LadyOfConquest:SaxonBride (3 page)

“Continue,” Maxen ordered.

“It is he who sits at high table in Christophe’s stead. He who directs the household knights and to whom the steward answers. He who intends to seal his power by gaining your father’s permission to wed your sister.”

Maxen turned away. All was lost. Just as duty had bound him to defend his family’s holdings at Hastings, he must do so at Etcheverry, even at the cost of the soul he had struggled to save these two years. Suddenly so weary he longed to drop his head between his shoulders, he asked, “When do you expect the king’s reply?”

“He should have my petition in hand by the morrow. Thus, his answer will likely arrive within a sennight.”

Maxen knew William would not dally over the decision, nor did he question what the decision would be, for the king had conferred the barony on Thomas after Maxen had refused it and entered the monastery.

“Does Sir Ancel know what you do?” Maxen asked.

“He does not, my lord.”

My lord.
So, neither did Guy doubt what William would decide.

Maxen’s anger flared, and though he forced it down, it simmered beneath his surface.

“I will ready myself.” He pivoted.

“Maxen?”

He looked over his shoulder.

Guy’s smile did not reach his eyes. “It is for the better.”

“For the house of Pendery. But for me?” He shook his head. “This is where I belong, Guy.” And she who had forced him from his sanctuary would pay for her faithlessness. “The woman,” he said, “tell me she yet lives.”

“She does. Sir Ancel would have put her to death, but it is the one thing upon which Christophe will not be moved.”

“Why?”

“Regrettably, he is as enamored of her as was Thomas.”

Foolish boy. Directly or not, she was responsible for their brother’s death. “She yet dwells within the castle?”

“She does, though no longer in the comfort Thomas provided her. Sir Ancel holds her in a prison cell.”

Rightly so, Maxen mulled and realized the Maxen of old had edged out the Maxen he had struggled to become. In that moment, the vows he had taken seemed hollow. All because of a treacherous woman.

So be it,
he conceded.
If I must give up the monastery, forget compassion, charity, and forgiveness. Forget every last one of the kindnesses I have sought and been taught. Forget all!

And God help the Saxon wench.

CHAPTER THREE

Rhiannyn sprang to her feet, but there was no refuge within her prison and no possibility of getting past the man-at-arms advancing on her.

Pressing herself back against a wall, she demanded, “What do you want?”

He smirked and clamped a hand on her arm. As he dragged her from the cell, she twisted and dug her heels into the dirt floor.

Naming her the vilest thing one might call a woman, he heaved her onto his shoulder.

Lungs nearly emptied of air, she clawed at his back, a puny defense which seemed not to affect him. Defeated—for the moment only, she promised herself—she lifted her head, and through her tangled hair, saw the cell recede and the dim passageway open wide as if to swallow her.

Preferring her own darkness, she squeezed her eyes closed and did not open them again until she was dropped onto a stool. Grabbing the splintered seat to keep her balance, she tossed her head back. “What is this?” she demanded.

The man-at-arms stepped aside, revealing she sat in the center of an unlit room, and amid the shadows ahead was the figure of a man.

“Bind her,” that one said in Norman French.

Rhiannyn leapt up.

And was shoved back down. As she resumed her struggle, the man-at-arms forced her arms behind her, clasped her wrists together, and lashed them with coarse rope. Holding her to the stool with a hand that bit into her shoulder, he came back around and pulled a ragged piece of cloth from beneath his belt.

He thrust his face near hers. “Unless you wish me atop you, wench, you will be still.” He released her shoulder and began binding the cloth around her eyes.

Though horrified at being denied her vision, she did not move, certain he would take pleasure in stretching himself upon her.

Is this to be my end?
she wondered. Though she knew she deserved no better for the part she had played in Thomas’s death, she silently counseled,
Wait, Rhiannyn. Wait and listen and be ready.

Hearing the man-at-arms’ retreat, straining to see through the blindfold’s dense weave, she waited.

The long silence was broken by the heavy tread of boots, evidencing the man in shadow was of good size.

The nearer he drew, the more her skin prickled, and when he halted before her, the sensation was so strong she thought it possible he touched her.

“Comfortable?” he asked in Norman French, his voice warming her ear, the scent of sweat and horse and leather filling her nostrils.

She turned her head, and against her cheek felt the rasp of a lightly bearded jaw. “Who are you?”

“Who do you wish me to be, Rhiannyn of Etcheverry?”

Was that harsh, dark voice truly his? Or did he affect it to frighten her? “It matters not what I want. You are Norman. Thus, we are enemies.”

“Norman or no, I have the power to be your judge. Or your champion.”

The latter was a lie, but she would play the game. “Which will you be?” she asked. “Norman or no?”

“It is for you to decide.”

He wanted something from her, doubtless the same as Sir Ancel. But though he dangled her life before her, she would not give him Edwin.

His hand closed over her lower jaw, thumb pressed into the hollow beneath her cheek. “I would know where your lover dwells.”

Heart quickening in anticipation of brutality, she prayed it would be no worse than Sir Ancel’s visits to her cell that left her bruised and aching.

“As I have no lover, I know not of whom you speak,” she said and steeled herself for the blow.

“Edwin Harwolfson.”

“Not my lover. Nor do I know where he is.” Now the blow, the snap of teeth, the bloodying of lip and nose.

“Methinks you lie.”

Not with regard to her virtue. Further agitated that he had yet to strike her, fearful the blow would be tenfold worse for the delay, she said, “If it is Thomas’s murderer you seek, it is not Edwin you want.”

“Truly? Then enlighten me.”

Dear Lord,
she silently entreated,
he will make of me a bloody mess. Or a corpse.

But if it ended her soul-tearing remorse and Sir Ancel’s beatings, his attack would be welcome, would it not?

She drew breath through her nose. “You want me.
I
killed him.” And now she would feel the spit of his obscenities, the back of his hand, the punch of his fists, mayhap a long fall into darkness out of which she would not escape.

Derisive laughter made her startle. “A wee Saxon wench downed an esteemed knight of King William? You profane Thomas’s memory with such tales, Rhiannyn.”

It was that or the massacre of her people.

“No matter what you tell,” he continued, “you will not convince me Harwolfson did not kill him.”

She shook her head. “I vow, he did not—could not have. Thomas did great injury to Edwin’s sword arm and was about to put him through when…” There was the truth. Here was the lie. “…I planted the dagger.”

“Do you think me a fool?”

She did not, but why could he not simply punish her and leave the others be? Accepting she wasted her breath, she asked, “Why will you not let me see you?”

No response.

“Are you so unsightly none can stand to look upon you?”

Naught.

“Are you Thomas’s father?”

He drew so near his mouth brushed her ear. “
Non
, Rhiannyn, I am not our father.”

It took her no moment to understand, but she did not believe it. “It cannot be. Christophe and his sister are all who remain.”

He stepped nearer, and she felt his leg alongside hers. “There is also Maxen Pendery.”

If what he said was true, why had there been no mention of another brother besides the one killed at Hastings? Neither Thomas nor Christophe had spoken of this one.

Rhiannyn was about to challenge his claim when she remembered Thomas calling upon his brother to avenge him. She had thought it was gentle Christophe to whom he had cried out, though it had made no sense. But this day, sense was made. He had summoned Maxen. And Maxen had come.

“I give you a choice, Rhiannyn. Yield up my brother’s murderer, or your people will suffer.”

Meaning he would pursue and slay those who took refuge in Andredeswald, the very thing she had tried to avoid by claiming she had killed Thomas. Sir Ancel had threatened the same, but she feared this man’s threat more. And yet, it changed nothing. If she revealed an unseen person had murdered his brother, he would not believe her and still work his revenge upon the Saxons.

“I will hunt them down,” he continued. “I will not rest until I am certain Thomas’s murderer is among those whose lives I take.”

Her chill deepened as if death walked past her. Wishing her arms free so she could hug them about her, she said, “It will be innocent lives you spoil.” Like her mother’s life, which had been taken in the Norman raid upon their village.

“The same as Thomas,” Maxen Pendery said.

True. His life had been lost for no other reason than the desire to possess her. “Thomas was innocent,” she agreed. “He should not have died.”

The air stirred with her captor’s retreat, and she heard his long strides carry him away.

She blinked behind the blindfold, marveling that he had not struck her. Surely he wanted to, but something in him that was not in Sir Ancel denied him the indulgence.

“Maxen,” she called.

His footsteps halted.

“I say again,” she unthinkingly slipped into her own language, “your revenge should be against me. My people are not responsible for what befell your brother.”

When he finally answered, it was in French. “You will speak my language if you speak at all. Your language is dead.”

It was then she realized his accent was so thick it bore little resemblance to Thomas’s or Christophe’s. It was more like that of Sir Ancel who had been raised on the continent. “Do you not know our language?” she asked in French.

He returned to her, and this time when he spoke, it was from high above. “Unlike my brothers, I was raised in Normandy. Thus, I do not embrace your vulgar Saxon tongue.”

He meant to offend her, but she understood his feelings for a language not his own. She had been barely conversant in French before Thomas had come to Etcheverry, but he had insisted she learn, and she’d had little choice living amongst those who spoke only French—excepting the Penderys who were equally conversant in Anglo-Saxon.

“You did not understand what I said?” she asked and startled when his hand settled at the base of her neck, reminding her of when it was Thomas’s hand there.

“I do not need to.” His grip was firm, but not so firm air was denied her. “Responsible you may be, but I want the one who spilled his blood.”

“You have the one!”

“When you break—and you will—whomever you protect will be mine.”

He did not know her, she assured herself. Ever she had been told she was more headstrong than a woman ought to be, and Maxen Pendery would learn it soon enough.

“You must desire this Harwolfson very much,” he said.

She told herself not to dignify his taunt with a response, but protested again, “He is not my lover!”

“Then you will not grieve overly much when I take his life.”

“Only a fool would be so certain it will fall that way,” her tongue once more defied her. “Take care lest he kills you first, Norman pig.”

His grip tightened slightly. “His death or mine, Rhiannyn, you and I will see it together.”

Determined to speak no more, she seamed her lips.

“One thing more,” he said. “By your deceit, I am lord of Etcheverry and beyond, and you will show me respect. Thus, you will address me as
my lord
, and nevermore speak my given name.”

As if her time with him might stretch to years.

“Do you understand,
Rhiannyn
?”

Do not challenge him!
warned the cautious side of her.

“Mayhap
you
ought to understand something,
Maxen Pendery,
” her other side triumphed. “Never will I accept you or any Norman blackguard as my lord.” She thrust backward and wrenched out of his hold.

If he had not snatched hold of her arm, pressing fingers into one of several bruises Sir Ancel had inflicted, she would have landed at his feet. As she suppressed a whimper of pain, he righted her on the stool.

Releasing her, he said, “You
will
accept me as your lord.”

Once again, he retreated, and when his footsteps went silent, she slumped.

All for naught. As none believed her capable of murdering Thomas, she had given herself into the hands of the enemy only to become a pawn to a Norman bent on blood. And her people would pay with their lives.

Another’s approach brought her head up. As evidenced by a powerful odor, it was the man-at-arms who had delivered her here. Like the man before him, his fingers bit into her bruises.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked as he pulled her from the room.

“Depends.”

“On what?”

He pushed her up against a moist wall. “On whether or not you would like company.” He fit his body to hers, causing the meager contents of her belly to churn.

She swallowed hard, and when fairly certain she could hold down the bile and gruel, lifted her chin. Staring into the blindfold, she said, “I would rather keep company with the rats!”

She felt him tense and braced herself for the blows Maxen Pendery had held in reserve. But neither did this man strike her. For fear of denying his new lord the privilege which, heretofore, had belonged to Sir Ancel?

“As you wish,” he said and wrenched her forward.

Fool,
Maxen silently chastised as he watched Rhiannyn disappear around a bend in the corridor. A misplaced sense of gallantry had tempted him to defend her, and if the perverted guard had not pulled back, he would have aided her. A mistake, for the Saxon woman would have discovered his weakness—that the
blackguard
in him was sometimes more gray. He must not forget who she was and what she had done.