Free Rexanne Becnel by Where Magic Dwells Page B

’Tis only sons they value. Women are but chattel to them, little better than brood mares to give them more of their precious sons.”
    Gwynedd’s gnarled hand tightened around Wynne’s. “There is a reason for all things, child. The English pass their lands to the eldest son. ’Tis but a device to avoid conflict among several sons. Here in Wales a man’s holdings go to his most powerful son. ’Tis a tradition that cannot help but promote warfare within a family. You’ve seen it yourself. Kant ab Fychen rules only because he broke his brother’s fighting arm. Were Anwyl able still to fight, one or the other of them would by now be dead.”
    Wynne stared at her aunt in frustration. What had Fychen’s boys to do with anything? It was these boys she was concerned with. “Didn’t you hear what I said? That man—the English bastard—would take one of my children back to England with him! A son of Cymru forced to live in that godless land!”
    Gwynedd sat in silence for a moment. Her very lack of emotion, however, only incited Wynne more. How could she be so calm? But before Wynne could speak again, Gwynedd turned her blind eyes toward her niece. “The English are not a godless people. Their ways are different than ours, to be sure. But they love their sons, their children. If one of our boys is heir to a title and lands, who are we to deprive him of it?”
    “What?” Wynne sat back on her heels, stupefied by her aunt’s words. She could hardly believe her ears. She would have pulled her hand free of Gwynedd’s except that the old woman gripped it so warmly.
    “They are not yours, Wynne, these children you were given to raise. You have tried to be both mother and father to them up till now, but they are not truly yours. You know that. You’ve always known. Children are a gift from the Mother—from God, if you will. But they’re ours only for a while. Some die young; the rest grow up and leave us.” She gave a sad, understanding smile. “Perhaps it is the time for one of our five to leave.”
    “No!” Wynne leaped up, hurt and angry and confused. Of all people, she would have expected Gwynedd to understand. She was certain her great-aunt would sense the same danger, the same threat that she sensed from this Englishman. Yet her aunt felt nothing. And now she was willing to give up one of the children to some English monster. What matter that he was a lord and possessed of lands and holdings? What matter if he were the English king himself! He was English and therefore a plague upon the face of the earth—or at least on the face of Wales.
    “I will not surrender any of my children to this English lleidr ,” she vowed in a voice that shook with emotion.
    Gwynedd sighed. “Not even to the child’s rightful father? Every child deserves to know his own father.”
    Too consumed with fury and a deep-rooted fear, Wynne ignored her aunt’s words, though they mirrored her own earlier thoughts. “They are all children of Cymru. Their mothers were Cymry, and so are they, no matter if all of their fathers come for them. Those despicable cnaf have no claim on them now. ’Tis too late.” She turned to leave but stopped when Gwynedd spoke.
    “ Nith, I ask only that you hear him out. Do not make this decision in pain and anger. You decide a child’s life here. Do not make a choice which that child shall someday blame you for.”
    Wynne stood a moment, not willing, even in anger, to show disrespect to the great-aunt who had been so good to her these past seven years since her own parents had died. Only when Gwynedd sank back into her chair did Wynne give a curt nod, then stride away. Yet she could not hide from the new fear that the old woman had roused with her parting words.
    These children would not always be children. The day would come when they would be men and women, capable of their own choices and decisions. She’d always dreaded the day that they must know the truth of their births. But she’d never