LadyOfConquest:SaxonBride (33 page)

Thus, Rhiannyn sat beside her husband, picked at her food, and as she tried to ignore the curiosity on all sides of her, mulled the possibility that even now she was with child. And were she not, this night her husband would be granted another opportunity to make it so.

Could she resist him? Not feel what he had made her feel last eve? If so, would he allow her to turn from him?

The trencher into which she had been staring blurred, and she longed for her mother who would surely have better prepared her for what to expect in being intimate with a man.

Fearing Maxen would notice her tears, she drew a long breath through her nose.

“It is over,” he said near her ear.

She turned her face to him, and he offered a crooked smile, the charm of which she would not have guessed he possessed. It made her smile in return, and the longing for her mother recede.

He pushed his chair back and stood. “An early night for all,” he announced.

There was grunting and grumbling from those who wished to linger over tankards of ale, but it was accompanied by the scrape and screech of benches, the thump and rasp of booted feet.

Maxen reached. “Come, Rhiannyn.”

As he raised her, she was tempted to teasing—at least, the appearance of it—and said low, “Then I will not be bedding down in the hall this eve, my lord?”

Regret flickered in his eyes and he rumbled, “Your place is with me.”

But would it remain with him?

She pushed down doubt, told herself she must be patient and understanding and all things that did not come easily to a conquered people.

When they were on the other side of the screen, Maxen pulled her before him. His kiss was light and brief, then he released her and said, “The day has been long, and there is naught I want more than to lie down with you.”

She wished it too, but not another opportunity to get her with child.

As he stepped past her and began unfastening his belt, she peered down her bliaut and grew warm at the thought of removing it. Though she had given all of herself on the night past, her modesty remained intact.

Maxen’s did not. He removed his boots and pulled off his tunic and undertunic. Back bared, he glanced around. “Would you like me to assist?” he asked.

She shook her head, reached for her sash, and eager to turn the conversation, said, “Did you tell Sir Guy the truth of us?”

Clad in long braies, Maxen crossed the chamber and lifted her sewing from the chair arm. “I did not, but like you, methinks he suspects there is more to us than what we allow all to believe. But worry not. He will not speak of it.”

As she began loosening her laces, he said, “I fear you should have taken my measure before you began sewing for me.”

She looked up and was grateful he kept his back to her. “I used another of your tunics to determine the size.”

“Unfortunately, nearly all the tunics I possess belonged to Thomas, and they are ill fitting.”

Rhiannyn suppressed a groan. She had been so pleased at her solution to busying her hands in the absence of his measurements that she had not considered how much larger he was than his brother. “I can make the seams smaller,” she suggested. Hoping she had left enough room to do so, she padded across the floor and reached around Maxen to take the pieced tunic from him.

He relinquished it, turned, and slid his gaze down her. “It seems you do require assistance.” He settled a hand to her waist and urged her closer.

“Let me hold the tunic to your back so I might know whether or not it can be made to fit,” she said.

He plucked it from her, tossed it on the chair behind, and began raising her bliaut.

What am I to do?
she wondered as the skim of his hands caused her body to start answering questions she would rather it did not in the absence of a means to prevent a child.

Her bliaut joined his tunic on the chair, and it was she who moved nearer when his warm hands made themselves felt through her chemise. And when he kissed her, she pressed nearer yet.

He swept her into his arms, carried her to their bed, and laid her down. “A moment,” he said and moved away.

As he extinguished the torch and candles that provided most of the chamber’s light, Rhiannyn came back to herself.

“Maxen,” she said when he lowered beside her, “I do want this, to be with you in this way.”

The fingers he had pushed into her hair settled at the back of her head, and she felt more than saw his frown. “But?”

“This night, can you not just hold me?”

With his eyes, Maxen tried to part the shadows around Rhiannyn’s face, but he could make out little more than the glitter of her gaze, the curve of her nose, and her full lower lip that he longed to taste. From the night past, he knew she was not averse to making love. Thus, she must be telling him her body needed time, and he counted himself a swine for not considering one so recently virtuous might suffer discomfort.

“Aye,
leof
, to hold you will be enough.” He turned her, and as he pulled her back into the curve of his body, felt her surprise. Doubtless, she had expected it to be difficult to stop a man from claiming his husband’s rights.

“Cold?” he asked and reached behind to retrieve the coverlet.

Beginning to relax into him, she said, “Not with your arms around me.”

Drawing his hand back empty, he attempted to fill it with the soft curve of her belly. There was too little of it, but in time, their child would more than fill his hand—both his hands, then his arms. He was warmed by anticipation, but almost immediately cooled. What kind of father would The Bloodlust Warrior of Hastings make?
 

“I thank you for my
morgengifu
,” Rhiannyn whispered him back to this moment. “You could not have gifted me with anything of greater value.”

And that is why I feel for her as I do,
he thought, then added,
however it is I feel for her.
As Christophe had long known, and perhaps even Thomas, Rhiannyn was no Theta—indeed, like no woman he had encountered.

“I am glad to have pleased you,” he said. “Now, sleep. On the morrow, your Saxons go free.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

In the outer bailey before the portcullis being raised inch by creaking inch, Aethel stood tall and proud at the head of the four who were to accompany him away from Etcheverry. Though by presence alone, the great man was menacing, he was more so with his wild hair and beard that he made no attempt to put to order. He looked like a bear Rhiannyn had seen skirting her village when she had been a child with only dreams to cloud her eyes.

When the portcullis made its last protest, a quiet fell over the bailey as knights and men-at-arms looked on, and those Saxons who had given their fealty to Maxen watched from the sidelines. The prisoners remained unmoving, though their eyes seemed everywhere as if suspecting Norman trickery.

Maxen stepped before Aethel. “Do you reach Harwolfson, I would have you deliver him a message.”

“
Do
I reach him?” Aethel boomed. “You think I will not?”

Ignoring the belligerence, Maxen said, “Tell him I will see him come spring, and we will end this.”

“I will tell him.” Aethel looked past Maxen to Rhiannyn. “Have you also word for Edwin?”

“Naught,” she said, almost wishing she had been less effective in persuading Maxen to allow her to attend this leave-taking.

Aethel took a step toward her.

In an instant, Maxen’s dagger was unsheathed, its blade pressed to the Saxon’s throat. “Leave now, else you will leave not at all!”

Rhiannyn stared at the dagger that had been placed on her tray so it might be the instrument of death for Maxen as it had been for Thomas.

“I mean her no harm,” Aethel said.

“Good, else I would have to disembowel you.”

As Rhiannyn stared at her old friend, she was certain she had nothing to fear. He was not the same Aethel of her childhood, but neither was he the one who had frightened her during her visit to his cell. Though his eyes were hard, there was a softness at their centers.

“My hands are empty,” he said. “Surely a word with Rhiannyn will hurt naught.”

Before Maxen could refuse, she stepped forward. “What is it, Aethel?”

With Maxen’s blade continuing to threaten the large vein in his neck, he could barely bend his head to look down upon her. “I would ask your pardon.”

Then he no longer believed the lies told of her? Did not think her a betrayer? She swallowed to keep control of her emotions. “You need not.”

“I do. I misjudged you. Thus, I beg your forgiveness.”

Because she had asked for and been granted his release? It mattered not. “You are more than forgiven.”

Aethel’s smile was slight. “God be with you, Rhiannyn of Etcheverry.” He shifted his regard to the man who held his life on the edge of a blade. “And God be with you, Pendery. You will need Him.”

Accepting the threat without expression, Maxen lowered the dagger and jutted his chin toward the freedom beyond the walls. “Deliver my message.”

Aethel grunted and motioned the others to follow him beneath the portcullis. With only the clothes on their backs, a pouch of food and a skin of drink each, the five passed out of the bailey to begin a journey that could see them traipsing all of England in pursuit of their leader.

“I would like to go up to the wall-walk to watch them away,” Rhiannyn said, nodding at Christophe who had already gained that advantage.

“I will take you.” Maxen led her to the steps and reached a hand behind.

She twined her fingers with his, raised her skirts, and followed.

At the top, he drew her to the notch in the wall past the one before which Christophe was positioned, and pulled her in front of him. “They are in little hurry to quit Etcheverry,” he mused as he stared over her head.

Aethel and those coming behind crossed the land at a pace which seemed almost leisurely. Still, Rhiannyn was certain if it were not Aethel leading, the four would run for the wood.

She smiled. No matter the outcome of Edwin’s battle and what role the Saxon played, Aethel would ever be in her heart.

The shrill sound of a loosed arrow ran the air, and an instant later, the Saxon at the rear of the party dropped to his knees. A darkly feathered shaft protruding from his upper back, he fell on his face amid the scrubby grass.

Though Rhiannyn could make little sense of what she witnessed, the horror of it made her cry out.

But Maxen was quick to make sense of it, pushing her down on the wall-walk and spreading himself atop her as an arrow meant for one or both of them struck the wall and clattered to the stones.

“Ancel has decided it is time,” he growled. Then he was on his feet, sword in hand, running toward the watchtower where the knight stood atop its roof.

“Christophe!” he called. “See Rhiannyn to the donjon.”

Past anguish over the Saxon’s death and worry over whether the others had met the same fate in the seconds since the first had laid down his life, Rhiannyn heard the clamor arising from the bailey. She lifted her head and saw Sir Ancel nock another arrow.

“Maxen!” she cried.

But her husband moved too fast, and once again the knight’s arrow fell unbloodied to the walk.

Christophe dropped down beside Rhiannyn and gripped her arm. “Make haste!”

“But Maxen—”

“He is a warrior. Come.”

She watched as her husband began mounting the steps to the tower roof. Christophe was right. She had to believe he would prevail. But what of Aethel and the others?

“The other Saxons?” she asked as Christophe assisted her to her feet.

“I do not know, but we must—”

She pulled free, swung around, and leaned into the embrasure to search the land.

The Saxon who had taken the arrow in the back lay motionless, and running toward the wood were the four who had abandoned their leisurely departure to save their lives.

Rhiannyn could not be certain, but from Aethel’s peculiar gait, it appeared he had been struck.

“You have seen,” Christophe said. “Delay no more.”

As she turned to him, Sir Ancel shouted, “The time has come to choose!”

Rhiannyn shifted her gaze to the man on the roof’s edge, bow flung aside, sword raised above his head as he looked down on those in the bailey who had paused in their flight to aid their lord. Maxen also paused upon reaching the rooftop opposite Sir Ancel.

“Now we draw the lines!” the traitorous man called to the knights and men-at-arms. “Those who stand with King William and me, there.” He pointed left. “Those who stand with the Saxons and Pendery, there.” He pointed right.

Voices rose as Maxen’s men pondered aloud the knight’s words, for none wished to stand against their king.

Sir Guy moved first, pushing through the gathering to the place where he would stand with Maxen. “The side of right is King William
and
Maxen Pendery!” He jabbed a finger in Sir Ancel’s direction. “Not the side of the traitor!”

“It is Pendery who betrays the crown!” Sir Ancel turned sideways and leveled his sword at Maxen who remained unmoving as he waited to see with whom his men would stand. “He has released the enemy to make war upon our own.”

“War?” Sir Guy scoffed. “What is a handful of untrained Saxons to the greater Norman army? Are you so weak to fear five men who know more of ploughs and scythes than ever they will know of swords and horses? Are you so short of memory you have forgotten our victory at Hastings?”

There was a stirring among the multitude as eyes swept from Sir Guy to Sir Ancel to the lord of Etcheverry.

“You will die with Pendery if you do not come to my side,” Sir Ancel warned, this time with a note of desperation. Doubtless, his belief there would be enough division among Maxen’s men-at-arms to support his cause floundered.

“Mine is the only way,” he persisted.

The mass continued to hold.

“Decide!” Maxen bellowed.

They began moving right to stand with Sir Guy.

Rhiannyn had not realized she held her breath until its release nearly folded her over.

“It is between you and me,” Maxen said and strode toward Sir Ancel. “Defend yourself!”