Rexanne Becnel Read Online Free Page B

mighty fortress. No amount of superstition would prevent him from reaching his goal.

Two
    T he one thing Osborn had neglected to tell Rand was that the man was a dwarf, not quite the height of a very small woman. Otherwise he had described the curious creature very well.
    The fellow sat on a flat rock balanced on five boulders that protruded from the frozen earth. The ground beneath the flat rock was scooped away, creating a sort of small, dark cave, too low-ceilinged for a man to stand upright in, but ideal for a deformed dwarf.
    Rand halted before the rock and met the odd creature’s placid gaze. He was not afraid, Rand noted. That alone earned him a modicum of respect. But no more. Rand nodded at him. “I am Randulf Fitz Hugh.”
    One side of the man’s face lifted in a smile. One of the eyes focused on Rand. “I am Newlin,” he answered in perfect French.
    “Are your Latin, Welsh, and English as good as your French?”
    “My Latin is better than most,” he answered, or so Rand translated from the holy language and hoped he was right.
    “My English is also good,” the man continued. “But my Welsh …” He finished by rattling off a sentence of which the only word Rand recognized was Cymru, the Welsh word for Wales. Rand had tried to learn the fundamentals
of the Welsh native tongue during the months of his preparation for his journey here. Notwithstanding the king’s order that the language of court be the language of the land, it was more practical to converse in the language of the people he was set to rule. But it was clear his brief lessons had left some gaping holes in his knowledge.
    He addressed the man in French. “You are a native of this area?”
    “I am the bard of Carreg Du. I have lived here forever.”
    “Where precisely is your home?”
    He gestured with his good hand. “This domen sometimes provides my shelter. Other times the trees.”
    “What of the village of Carreg Du? It lies less than two miles south. Do you never live among your people?”
    The twisted little man gave Rand a twisted sort of smile. “I am among my people. The people of the trees. Why have you abandoned your people?”
    Rand studied the bard. His body might be twisted and misshapen, but it was clear his mind had not suffered an equivalent misfortune. “Like you, I also am among my people. I come to make my home here. To build a castle that will protect all who choose to live in peace. In peace,” he reiterated.
    “In peace.” The bard’s colorless eyes looked off in disparate directions, yet Rand knew the man watched him closely. “You English have never been wont to come to Wales in peace.”
    Rand crossed his arms over his chest. “That is a subject I would discuss with Clyde ap Llewelyn. Can you take a message to him?”
    The bard began to rock back and forth, just a small motion but Rand noticed. “Aye,” Newlin answered. “When would you meet, and where?”
    “Here.” Rand laid one hand on the flat slab the bard sat upon. “This is a holy place, I take it.”
    “A domen . A burial vault.”
    “A burial vault. And you live in it?”

    “Sometimes.”
    Rand nodded, though he did not understand a man who lay down upon the bones of other men. “If they will come, we can talk.”
    “Of peace?” the bard asked.
    “Of peace.” Rand did not expect them to agree to the sort of peace he envisioned. Still, his position was strong. Clyde ap Llewelyn had no surviving sons to succeed him. That was one of the few bits of information Henry had provided to him. If the aging Clyde did not name a strong successor before he died, there would either be a struggle among the remaining men of the village for dominance, or another, stronger village would take them over. It had ever been so among the warring Welsh.
    But if Rand could prevent the people of Carreg Du from allying themselves with any other families, he would have no significant trouble with them. And though they might despise him, his greater strength