LadyOfConquest:SaxonBride (43 page)

Realizing here, too, was what it meant to become one—feeling the other’s pain and uncertainty—Rhiannyn pushed up and kissed his jaw. “Just as you make a wonderful husband, Maxen, you will make a wonderful father.” This time, it was she who sought his hand. Taking hold of it, she pressed it to her lower abdomen.

“There,” she said, soft and low. “There.”

He was still some moments, then his fingers splayed and began moving over what would grow round and full.

“I am sorry I lied when you asked if I was with child,” she whispered. “I was… I do not know what I was. Lost?”

The breath went out of him, and her own stuck when he pulled his hand away. But then his fingers were in her hair again, urging her head beneath his chin.

“There will be no more lies between us,” he said firmly, but without anger.

She began to smile, only to trip over her love for him and fall back to a time when these feelings had not existed—when he had been beyond angered. Because of Thomas.

On a day of rain and tears, she had accepted the dying man’s anger—and curses—as his due. Though she no longer did, it must be told, for like lies, it was between Maxen and her.

Praying he would be as accepting of it, she said, “No more lies—nor hidden things.”

He stiffened so slightly, she was certain she only noticed because she expected it. “Hidden things?” he said.

“To which I alluded in Andredeswald when I revealed to Brother Justus I feared for my soul.”

“Ah. Thomas’s curses.”

The irony of them, she thought and said, “Aye, but what you should know is that while he lay dying in my arms, ’twas me he blamed for his death. Had I not run from him—”

“We have already discussed and resolved this, Rhiannyn. You could not have known he would come after you without escort. Thomas’s death is upon him, not you.”

She did accept that—mostly.

“Now what other hidden things would you have me know?”

She pressed nearer him. “To the heavens he called for his brother to avenge him. I thought he meant Christophe, but when you came to me in the cell, I knew it was you.”

“The Bloodlust Warrior.”

“Aye, so terribly vengeful.”

“Summoned by Christophe,” Maxen pointed out, “not Thomas, and not for revenge. You know that, aye?”

“I do.”

He stroked her arm. “I am sorry I frightened you. I was angered by my brother’s death and certain I was best locked away where I could harm no one. Never would I have guessed I would wish to be here at Etcheverry—with you.”

Rhiannyn clasped those words to her before continuing. “A thousand times—to eternity—Thomas cursed me.”

“Also as already told, words only, spoken by a man angry with his own death whose passing comes too slowly…” He trailed off, then asked, “Was my brother in much pain?”

Though tempted to deny it, it would be another lie. “He was.”

Maxen’s hand on her arm stilled and, feeling his dark emotions, she said, “What of your vengeance against the one who murdered him?”

His chest rose with a deep breath. “If I am to know who it was, the answer must come to me. No longer will I seek it.”

“You accept his death?”

“As much as I can. Now, tell me the curses he spoke against you.”

Under the circumstances, it seemed almost silly. “Thomas said that if I would not belong to a Pendery, I would belong to no man, that never would I hold a child at my breast, and never again would I know the love of a man.”

Maxen gave a disbelieving grunt. “Though the first is true, that you will only belong to a Pendery—as I will only belong to you—it is not a curse but a blessing. And further proof that God does not serve man is that our child will be at your breast come the new year.” He clasped her nearer. “As for the last, I do not understand how I am capable of feeling as I do, but you have my love, Rhiannyn.”

She stopped breathing, then a short, sweet laugh spilled from her as she wrapped her heart around his declaration. Maxen Pendery, once and nevermore her enemy, loved her. But before she could assure him he was not alone in this, he swept aside the silence as if for fear she would not.

“Once more, I must ask you to hold close the truth,” he said, “this time that you are with child, though only until the morrow when the king reveals he granted us permission to wed ere you came to my bed.”

She frowned. “For what?”

“William would prefer to permit our marriage because I wish to claim the child you carry, the better to maintain it is he who controls his nobles’ fates. But I would have the truth known that you were never my leman and our child was legitimately conceived.”

“Of course,” she whispered, then said, “Surely you know—must know—you are loved as well, Maxen.”

She felt his breath in her hair. “I dared hope,
deore.”

Beloved.
Had that word in her language ever sounded so beautiful? “No matter what comes,” she said, “on the morrow and every day thereafter, I love you, Maxen Pendery.”

“As ever I love you, Rhiannyn Pendery.”

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

The baron of Trionne was not pleased, so much that William must know it. But the king seemed unconcerned. His word was law. Thus, having announced he had months past granted Maxen permission to wed Rhiannyn and ordered their vows kept secret to prevent Harwolfson from moving on Etcheverry, the marriage could not be undone.

Unfortunately, Elan’s father seemed determined someone should suffer for his son’s choice of wife, and that was his daughter.

“I do not wish to go!” she wailed where she came up off her chair before the hearth. “How can you ask me to look again upon the one who did this to me?” She gripped her swollen belly.

“I am not asking,” Baron Pendery growled, “I am telling. You will witness the miscreant’s death—this your revenge.”

“It is enough for me that he dies!”

“It is not enough for me. Make ready to ride!”

On the verge of speaking in defense of her sister-in-law, despite the certainty it would not go well for her, Rhiannyn was grateful when she heard the heavy tread of boots well filled. Halting her advance at the center of the hall, she looked around and offered an apologetic smile when her husband’s eyes met hers.

Following the pre-dawn breaking of fast that had ended with acknowledgement of the lord of Etcheverry’s marriage, King William had commanded Maxen to accompany him to the camp. In the hour since, she had busied herself with duties which were now truly hers. But though it had been easy to ignore the curious castle folk who were fascinated by the ring upon her hand, Baron Pendery had made his every glower felt. Doubtless, he resented another lost opportunity to make an advantageous marriage for one of his children, and this one his heir.

“My sister—
your
daughter—is too far into her pregnancy to risk the ride,” Maxen called to his father as he strode across the room, having surely heard the heated argument through the open doors.

Baron Pendery swung around. “What? You fear she might lose this ill-gotten babe? Hardly a bad thing.”

Though Maxen’s stride did not falter, Rhiannyn saw him stiffen as if to suppress the desire to loose feet, arms, and fists. He halted before his father. “I do fear she could lose the babe,” he said, “as I fear she could also be put at risk. Thus, she remains at Etcheverry.”

The baron’s face flushed, and he thrust it near his son’s. “I say she goes.”

Heavenly Father,
Rhiannyn silently prayed,
let them not come to blows.

Maxen did not back down, nor give in to the temptation to make fists of his hands.

“Elan goes with us,” the baron repeated.

“She stays,” his son hissed.

“I am sorry, Maxen, but I must side with your father,” King William’s voice boomed across the hall, bringing Rhiannyn’s chin around to catch his entrance ahead of a dozen knights.

Maxen turned. “Your Majesty, surely you can see how far gone my sister is with child!”

“I see as well as you,” the king said, “and I see Lady Elan could prove useful—”

“Useful!” Maxen bit.

William strode past Rhiannyn and halted before the three Penderys, the smallest and youngest of whom whimpered into her hand.

“
Oui,”
the king said, “if I proceed with what we discussed yestereve.”

Though hope was found in his words—that rather than slaughter, he would try to make peace with Edwin—what of Elan?

“My sister is promised to Sir Guy,” Maxen reminded him.

“And she will make your man a good wife,” William said, “should it be in the best interest of England.”

After all Maxen had shared with her on the night past, Rhiannyn would have been confused if not that her husband did not appear to suffer from that state. He was affronted. And he should be, for it sounded as if Sir Guy might not only lose the castle he had been promised, but his betrothed. But surely William would not offer up Elan, for just as Maxen’s sister did not want Edwin, Edwin could not possibly want the woman who accused him of a thing of which Rhiannyn was certain he was incapable.

Baron Pendery stepped alongside Maxen. “Your Majesty, may I ask what you discussed with my son—with what you might proceed?”

“As it is not likely to be carried out,” the king said, “you need not concern yourself. Eh, Maxen?”

When Maxen answered, his voice was further strained. “Regardless, Elan should remain here.”

“She will not, and neither will your Saxon wife.”

Rhiannyn stopped breathing, silently called to her husband to carefully descend the precipice from which the king might otherwise fling him.

As Maxen stared at his king, he felt his wife’s fear. Though one-on-one he was certain he would be the victor of a match between himself and William, it was not such a contest he faced. As rude as the truth was, with but a nod at those who had accompanied the king into the hall, Maxen’s life could be forfeit.

As evenly as he could manage, he asked, “For what would you have Lady Rhiannyn accompany us, Your Majesty?”

The king raised an eyebrow. “Having been betrothed to Harwolfson, she likely knows him well. Thus, should I require insight into the man, your lady wife—a loyal and most grateful subject—will be at the ready.”

No mistaking the threat in his words, Maxen eased his clenched teeth. “Then she shall ride with us to meet Harwolfson.”

As if there had been no edge over which all could have plummeted, William smiled, stepped forward, and gripped Maxen’s shoulder. “You will serve me well again,” he said, and turned and exited the hall ahead of his knights.

There followed the silence of Pendery facing Pendery—an air of hostility between father and son.

Elan broke the quiet. “I do not wish to go!”

Her father turned on her. “I give you a quarter hour, then I will drag you out by the hair if need be.” He came back around, cast an angry eye upon his son, next Rhiannyn, and strode after the king of England.

“I am sorry, Rhiannyn…Elan,” Maxen said, “but it must be as the king commands.”

“I will make ready,” Rhiannyn said.

“I hope Edwin cuts William’s heart out,” Elan shrilled. “Disembowels him. Severs his—”

“Elan!” Maxen barked.

“I do,” she retorted, tears streaming. “How dare he do this to me! Who does he think he is? God?”

Likely,
Maxen thought. “Do as you have been told, Elan,” he said, and there being many things to which he must attend before the ride, turned away. And found his beautiful wife moving toward him.

Her face lightened with the meeting of their eyes, and he saw there the love she had proclaimed on the night past. Something to live for.

He reached to her as they drew near, and for a moment, their hands clasped and he felt the ring he had given her. Then their fingers slid past each other’s and she said, “I will help you collect your things, Elan, then you can assist with mine.”

“I ought to go naked,” Maxen’s sister mumbled, “then he would see I am in no state to ride a horse.”

“Would that not be a sight?” Rhiannyn said. “Had I the courage, methinks I would bare all with you.”

Maxen stepped outside into the awakening day and considered the inner bailey and the outer beyond that teemed with preparations for the coming encounter.

“Bend, Edwin Harwolfson,” he rasped, “else you will be dead.”

As uncomfortable as the long ride had been for Rhiannyn, she knew it must have been miserable for Elan. Whereas Rhiannyn had ridden with Maxen—excepting those times when William commanded him to his side—Elan was too large to ride with Sir Guy. Thus, she had ridden at her betrothed’s side, crying and complaining much of the way.

Fortunately, the pace had not been brutal, though it was surely not out of consideration for Elan but merely part of the king’s plan.

Dusk dusted the skies before William called a halt to the procession, and on the ridge above a grassy field bordering a wood, a camp was erected. The place was named Darfield, and it was here on the morrow Norman would again meet Saxon in battle.

It was dark before Maxen returned from the king’s tent. Throwing back the flap of the tent raised for him and Rhiannyn, he said, “He knows we are here.”

She sat up on the pallet. “Edwin?” she asked, though she knew it must be. The tent, lit from without by the torches set about the camp, showed Maxen’s shadowed figure as he moved toward her.

“Aye.” He dropped down beside her. “He is in the wood, but on the morrow he and his followers will gather at the opposite end of the field to face William.”

“You are certain of that?”

“I am—as is the king.”

She put a hand on his arm. “Mayhap Edwin will withdraw.”

“You think so?”

He did not believe it, and neither did she.

So why do I deceive myself with false hope?
she silently chastised. Even if Edwin turned away, the confrontation would simply come a day or so later.

“I do not think so,” she said, “but what of the negotiation you proposed?”

“Although King William wearies of these uprisings, his power increases with each victory. Thus, as he likely views the defeat of Harwolfson as a great triumph, I am fairly certain he will negotiate only if Harwolfson makes a fine show. And mayhap not even then.”