Baron of Godsmere
Page 40
“She does, though no longer in the chamber Thomas provided her.”
“Where?”
“A prison cell within the walls. Sir Ancel insisted.”
Rightly so, Maxen mulled and realized the Maxen of old had edged out the Maxen he was struggling to become. Suddenly, 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, then curse compassion, charity, and forgiveness. Curse every last one of the kindnesses I have sought and been taught. Curse 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 advancing on her.
Pressing herself back against a wall, she demanded, “What do you want?”
Stone-faced, he snatched her arm and began dragging her from the cell.
She strained opposite, twisted and dug her heels into the dirt floor, but the only effect her struggles had on the man-at-arms was to push him past the bounds of patience. Bestowing upon her the vilest name one might wield against a woman, he heaved her onto his shoulder and carried her from the cell.
Much of the breath knocked from her, Rhiannyn could only claw at his back, a puny defense that did not break his stride or so much as cause him to falter. Defeated—only for the moment, she promised herself—she lifted her head and, past her tangled hair, watched the cell recede and the dim passageway open wide as if to swallow her.
Preferring her own darkness, she squeezed her eyes closed, and only when she was dropped onto a stool did she open them again. Grabbing the splintered seat to keep her balance, she tossed her head back. “What is this?” she hissed.
The man stepped aside, revealing she sat in the center of an unlit room, and ahead in deepest shadow was the figure of a man.
“Bind her,” that one said in Norman French.
Rhiannyn leapt up.
The man-at-arms shoved her down. As she resumed her struggles, he forced her arms behind her, clasped her wrists together, and lashed them with coarse rope. Then, holding her to the stool with a hand that bit into the muscles of 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,” he said low, “you will be still.” Then he released her shoulder and began binding the cloth around her eyes.
Though near panicked at being denied her vision, she did not move, certain he would take pleasure in stretching himself atop her to force the blindfold on her. Perhaps he would do even worse…
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 past the blindfold’s dense weave, she did as she had bid. And waited.
The long silence was trampled by the heavy tread of boots that evidenced the man in the shadows 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 a hoarse voice, the breath of which warmed her cold ear.
She turned her head, against her cheek felt the rasp of a lightly bearded jaw.
“Who are you?” she asked the one who smelled faintly of sweat and horse and leather.
“Who do you wish me to be, Rhiannyn of Etcheverry?”
Was that harsh, dark voice truly his? Or did he affect it as a means of intimidation? Regardless, there was no mistaking the animal in him. “It matters not what I want. You are Norman. Thus, my enemy.”
“Norman or no, I have the power to be your judge. Or your champion.”
Champion? He lied, but she could play the game, too. “Which will you be, Norman or no?”
“That is your choice.”
He wanted something from her, surely the same as Sir Ancel. But though he dangled her life before her, she would not yield up Edwin.
His hand closed over her lower jaw, thumb pressed into the hollow beneath her cheekbone. “I would know where your lover dwells.”
Aye, the same as Sir Ancel. Heart quickening in anticipation of brutality, she prayed it would be no worse than Sir Ancel’s visits to her cell that always 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.
“I speak of Edwin,” her tormentor rumbled.
“Not my lover. Nor do I know where he is.” Now the blow, the snap of teeth, the bloodying of lip or nose—or both.
“Methinks you lie.”
Not with regards to her virtue. Further agitated that he had yet to strike her, fearful the blow would be tenfold worse for the delay, she said with a quaver, “If it is Thomas’s murderer you seek, it is not Edwin you want.”
“Truly?” he mocked. “Then tell, who do I want?”
Dear Lord, she silently entreated, he will make of me a bloody mess. Or a corpse.
But if it forever ended her soul-tearing remorse and Sir Ancel’s abuse, 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 curses, the back of his hand, the punch of his fists, mayhap a long fall into darkness from which she would not escape.
Graveled, 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 it was not Edwin who killed 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…” That was the truth. Now for 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?”
Still naught.
“Are you Thomas’s father?”
Just when she thought the silence might snap and loose the animal upon her, he drew so near his mouth brushed her ear. “No, Rhiannyn, I am not our father.”
It took her no moment to understand, but even so, she did not believe it. “It cannot be. There is only Christophe now.”
He stepped nearer, and she felt his leg alongside hers. “Though you wish otherwise, there is also Maxen Pendery. Maxen who holds your fate in his avenging fist.”
If that was so, why had there been no mention of another brother? Neither Thomas nor Christophe had spoken of this Maxen, leading her to believe there was only their sister.
Rhiannyn was about to challenge his claim when her mind spun backward and she recalled Thomas calling upon his brother to avenge him. She had thought it was gentle Christophe to whom he cried out, and it had made no sense. But it made sense now. It was Maxen he had summoned. And Maxen had come.
“I give you a choice, Rhiannyn. Deliver my brother’s murderer to me, or your people will suffer.”
Then he would pursue and slay those who took refuge in Andredeswald, that which she had tried to avoid by claiming she had killed Thomas. Sir Ancel had threatened the same, and she knew he was capable of it, but she feared Maxen Pendery’s threat more. And yet, it changed nothing. If she revealed that an unseen person had murdered his brother, he would not believe her, would still blame the Saxons and work his revenge upon them.
“I will hunt them down,” he continued. “I will not rest until I am certain the one who took Thomas’s life is among those whose lives I take.”
As if deat
h walked past her, a chill swept her. Wishing her arms free so she might hug them about her, she said, “Then it will be innocent lives you spoil.” Like her mother’s that 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 reason other than the desire to possess her. “Aye, Thomas was innocent,” she said. “He should not have died.”
The air suddenly stirred with Maxen Pendery’s retreat, and she heard his long strides carry him away.
She blinked behind the blindfold, marveled that he had yet to strike her. She was certain he had wanted to, but something in him that was not in Sir Ancel had denied him the indulgence.
“Maxen,” she called out.
His footsteps halted.
“I say again,” she slipped into the ease of the Anglo-Saxon language, “do you seek revenge, it should be against me. My people are not responsible for what befell Thomas.”
When he finally answered, it was in French. “You will speak my language if you speak at all. Your language is dead.”
Only then did she realize his accent was so thick it bore little resemblance to Thomas’s or Christophe’s. It was more like Sir Ancel’s. “Do you not know our language, then?” she asked in French.
He returned to her, and this time when he spoke, it was from above. “Unlike my brothers, I was raised in Normandy. Thus, I do not embrace your vulgar tongue.”
He meant to offend her. Still, she understood his feelings for a language not his own. She had been barely conversant in French before Thomas Pendery had come to Etcheverry, and would have preferred it to remain that way. But Thomas had insisted that 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.
“I do not need to.”
“But you do! I am the one responsible for Thomas’s death. Only me.”
She startled when his hand settled at the base of her neck, reminding her of when it was Thomas’s hand there.
His grip firm, but not so much she could not breathe, he said, “Responsible you may be, but I want the one who drew final blood.”
“You have the one!”
“When you break—and you will—the one you protect will be mine.”
He did not know her, she assured herself. Time and again, she had been told she was more headstrong than a woman ought to be. Certes, Maxen Pendery would learn it himself.
“You must desire this Edwin very much,” he said.
She told herself not to dignify his taunt with a response, and yet she protested again, “He is not my lover!”
“Then you will not grieve overly much when I take his life as he took my brother’s.”
“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, but only just. “His death or mine, Rhiannyn, you and I will see it together.”
Determined to speak no more, she clenched her teeth and closed her eyes behind the blindfold.
“One thing more,” he said. “By your deceit, I am now lord of Etcheverry and beyond, and you will show me respect. Thus, you will address me as my lord, and never again speak my given name.”
Never again. As if her time with him, beneath his heel, 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,” that other side won out. “Never will I accept you or any Norman blackguard as my lord.” She thrust backward, wrenching out of his hold.
If he had not snatched her arm, pressing fingers into one of several bruises Sir Ancel had inflicted, she would have landed at his feet. Instead, suppressing a whimper of pain, she found herself righted on the stool.
He released her and, once again, set his mouth near her ear. “You will accept me as your lord. This I promise.”
Once again, he retreated, and when his footsteps faded into silence, 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. Now her people would pay with their lives.
Another’s approach brought her head up. It was the man-at-arms who had delivered her here, as evidenced by the powerful breath he once more breathed upon her.
“Come, wench,” he snarled, and like the man before him, bit fingers into her bruises.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked, too weary to resist as he pulled her from the room.
“Depends.”
“On?”
He chuckled, pushed her back against a dewed wall. “Whether or not you would like company.”
As he fit his body to hers, Rhiannyn was tempted to spew the writhing contents of her belly. She swallowed convulsively, 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 that, heretofore, had belonged to Sir Ancel?
“As you wish, wench,” 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 against the perverted guard, and if not that the man had pulled back, he would have gone to her aid. It would have been a mistake, for the Saxon woman would have discovered his weakness—that the blackguard in him could sometimes be more gray than black. He must not forget who she was and what she had done. Nor who he was to her.
But neither could he forget the bruises and scratches the torchlight had revealed. When he had caught hold of her arm to prevent her from falling, he had felt her response to the press of flesh rendered tender by the one who had beaten her—doubtless, Sir Ancel who had been unable to disguise his rancor when Maxen had arrived at Etcheverry hours past. The man’s power over Christophe and the rule of the lands wrested from him, the embittered knight would have to be watched closely.
Returning his thoughts to Rhiannyn, Maxen wondered at the woman who was different from what he had expected. He had come prepared for a female expert at using her body to further her lies. Instead, she had gained his grudging respect by wielding her sharp tongue against him, rather than her wiles—full lips that would be softly inviting outside the ravages of imprisonment, hair that fell to her buttocks and promised gilt-colored tresses beneath the filth, petite frame of well-proportioned curves that would make a good fit for its counterpart.
Had she lain with Thomas?
He ground his teeth. Though he understood his brother’s obsession with her beauty, he would not share it. And yet, there was something unseen about Rhiannyn that drew a man to her. At least, it drew Maxen Pendery. A kind of light—
“Almighty!” he growled.
Hating himself for entertaining such thoughts, he told himself she deserved the punishment Ancel had dealt her. And more. After all, what were bruises and scrapes compared to the loss of life? When she, not Thomas, lived? He had seen the dark stain across her bodice—surely Thomas’s blood.
Recapturing his enmity, he flexed his shoulder muscles. From his teachings at the monastery, he knew vengeance was God’s. Unfortunately, his impatience would not allow him to wait for however long the Lord might take. And Rhiannyn would provide the means by which he satisfied his vengeance. Soon she would lead him to the man who had slain Thomas. Then Edwin, his kith and kin, would suffer the worst of the Pendery wrath.
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