LadyOfConquest:SaxonBride (37 page)

“Are you with child, Elan?” Maxen asked, though he knew it was so by way of her—

What?
he asked himself.

Performance
, he silently named it, recalling the girl who had darted about the castle while her brothers swung swords. With exaggerated emotions and behavior, she had vied for attention, and it appeared the years had not matured that out of her.

She dropped her hand from her belly. “
Oui,
your ravished sister is pregnant.”

Maxen considered her. “You seem not as disturbed as I would expect.”

She gasped. “What would you have me do? Put a dagger to my wrist? Throw myself from a cliff? Never! I will bear this misbegotten child and…”

“What?”

He saw struggle in her eyes, and he hoped it was evidence of a conscience. But the indulgence of youth so firmly a part of her trampled the responsibility of an adult when she said, “I will give the babe to the Church to raise as God wills it.”

“As easy as that?”

She laughed derisively. “Surely you do not suggest I keep the child of a man who violated me?”

“I suggest naught. I simply ask. But tell, why come to Etcheverry rather than enter a convent?”

She nodded at the missive. “Read it.”

Maxen tapped the parchment against his thigh, but did not unroll it.

She sighed. “Father would have sent me to a convent, but I begged him to send me to you for the duration.”

“Why?”

She rolled her eyes. “Me in a convent? I would die of boredom or be mercilessly berated—perhaps flogged—for some little thing I said.”

“You think I will not do the same?”

She sharpened her eyes upon him, attempted to draw a smile from him with her own, but when he remained unmoved, she said softly, “Would you?”

“Do not test me, Elan. You are welcome here, but if you wreak havoc on my household, I will send you to the nearest convent. Understood?”

Though resentment flared in her eyes, she inclined her head.

Still, he was certain she would unsettle his household, but after chastising himself for the chance he took in allowing her to pass her pregnancy beneath his roof, he said, “Now the rules.”

She groaned.

And he began listing the things he would not allow, and what would be expected of her.

She had barely considered she might become pregnant. After all, she had more than once lain with Royden, her father’s man-at-arms, before duping Edwin Harwolfson into taking the blame for her loss of virtue.

Feeling sick down to her toes for all that had gone awry, Elan turned on the pallet which had been overstuffed to accommodate her condition and stared at the shadowed ceiling.

Ah, the lie of it,
she silently lamented as she thought back to the day she had begun this ruse. Following her tryst with Harwolfson, she had ridden back to the castle with well-placed rips in her gown, tangled hair, and scratched face and limbs. She had thrown herself at her father’s feet, and between his shouts that ascended to the beams above and the heavens beyond, blubbered all of what had befallen her.

But though she had done well to make herself look ravished, she had not thought to stain her skirts with blood. Thus, harboring hope her chastity remained intact enough to give her the appearance of purity so her betrothed would not question it, her father had summoned a physician. In the presence of Elan’s mother, the man had made his examination.

Recalling when he had straightened and looked into her eyes, Elan shuddered. In his own eyes had shone suspicion that the one accused of ravishing her had not been the first to have her. But perhaps because he was so staunchly Norman, he had not revealed her. Rather, he had muttered about the necessity of cleansing England of the barbarian Saxons.

When her sire was told she was no longer a maiden, his raging against Edwin Harwolfson had resounded around the hall. Then his wrath had turned from the Saxon rebel to her. And her mother against whom she huddled—a woman of pitifully weak disposition—had spoken not a word in defense of her daughter.

As the lord of Trionne whipped Elan with his tongue for riding unescorted outside the walls, his wife had simply patted and stroked and hushed her. There had been nothing affected about Elan’s tears then, for never had she been so harshly spoken to, nor so near to being struck. When her father’s fury eased, he had set in motion plans to see her wed earlier than what had been negotiated lest a child grew in her. Providing her betrothed had agreed, a hidden vial of blood on their wedding night would have proved she had come to him a maiden. He had not agreed.

Elan’s father had counted on the man’s old age to make him ripe for deception. But his years made him wise, and his suspicions caused him to break the betrothal.

She had been secretly relieved, for though her ploy had been a means of absolving her of responsibility for her loss of virtue, she had dared to dream she would also be absolved of being bound to a withered old man whose bones creaked beneath flaccid skin and muscle and whose hands upon her would surely make her heave.

Thereafter, the wait began to see if the handsome Saxon rebel she had invited to put his hands on her had gotten her with child.

A sob escaped Elan. If her belly had not swelled, she might have persuaded her father to make a better match for her, might even now be wed to one befitting her youth and beauty. But even when this babe was out of her and out of sight, it would not be easy to wed well, for though talk of her ruin might be overcome, there would be other whispers that reached ears she would rather they did not.

She swiped moisture from her cheeks, hating what tears wreaked upon her face—flushing it an unbecoming color, puffing her eyes red and sore until she could barely see past narrow slits.
 

No need to cry
, she told herself. Once she birthed Harwolfson’s brat, she could begin anew—providing she survived the birthing. She slid her hands down her hips and wished them a bit wider. She was not such a small thing, but the physician had warned birthing would be difficult.

Another sob escaped, and she silently cursed the Saxon rebel for being so virile it took but one encounter to impregnate her. Next, she cursed him for being so tall and broad that his child would likely be of a size that further endangered her life.

“Lady Elan, are you well?” asked one whose voice vibrated through her.

She swung her head around and found the attractive face of Sir Guy before her where he crouched beside her pallet. Had her sobs awakened him, causing him to rise from his own pallet in the hall?

She breathed in, liked the smell of him. “I am well.”

“I heard you crying.”

She shrugged. “I am sad.”

“To have left Trionne?”

“That is some of it.” Not truly, for she did not miss her father’s glower, air of disgust, and harsh words.

“What is the rest of it?” Sir Guy asked.

Something inside her shifted, took a peek, and began to blossom beneath his concern. Opening her throat a bit, the better to answer on a husky breath men found so appealing, she said, “Has my brother not told you?”

“
Non,
lady.”

He would know soon enough, she thought, her hand drifting to her belly that would not long remain flat. She sat up. “We should speak elsewhere.” Away from those with whom they shared the hall’s sleeping quarters.

Sir Guy held out a hand. “I know a place.”

The moment his fingers closed over hers, she was certain of one thing—she liked his touch.

When they gained an alcove across the hall, he released her.

Wishing he had not, for she might better gauge his reaction with his hand upon her, she said, “I am…” She caught her breath. “…with child.”

Though her words must have shocked him, it was too dark in the alcove to catch his expression. “I see.”

She sniffed. “
Non,
Sir Knight, you do not.” She let a long moment pass. “It is not any misbegotten child I carry. It is…” This time, her pause was not planned, her pending revelation flushing her with shame she had previously experienced in small measure. “It is the
wolf’s
child.”

“As expected.”

Elan felt a sinking in her center. Though she was aware her father had made it known Harwolfson had ravished her, she had not expected the news to spread so soon so far. Nor had she expected to regret it as much as she now did. Why? How could this man make her feel vile when she should not care what he thought of her? He was just another man, no different from Royden.

“I understand your loathing, Sir Guy,” she said, unable to keep resentment from her voice. “I shall return to my sleep.”

He pulled her back. “I do not loathe you, for surely you are not to blame for the babe.”

No other,
she silently admitted. “
Non,
I am not,” she spoke perhaps her hundredth lie on the subject of her violation.

He nodded. “Harwolfson will pay for what he did. This I vow.”

Though she shrugged off guilt as she had many times, it always left enough residue to easily return. Doubtless, either by her father’s hand, her brother’s, or this knight’s, her lover would pay a debt he did not owe. And all because she had needed to explain her lack of virtue. Still, Edwin Harwolfson had been a dead man long before she had named him a ravisher. Regardless of her accusation, he would die for his rebellion against the Normans. Thus, she was not to blame.

Conscience easing again, she asked, “Why would you take up my cause, Sir Guy?”

“If you wish it, lady, I would be your friend.”

Friend? That was all?

For shame, Elan Pendery,
she silently chastised.
You carry a misbegotten child and already your mind turns to taking another man into your bed.

She summoned her prettiest smile, hoped some of it would be seen. “Then friends we shall be.”

“Friends,” he affirmed.

Oddly moved by his offer, she walked beside him to her pallet. “Good eve,” she said as she settled beneath her blanket.

He reached down and pushed the hair off her brow, a stirring gesture for all its seeming innocence. “Good eve, lady.”

For a long time, she stared at where he bedded down. Then, smiling, she gave over to sleep and its lovely dreams.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

“She is gone,” Maxen said.

Rhiannyn turned from Lucilla to her husband who entered the hall. Leaving the vapor of his warm breath in the cold morning air outside, he pushed the door closed and continued toward her.

“You speak of Theta?” she said, thinking he must have heard her ask Lucilla about the woman’s whereabouts.

“I do.” He halted before her.

Lucilla murmured something and hurried away.

“Where has Theta gone?” Rhiannyn asked.

“I have sent her with my father’s men. On their journey to Trionne, they will deliver her to Blackspur Castle.”

“Why?”

“She has plagued you long enough, and I will have no more of her lies filling the corners of Etcheverry.”

Rhiannyn smiled. She knew he accepted it was Theta who had lied about the Saxons revolting against him, but it was good to hear it. And better she would no longer suffer the woman’s jealousy.

“Does Sir Guy know you have sent her to Blackspur?”

Maxen unfastened the brooch holding his mantle closed. “He knows, though as you have guessed, he is not pleased.” He drew the mantle from his shoulders and draped it over an arm. “As tempting as it was to turn Theta out and let her fend for herself, it seemed cruel—even for her.”

“I thank you, both for removing her from Etcheverry and giving her another place to go.”

“I fear she is not grateful.”

“She shall be when the cold of winter is full upon us.”

Maxen nodded. “She will be Sir Guy’s problem when he takes his place as castellan. Let us hope he deals well with her.”

Ravisher!

Edwin had kept his face impassive throughout the telling of his latest atrocity, but now, alone amid trees and lurking woodland creatures, he loosed his fury.

“Jezebel!” he shouted. “Harlot! She-devil!”

Words. Only words. And not one adequately expressed his rage.

There was at least some truth in being named a knave, a miscreant, a pillager, even a savage, but to be branded a ravisher!

He had not and would never take a woman by force, especially the one he now knew was Elan Pendery.

For days after she had given herself to him in the wood, he had knocked his mind senseless pondering her motive for seducing one she had known was an enemy of her people, but the answer had evaded him then as it did now. Worse, the mystery was further clouded by her calling what had happened between them ravishment. Curse her to—

“Hell,” Dora said in her grating voice.

Edwin swung around. How did she do it? How was she, of bent and aged body, able to move so quietly over the obstacle-strewn floor of the wood? More, how had she known his thoughts?

She smiled, revealing a new gap in her top teeth. “One day, you will have to accept I am who I am, Edwin.”

A sorceress? Nay, she saw and knew things others did not because she was watchful and perceptive. “I do not believe in such things,” he said.

“How can you say that when I put breath back into you after it was gone?”

With less patience than the other times he had refuted her claim, Edwin snapped, “There was yet breath in me when you pulled me from beneath the others.”

Her pocked nostrils flared. “Did I not foretell you would be the one to free your people and England of Normans?”

He widened his stance. “It has yet to be known if, under my direction, the Normans will be vanquished.”

As if he had not refuted that as well, she continued, “It was I who showed you the truth of Rhiannyn. A truth now proven.”

Was it? If Aethel and the others were to be believed, she had not abandoned her people, had only yielded when given no choice. Yet what of the one lost to an arrow through the back? Had Rhiannyn known what Maxen Pendery planned?

“She knew,” Dora answered.

Edwin shot his gaze to her. “You read me well, Dora, and perhaps you are gifted with seeing and making sense of what others cannot, but that is all.”