.
She bristled at once. “I have enough help.”
“Then perhaps I can help you shepherd the children,” he replied smoothly, not at all affected by her simmering anger. “I’m certain they won’t mind.”
“We don’t—”
“—mind at all!”
The other three children looked less sure than the twins, for they’d obviously sensed the animosity between the two adults. Arthur in particular appeared distressed by the tension between Wynne and the Englishman, and Wynne was immediately sorry that she had let this man bother her so. What had happened to her plan to be the cat and not the mouse?
She gave him a tight, even smile. “If you wish to join us, you may.” Then she turned abruptly away, unable to pretend to a calm she hardly felt. “Let’s be on our way. The trail down into the Cleft is very near.”
As they made their slow and careful descent along the rocky face of the Devil’s Cleft, Wynne reluctantly admitted to herself that FitzWarin’s presence was useful. She’d known the climb down would be awkward with five children. She could safely shepherd only two or three at a time. But with the Englishman’s presence they could all go down together.
She led the way, followed by the children, with him bringing up the rear. Though the trail was not difficult for a careful adult, she knew that the children might be too excited to be as cautious as they should be. It was almost a relief, then, to have another far more stern voice to instruct the rambunctious quintet.
“Rhys, don’t crowd your brother. Arthur, keep your eyes on where you’re going,” he ordered from somewhere behind her.
“Oh, look! Look at the big butterfly!” Bronwen exclaimed. “It’s as yellow and orange as a fire.”
“Catch it. Catch it!” Rhys and Madoc cried.
“No! Leave it alone,” Isolde said, hurrying toward the two boys. “You’ll hurt it, and if you do, then I’ll hurt you!”
Wynne turned to stare up at the trio. “Isolde, I’ll handle this. Rhys and Madoc, we’re only collecting what we need. Nothing more. If we can’t use it for food or medicine or something else, then we leave it where it is. You know my rules.”
At once they became contrite, and she nodded approvingly, then smiled at them. “I know you’re excited. There’s so much to see down here. But we want to leave it here so we can come back to see it again and again.”
It was in that unguarded moment, when she was thinking only of the children and the land that sustained them all, that her eyes met the Englishman’s. To her surprise his expression was actually approving. Then he smiled at her—a mixture of admiration and camaraderie—and she felt the oddest reaction in her stomach. This was not the bold, assessing gaze of last night, and she was hard put to be angered by it. But dismayed …
She was unnerved and put off balance by his steady stare, and with an uncomfortable swallow she turned away.
Once they had reached the lush green floor of
He nodded slightly, not saying a word, but only studying her until she grew decidedly uncomfortable. “For today I’ll forgo the dragon. And I’m Norman, not English.”
Wynne lifted her brows. “Really? Tell me, why is it English nobility still identify themselves with Normandy? ’Tis at least a hundred years that you’ve been in England, yet you refuse to call yourselves English.”
“We’re Cymry. Welsh,” Isolde boasted. She moved nearer her aunt, and Wynne drew comfort from the child’s loyalty.
“Perhaps then I should term myself Norman English,” he conceded. “And I have a name,” he went on. “I’m Cleve FitzWarin. I’d like you to call me Cleve.”
Wynne gave him a contemptuous look. “Well, Sir Cleve , the children and I have a purpose for being here today. As interesting as this conversation has been, we must be about our work.”
“May I be of any help? Wynne,” he added with subtle but still obvious emphasis.
She bristled at once. “I have enough help.”
“Then perhaps I can help you shepherd the children,” he replied smoothly, not at all affected by her simmering anger. “I’m certain they won’t mind.”
“We don’t—”
“—mind at all!”
The other three children looked less sure than the twins, for they’d obviously sensed the animosity between the two adults. Arthur in particular appeared distressed by the tension between Wynne and the Englishman, and Wynne was immediately sorry that she had let this man bother her so. What had happened to her plan to be the cat and not the mouse?
She gave him a tight, even smile. “If you wish to join us, you may.” Then she turned abruptly away, unable to pretend to a calm she hardly felt. “Let’s be on our way. The trail down into the Cleft is very near.”
As they made their slow and careful descent along the rocky face of the Devil’s Cleft, Wynne reluctantly admitted to herself that FitzWarin’s presence was useful. She’d known the climb down would be awkward with five children. She could safely shepherd only two or three at a time. But with the Englishman’s presence they could all go down together.
She led the way, followed by the children, with him bringing up the rear. Though the trail was not difficult for a careful adult, she knew that the children might be too excited to be as cautious as they should be. It was almost a relief, then, to have another far more stern voice to instruct the rambunctious quintet.
“Rhys, don’t crowd your brother. Arthur, keep your eyes on where you’re going,” he ordered from somewhere behind her.
“Oh, look! Look at the big butterfly!” Bronwen exclaimed. “It’s as yellow and orange as a fire.”
“Catch it. Catch it!” Rhys and Madoc cried.
“No! Leave it alone,” Isolde said, hurrying toward the two boys. “You’ll hurt it, and if you do, then I’ll hurt you!”
Wynne turned to stare up at the trio. “Isolde, I’ll handle this. Rhys and Madoc, we’re only collecting what we need. Nothing more. If we can’t use it for food or medicine or something else, then we leave it where it is. You know my rules.”
At once they became contrite, and she nodded approvingly, then smiled at them. “I know you’re excited. There’s so much to see down here. But we want to leave it here so we can come back to see it again and again.”
It was in that unguarded moment, when she was thinking only of the children and the land that sustained them all, that her eyes met the Englishman’s. To her surprise his expression was actually approving. Then he smiled at her—a mixture of admiration and camaraderie—and she felt the oddest reaction in her stomach. This was not the bold, assessing gaze of last night, and she was hard put to be angered by it. But dismayed …
She was unnerved and put off balance by his steady stare, and with an uncomfortable swallow she turned away.
Once they had reached the lush green floor of
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