LadyOfConquest:SaxonBride (32 page)

He turned his attention to his men. One look at his reproving face quieted them.

“What is to be the fate of your countrymen, Rhiannyn?” Maxen asked.

She eyed the Normans, lingering longest upon Sir Ancel. He was the most provoked, as told by his rigid stance, high color, and wide-eyed hatred.

“Name it,” Maxen prompted.

Would it be acceptable? she wondered and ventured, “They will not serve you well at Etcheverry.”

“This I know.”

“Neither will they be of benefit at Blackspur.”

He inclined his head.

“Then I would redeem your generous gift by requesting their release.”

“To Harwolfson,” Maxen said, and though she did not sense disapproval in his tone, she feared it was asking too much to allow the Saxons to strengthen the ranks of an enemy he might later face in battle.

“If that is what they choose,” she said.

“They shall,” he murmured and said loud, “They will be released on the morrow.” He motioned the guards to remove them.

Rhiannyn looked to Aethel and caught his slight smile before he was prodded toward the underground.

“Return to your duties,” Maxen ordered his men. “It is done.”

As they began to disperse, Sir Ancel stepped forward. “For her”—he jabbed a finger in Rhiannyn’s direction—“you unleash the very Saxons who aspire to murder our king? For this
whore?
”

One moment the fractious knight was upright. The next, he was on his back, cupping a hand over his gushing nose and staring up at his lord whose fists appeared ready to strike again.

“Shall we end this now?” Maxen’s voice was large in the silence once more fallen over his men.

Showing his teeth in a blood-colored snarl, Sir Ancel started to rise.

Maxen slammed a booted foot to his chest, pinning him to the floor. “Shall we end it?” he asked again, the hand with which he had struck the knight turning around his sword hilt.

Sir Ancel’s inner struggle raged for what seemed minutes, but he said, “I am at your feet, my lord. What else is there to end?”

“Much, and I do not think you will keep me waiting long.” Maxen lifted his foot and ordered him to stand.

Sir Ancel did so slowly, as if fearing the draw of a sword, then dragged his bloodied palm down his tunic and bowed curtly. “I ask your leave, my lord.”

“Granted.”

With a red-rimmed grin and a swagger that belied his disgrace, he departed.

Talking amongst themselves, the others also withdrew from the hall, leaving only Maxen, Rhiannyn, Sir Guy, and Christophe.

“Why?” Sir Guy asked.

Maxen studied knuckles flecked with easily won blood. “Why the Saxons, or why Sir Ancel?”

“Both.”

“As the Saxons are only five, the power to determine if King William keeps the crown lies not with them. Thus, I gifted them to Rhiannyn.”

The knight glanced at her, and she saw nothing in his gaze that judged her for the manner in which he might believe she had gained the gift. Had Maxen confided the truth to this one who seemed more a friend than a vassal? If not, did Sir Guy suspect the Saxons were her
morgengifu
?

“As for Ancel,” Maxen continued, “The time is not right.”

Guy threw his hands high. “When?”

“Soon.”

“Mayhap not soon enough,” Christophe said, the strength in his voice rarely heard. “Do you not do something now, we could see your death before his.”

Maxen turned to where his brother remained before the hearth. “Such confidence,” he said, though not with anger—indeed, he seemed almost amused. “You do me great honor.”

“And you underestimate Sir Ancel.”

“You believe I ought to spill his blood though he refuses to meet me at swords?”

Rhiannyn glanced between the brothers and wondered at their exchange that, if the two had spoken this morn, ought to be strained by the decision to keep the wedding vows secret. Despite the seriousness of what they discussed, there was an air between them that was almost…

Brotherly, she realized, harking back to the brothers she had lost to the conquest. If this was the result of Maxen’s talk with Christophe, surely it meant the latter was confident of his brother’s intentions toward her?

Christophe stepped forward. “As you must know, Sir Ancel declined to raise his sword against you because he was at great disadvantage. Such he will not be if it is your back he steals upon. Thus, at the very least, you ought to expel him from Etcheverry.”

“I agree,” Sir Guy said.

“Your concern is noted,” Maxen said, “but unless he leaves of his own will, what is between us will be finished here where I am best prepared to know which direction to face.”

“But—”

Maxen held up a hand, halting his brother’s advance. “It is decided. Now, there is much that requires our attention, Sir Guy.” He nodded at Rhiannyn and strode to the great doors with his knight.

Alone with Christophe, Rhiannyn determined to ask what had transpired between him and Maxen, but as she stepped toward him, a Saxon woman ran into the hall.

“You are needed, healer,” she called. “One of ours fell from the scaffolding and appears to have broken his arm.”

Christophe threw Rhiannyn a look of apology and hurried after her.
 

Though Rhiannyn knew Maxen would wish her to return to their chamber, she’d had enough of solitude.

Shortly, she entered the kitchen where Mildreth and Lucilla wielded sharp knives against unsuspecting vegetables while several other servants worked mounds of dough.

When Mildreth caught sight of Rhiannyn, she beckoned. “You look a mite pale.”

Rhiannyn halted before the immense table and lifted a hand to her cheek. “Do I?”

Lucilla bobbed her head, but though she held words behind her lips, her eyes were expectant, and Rhiannyn silently bemoaned the questions there.

Mildreth swept her gaze over Rhiannyn. “Are you well, child?”

Even were it known it was as Maxen’s wife she had lain with him, still Rhiannyn would not have been comfortable answering. “I am fine.”

Lucilla’s teeth broke through her suppressed smile. “Certes, she is much tired.”

Heat rising to Rhiannyn’s cheeks, she repeated, “I am fine,” and hastened to turn the conversation with good tidings. “The Saxons held below ground are to be released on the morrow.”

Mildreth frowned. “To work on the wall?”

“Nay, to leave Etcheverry.”

“Go on with ye!” Lucilla exclaimed. “The lord wouldna let them go.”

“He has said he will.”

“Why?” Mildreth asked.

Rhiannyn hesitated. “As a gift to me.”

“Generous!” Lucilla crowed. “For but a night with him, five lives. Makes one wonder what manner of gifts ye’ll be receivin’ after a full sennight.”

Mildreth gasped. “Lucilla!”

“’Course now he’s had ye, he’ll not wed ye, and any babes will be fatherless little souls.” She sighed. “I did warn you ’bout that.”

“Hush,” Mildreth hissed.

Rhiannyn pushed her fingers into her palms to keep from touching her abdomen. Might Maxen’s child grow there? Not if Thomas—

I do not believe his curse,
she reminded herself. If she never grew round with child, it would be because God chose not to gift her with children, not because a dying man demanded it of the Lord.

Lucilla chuckled. “But at least it will be a fine brood of bastards Pendery makes on ye.”

Rhiannyn caught her breath. Though any child she conceived would be legitimate, the thought of others naming it so cruel a thing for however long it took Maxen to find or make a way through the king made her hurt anew.

Bastard.

What if something—namely, Sir Ancel—happened to Maxen before he could reveal they had wed? Their child might forever bear that name.

Bastard.

What if the king took her from Maxen and returned her to Edwin? Her former betrothed would not accept the child of his Norman enemy.

Bastard.

And what if Maxen did deny their vows and set her aside—

Nay,
she told herself,
not that.

“Rhiannyn!”

She whipped up her head, wondered when she had lowered it, and braced her hands on the table.

“Are you ill?” Mildreth asked.

Feeling a hand on her back, Rhiannyn looked to where the woman had come to stand alongside her.

“As Lucilla said, I am tired.” She tried to smile, but could not for what she must ask of the woman. “Mildreth, know you what will keep a child from growing in me?”

The woman shot her gaze to Lucilla, glowered.

Rhiannyn pushed off the table. “Do you know?” she asked again.

It was Lucilla who gushed advice, Mildreth who more often asserted some means were ineffective, others dangerous. However, the latter gave Rhiannyn hope by reluctantly revealing such aid was provided to the smithy’s wife who had birthed five children, one a year, and nearly died in delivering the last two.

But the one who had given her the means to prevent conception was not easily approached for who he was to Maxen. Still, Rhiannyn went in search of Christophe.

“How fares the worker?”

Christophe looked up from the dried plants he had spread on a table. “Blessedly, his arm was merely out of joint. I have fit it back in place, and he will have to wear a sling, but he should fully recover.”

“I am glad.” Rhiannyn drew a deep breath, stepped inside. “Maxen spoke with you this morn?”

As if to be certain they were alone, he glanced around the one-room hut where he prepared his medicinals and motioned her forward.

She closed the door behind her.

“Aye, we spoke—and well.” That last was said with wonder, but then he frowned. “I do not like what must be thought of you until he deems it safe to reveal you are wed.”

She pulled her lower lip between her teeth. “Do you believe him? That our marriage is as valid in his eyes as it is in God’s and mine?”

Do not hesitate,
she silently beseeched.

He hesitated. “I am inclined to believe him. You?”

Her shoulder jerked, and she hastened to allay the unbidden expression of doubt with, “I am.”

“But only inclined.”

Pain in her palms alerting her to the dig of her nails, she splayed her fingers on her skirts. “Too much is unknown, too much could happen, and too much is in the hands of one who would use me to bring down Edwin.”

The name Christophe spoke against his king was not one she had ever heard pass his lips, but he apologized.

“Though I pray I shall remain wed to your brother,” Rhiannyn said, “we cannot be certain all we hope for will come to pass. Until it does, I would make no children with Maxen. Thus, I am in need of a means of preventing conception.”

Though the stunned expression on his face made her wince, she continued, “I understand you provide one to the smithy’s wife.”

Distress deepened the lines in his face. “I prepare it just as Josa put down.” He jerked his head toward a small table in the corner upon which sat dozens of rolled parchments. “Though were it known,” he added, “the Church would look ill upon it.”

Rhiannyn had not considered that. “Is the herb effective?”

“It is a root,” he corrected, “and it is mostly safe and effective in making a woman barren for as long as she uses it.”

“Mostly?”

“On occasion, a child takes, though it could be more the result of consuming insufficient doses.”

“And when one stops taking it?”

“If ever a woman was fertile, she is fertile again. Had not Thomas—” He snapped his teeth closed.

Rhiannyn stepped nearer. “What of Thomas?”

He was some time in answering. “Theta also uses the preparation—of her own making, not mine. During her time with Thomas, I noted she ceased preparing it. As I suspected she hoped my brother would get her with child so he would wed her instead of you, I warned Thomas. He told me he would take precautions, and she did not conceive though he continued to have her to bed.”

“Is the root safe, Christophe?”

“For the woman.” His eyes flicked to her abdomen. “But if she is already pregnant, she should not take it lest it harm her unborn babe.”

Rhiannyn touched her belly. Regardless of what was thought and said of her if she and Maxen had made a child on the night past, such a risk she would not take—at least, not until the arrival of her menses proved her womb was empty.

She sighed. “In this, I will not ask for your help.”

“I am glad.” Christophe smiled. “You love my brother. Am I right?”

It was the same question he had put to her this morn, and to which she had not responded.

“I have seen how you look at him, Rhiannyn. I would but know if I am right in believing it is love that shines from your eyes.”

What harm? she decided and said, “I tell only you this, Christophe. I do love Maxen, and if he never returns my affections, methinks I shall ever love him.”

The length and depth of his smile widened. “He is not as easy to read as you, but he is changed in a way which makes me think he will return your affections if he does not yet.”

Though wary of embracing what he told, Rhiannyn said, “I hope ’tis so.”

“And I hope, Sister, when all comes right, you and Maxen will give me a nephew or niece—better, several of each.”

His words made love fill her so full, it felt as if it might burst from her. “If God wills it, dearest Thomas,” she said softly and left him to sort his plants.

Outside, she looked heavenward.

Lord,
she silently prayed,
forgive me any wrongs I dealt Thomas, and if you did lend an ear to his curse, let it pass so all comes right for Maxen and me and we are blessed with little ones.

The day dragged toward its close, as if the night was its enemy and it would not willingly go into that darkness.

But it went, and Rhiannyn’s hands that pushed needle and thread pushed no more. However, her expectation of being allowed to take the evening meal in the lord’s chamber proved false.

Maxen insisted she sit at his side upon the dais, the same as she had done as Thomas’s unwilling betrothed. She had reminded him that in the eyes of all she was but a leman, but he said their suspicion did not concern him, and when their marriage was made known, such consideration would give credence to the vows they had exchanged.