LadyOfConquest:SaxonBride (12 page)

When Christophe came around the screen, she said, “He is worse. He throws himself about and is so very hot.”

He leaned over his brother, and as she watched, lifted each eyelid. “Maxen!”

Given no response, he grasped his brother’s shoulders and shook him.

Maxen shouted something that ended on a growl, jerked aside, and dropped onto his stomach.

Face fearful, Christophe looked to Rhiannyn. “I will need assistance in turning him. Will you help?”

After a moment’s hesitation, she moved toward the opposite side of the bed.

“I will do it,” Sir Guy said.

Surprised by his appearance, she halted.

The knight brushed past her and leaned over Maxen.

Rhiannyn was grateful it was he who aided Christophe in turning his lord, and more so when it was he who suffered Maxen’s fist.

“God’s wrath!” Sir Guy gripped his jaw and shifted it side to side.

Once Maxen stopped resisting and settled on his back, Christophe drew the coverlet up his chest. “Keep him still,” he said. “I will return shortly with a draught to ease his restlessness.”

On his way out, he pressed a hand to Rhiannyn’s shoulder. “Not your fault,” he said and crossed the room and disappeared around the screen.

It surprised her that he continued to hold her blameless, though Thomas was dead and his oldest brother well on his way. Strangely, she almost resented that he refused to hate her. It would be easier if none showed her kindness. Then perhaps, she could harden herself as Maxen did—feeling nothing for anyone and using deceit as a weapon without thought of the innocents who might fall beneath it.

“If not your fault,” Sir Guy said, looking over his shoulder, “whose?”

Though she knew his taunting was not without justification, she said, “You have but to look to Duke William for your answer.”

His mouth tightened. “King William.”

A sore point, but she would not argue it.

He returned his attention to his lord who had begun to strain again. “I do not care to have you hovering at my back, Rhiannyn,” he said. “Go around to the other side so I can see you better.”

She stood straighter. “What cause have I given you to fear me?”

Her words had the effect one expected from a warrior whose bravery was questioned. “Now!” he snapped.

She pulled the chain with her to where Christophe had stood, and as she drew alongside, Maxen resumed his thrashing.

Sir Guy gripped his lord’s shoulders, leaned his weight on the bigger man, and managed to keep him down long enough for the fit to pass. Then he put his mouth so near Maxen’s ear that Rhiannyn had to strain to catch his words.

“Fight it, Maxen. Fight it!”

That his loyalty appeared more than mere fealty surprised Rhiannyn. Was Maxen capable of returning friendship? Did he? “You are friends?” she asked.

The knight’s expression told she had overstepped, and though he need not have added words to it, he said, “I would hear no more of your deceitful voice.”

Shortly, Christophe reappeared with Theta and two other women whose arms were filled with all manner of items. Though Theta met Rhiannyn’s gaze, the other two—Mildreth and Lucilla—looked elsewhere. Both were from Rhiannyn’s village, and taken by Thomas at the same time as she. They were as close to friends as Rhiannyn had, but she knew that as long as they suspected she had betrayed her people, she would be denied the solace previously found in their company.

As for Theta, Thomas had taken her from a village near Hastings. For some months before Rhiannyn was brought into the castle, the woman had regularly shared his bed, and though he had not wed her, it was said she had greatly pretended the role of lady. But all had changed with Rhiannyn’s arrival. Though she herself had refused to be coaxed into Thomas’s bed and rejected his subsequent offers of marriage, Theta had been displaced and made no pretense of her feelings for Rhiannyn.

“Lady, the water and washcloth are for you,” Christophe said, nodding to the items placed atop the chest, “and the garments.”

She raised questioning eyes to him.

“Uncleanliness spreads disease,” he said. “If you are to share this chamber with my brother, you must be clean.”

She glanced down her front. Her early grave, the trek through Andredeswald, and two days in the tower had left her slovenly.

“I understand,” she said.

“All of you must be clean,” he added.

Did he intend her to bathe before those present?

As if reading her expression, he shook his head. “When we are gone.”

Theta snickered.

“Quiet thyself!” Christophe ordered and thrust a basin and washcloth into the woman’s hands. “Cool your lord.”

Her face lightened, and she smiled at Rhiannyn as she moved to Maxen’s side.

Knowing she would make a show of touching her lord, Rhiannyn returned to the foot of the bed.

“If you will raise him, Sir Guy,” Christophe said, “I will give him the draught.”

The knight lifted his lord, and Christophe put drink to his brother’s lips. Initially, Maxen protested, but then he gulped down what was given him.

Next, Christophe turned his efforts to the bedding. He called orders to Mildreth and Lucilla, creating a flurry of activity that had Rhiannyn hugging the bedpost to avoid being swept away with the stagnant floor rushes. New rushes were spread, herbs sprinkled, and surfaces wiped clean. The bedding was changed so completely Maxen had to be lifted to accomplish it.

When it was time to fit him with clean garments, Rhiannyn turned her face aside to avoid seeing him unclothed.

Theta laughed. “Mayhap you would like to finish cooling our lord, Rhiannyn?” She stepped forward and swiped the saturated cloth across Rhiannyn’s heated cheek. “Or yourself.”

It was always this way between them, though it would surely become worse now that Rhiannyn was of a status beneath Theta’s.

“As you seem to enjoy it,” Rhiannyn said, “I would not deny you the pleasure.”

Theta flashed teeth whose white starkly contrasted with blacker than night hair “I had hoped you would say that,” she drawled.

Wishing herself anywhere but here, Rhiannyn picked up the garments Christophe had brought her and noticed their fine material. They were the ones Thomas had ordered made for her, and which he had presented the day before her escape from Etcheverry. Never worn, both gowns were far from a commoner’s clothing.

Though unadorned, the beige chemise was fashioned of linen woven so tightly it had a sheen that would glide smoothly over her skin when she moved. In contrast, the overgown—the bliaut—was of heavier material, its V neckline, flared sleeves, and hemline embroidered with threads that glinted with gold. Shorter than the undergown, the bliaut would fall to mid-calf, leaving a length of chemise to skim the ground. To complete the look, there was a sash of braided gold strands to define the waist.

The garments were not what Maxen would choose for her. Dare she don them, or should she request something more appropriate?

“Rhiannyn.”

She saw Christophe had come to stand before her. Beyond, only Sir Guy and Theta remained. “Aye?”

“For now, there is nothing more I can do for Maxen,” he said, in that moment seeming more a man than a boy. “He should sleep, but if he awakens, he may wish something to drink. On the table is wine you can give him. I have added herbs for his pain.”

The thought of trying to put drink to Maxen’s lips unsettling her, she asked, “Where are you going?”

“To tend the wounded.”

“The Saxons?” She glanced at Sir Guy and saw from his expression he did not approve.

“Aye.”

Though it was difficult to ask the question that had burdened her since she was brought to Maxen on the night past, she said, “What of the hangings your brother ordered?”

Christophe looked to Sir Guy. “They will wait until he is well enough to witness them himself.”

The knight’s mouth tightened, but he did not oppose the decision.

How long the reprieve? Rhiannyn wondered. For however long Maxen lay abed unable to govern? Or until the fever took him and it was another—Sir Ancel—who carried out the death sentences?

“Do not forget,” Christophe said, indicating the basin of water.

She nodded.

For a long time after he and the others left, she stared at the screen around which they had disappeared. Then she set about keeping her promise to Christophe.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“Maxen!” Rhiannyn cried. “I cannot do this alone. You must help me.”

He kicked, tossed his head side to side, and called for drink in a voice so hoarse it sounded as if his throat were filled with sharp stones.

“Maxen!”

His arm shot out, nearly knocking the goblet from her hand. “Accursed fire,” he growled.

Remembering Christophe’s warning against too much movement, Rhiannyn set the goblet on the table, drew her hand back, and slapped him.

His lids flew open. Eyes bright with the illness gone to his head, he snarled, “Witch!”

Were she of wax, she was certain she would melt from the heat of his stare. “I but try to help,” she said. “You were throwing yourself about, and I feared the stitches would not hold.”

“You feared I might not die.”

“That is not true!”

“Is it not?”

Knowing that to argue with him in his present state of mind would be useless, though in his other state it seemed little better, she pressed her lips tight and tucked a tress of freshly washed hair behind her ear.

His gaze moved from her face to her chest that was clothed in the clean chemise she had donned when his thrashing had interrupted her bathing.

Uncomfortably aware of the thin material, she crossed her arms over her breasts.

His lids lowered, and as she watched the slow rise and fall of his chest, she wondered if he had once more lost consciousness.

“Thirsty,” he mumbled. “So dry.”

“I have drink.” She retrieved the goblet.

He narrowly opened his eyes. “Think you I would take it from your hand?”

Bridling at the suggestion she would poison him, Rhiannyn said, “My hand, or not at all.”

His eyebrows jerked. “Then it must be.” With effort, he levered onto an elbow to receive the goblet’s rim against his lips. Eyes fixed on hers, he drained the contents.

Thinking he would settle back to sleep, she was caught unawares when he gripped her arm, pulled her down onto the bed, and leaned over her.

Distantly aware of the goblet’s clatter, she stared up at the man who blotted out sight and feel of all but him. And when he took her face between his hands and lowered his head, his mouth upon hers was so unexpected she was too shocked to struggle. But once surprise passed, something stronger than the instinct for survival moved through her. She fought it with a litany of transgressions against her people and her person, but it was stronger than the past, and she heard herself sigh.

It was then she discovered Maxen’s motive. He trickled warm wine into her mouth, and though her natural reaction was to expel it, he sealed his mouth over hers, giving her no choice but to swallow or choke. She swallowed.

He lifted his head. “Now if I fall, I do not fall alone.”

Assailed by equal parts indignation and humiliation, Rhiannyn snapped, “If you thought I meant to poison you, you had but to ask me to drink ere you.”

He smiled faintly. “This held more appeal.” Eyes heavily lidded with malaise, he said, “Would you like a proper kiss, Rhiannyn of Etcheverry?”

“I would not!”

He opened his eyes wider, and she saw the predator, though not the one who had chased her through the wood. This one was of want. This one gently slid a hand from her jaw to her neck.

She strained sideways. “Pray, do not—”

“You are not Harwolfson’s,” he slurred.

Though unfamiliar sensations ran through her, she quelled the urge to struggle for fear she would cause him further injury. “Release me. You are ill and—”

“It has been a long time.” He lowered his head and touched his lips beneath her ear.

Rhiannyn knew better than to close her eyes, but she did and felt what no man had made her feel. It was more than a kiss. More than a touch. It was the promise of—

The promise of a Norman!
she reminded herself. “Nay, Maxen, you do not want this. You do not want me.”

He moved his lips lower to a place between neck and shoulder.

“Remember Thomas!”

His head came up. Out of feverish eyes, he stared at her, then he dropped onto his back.

Struck by an incomprehensible sense of loss, Rhiannyn could not move. It was as if his had been the arms of—

Of what?
she silently demanded.
A lover?

She rejected the thought, reminded herself of the arms of her mother, father, and brothers who were dead. She wanted nothing to do with the arms of the enemy—and Maxen Pendery would ever be that to her.

“Never will I forget Thomas,” he said. “And neither shall you.”

She lunged off the bed and distanced herself to the full extent of the chain.

Eyes tightly closed, Maxen groaned.

Was he in pain? Had he further injured himself? She prayed not, hoped the herbs Christophe had put in the wine would give him ease.

Lowering her eyes down him, she saw the coverlet was around his bare calves beneath the hem of his undertunic. She knew she should cover him, but feared going near him again.

“Would you have me summon your brother?” she asked.

When he did not answer, she guessed he had returned to sleep.

While she stood there, she tried not to think on what had happened between them. And failed. Why had she felt something only Edwin ought to make her feel? How was it her enemy had such power over her?

She was still pondering it when Sir Guy came around the screen.

His brow wrinkling as he took in her state of dress, he crossed to his lord and drew the coverlet over Maxen. “He rests well?”

Rhiannyn stepped to where the bliaut lay on the chest and pulled it on over her head. As it settled past her knees, leaving the longer chemise to cover her lower legs and drag its hem in the rushes, she said, “He awoke a short while ago. I gave him wine, and he returned to sleeping.”