LadyOfConquest:SaxonBride

by Tamara Leigh

  The curious commoners, the workers on the wall, the men-at-arms atop the gatehouse, and the knights summoned from the donjon all stared as their injured lord led his captive over the drawbridge.

  Head high, she fixed her gaze on Pendery’s back, refusing all the pleasure of seeing her cower. It was no easy thing with fear bounding through her, but anger—even hatred—helped.

  Remember your father and brothers, their lives brutally taken at Hastings, she silently counseled as she passed beneath the gatehouse’s portal. Forget not your mother’s death when the roof set afire by Normans collapsed upon her. Feel the terror of your flight into the wood when they sought to defile you. Imprint this moment on your mind—the humiliation to which Pendery subjects you, the chafing of your wrists, the hatred Normans and Saxons alike cast upon you. Remember, Rhiannyn, who is no longer of Etcheverry. Remember.

  Inside the inner bailey, she was presented with another challenge. Sir Ancel, eyes glimmering with satisfaction, nearly withered her resolve. Well she remembered his handling while he had overseen her stay in the dungeon, how he had beaten her and named her the foulest of things female. And now he separated from the other knights to step into her path.

  Forced to a halt, she resisted the strain of her lead and met his gaze.

  “Saxon whore!” he proclaimed.

  She sucked a breath. Saxon whore. Norman whore. Ever named, but neither was she. She was Saxon, and that was all, her virtue intact despite what any thought of her.

  Though Maxen Pendery was blocked from her view, she felt his gaze though Sir Ancel. Undeterred, she leaned toward the knight and returned the insult. “Nithing!”

  Coward. It was one of the few Anglo-Saxon words he knew well. It had been shouted at the Normans during the battle of Hastings, and Rhiannyn had spat it at him when he had visited her cell.

  Knowing the edge to which she pushed him, she steeled herself for the blow. But though he drew his arm back, Pendery caught it, twisted it behind the knight, and barked, “Stand down!”

  Words sputtered from Sir Ancel, and his face flushed, but he had no means of reprisal. “My lord,” he grudgingly acceded.

  Pendery shoved him aside.

  For once, punishment was given elsewhere, and it stunned Rhiannyn. What did it matter if another struck her? Might there be a spark of humanity in The Bloodlust Warrior of Hastings? Or did he simply reserve for himself the pleasure of her suffering?

  “Ready yourselves,” Pendery ordered his knights. “We ride within the hour.”

  Rhiannyn pressed her lips to keep from crying out. Though she had prayed his injury would prevent him from going after Edwin and his followers this day, giving them a chance to flee, it was not to be.

  When he looked to her, she said, “I beg you, do not.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Begging is good. But ineffective.”

  No humanity. Not a spark.

  Forgoing the rope, he gripped her arm and pulled her toward the far tower of the gatehouse.

  She peered up the great stonework structure. Though its primary function was to guard the castle’s entrance, the towers on either side of the portal housed several small rooms intended for captives of higher status than those who were tossed in the cells beneath the donjon.

  Surely he did not mean to imprison her here when the alternative better served his revenge?

  “Maxen!”

  Pendery turned Rhiannyn with him, and she watched Christophe’s ungainly approach.

  What had not struck her before now did. Christophe had played an important role in his brother’s deception, aiding in her escape so Maxen Pendery could discover the location of Edwin’s camp. But had he done so knowingly? Or had he also been deceived?

  Christophe’s expressive eyes begged her to believe he had not known of his brother’s plans, but it was not necessary. In her heart, she knew the answer. He had been deceived.

  “What is it you wish, Christophe?” Pendery asked.

  “You have been injured!” Concern tightened his face as he considered the blood staining his brother’s tunic. “Perhaps I—”

  “You did not come to discuss my injury, did you?”

  Christophe shifted his weight. “I did not, but…” He shook his head. “If you would allow it, I would speak with Lady Rhiannyn a moment. A-alone.”

  “She is a prisoner, and no lady. Return to your books and squander no more time on her.”

  “But—”

  “I have spoken.”

  Christophe’s shoulders sank, and he retreated.

  Indignant over Pendery’s treatment of his brother, Rhiannyn said, “He is not a child and should not be treated as one.”

  “Not a child? What, then? A man?”

  “Soon—if you show him respect and not beat down his voice.”

  As if deeming her unworthy of such a discussion, Pendery spun her around to enter the tower.

  As the stairway was narrow, there was but one place for her—behind him. In her attempt to keep pace, she stumbled during their ascent, and it was his steely grip that kept her from falling on the steps.

  Upon reaching the uppermost floor, he threw open the door and pushed her inside. “Your new home.”

  Standing in the center of the small, rectangular room, she noted it was empty except for a pallet and basin, its stone floor without benefit of rushes. But it was more livable than the dungeon cell. Why?

  She turned and caught the shadow of pain and fatigue in Pendery’s eyes before he narrowed them. Though he disguised well the extent of his injury, he had been cut deep and lost an amount of blood that would have laid down most men. She nearly pitied him.

  “Why not the dungeon?” she asked.

  He thrust his chin at the opening in one wall that threw a wedge of light on the stone floor. “The dungeon has no windows.”

  With foreboding, she asked, “For what do I require a window?”

  He smiled. “I would not wish you to miss the sunrise. It can be quite spectacular when not hidden by English clouds.” The smile flattened. “And it will be spectacular. I promise you.”

  Doubtless, he took pleasure in her misgivings, but soon enough she would know what she did not wish to know. “How thoughtful of you,” she said and lifted her bound hands. “And this?”

  He strode forward and began loosening the knot. “So simple, Rhiannyn,” he said. “All I require is a name.”

  One she did not have. And it would be futile to continue the lie she had killed Thomas. However, she had to ask, “If I give you the name, will you leave the others be?”

  “Harwolfson’s followers?”

  “Aye.”

  “Non. The rebels cannot be allowed to continue their assaults. Be it by bloodshed or Norman rule, they will be stopped.” He pulled the knot free and unwound the rope. “The choice is yours.”

  Stepping back, she rubbed her wrists.

  “As told before,” he said as he bundled the rope, “keep your secret and scores will die. Tell me, and they may live.”

  “I cannot.”

  “Then it is decided.” He crossed the room, stepped out onto the landing, and closed the door.

  Hearing the bar fall into place, she whispered, “Run, Edwin. Run, ere ’tis too late.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Holding his shoulders straight, though they ached from the weakening in his side, Maxen approached the far end of the hall where the lord’s chamber was situated.

  Of course, it could hardly be called a chamber, he thought as he regarded the screen behind which the simple trappings lay. The modest cell he had occupied at the monastery had provided more privacy. Granted, the lord’s chamber at Etcheverry was of greater size than the cell, but all that separated it from the rest of the hall was a wooden, many-paneled screen held together by articulating leather hinges. What happened behind the screen could be hidden from eyes, not ears.

  Telling himself he must remember this since his knights had last served Sir Ancel and, thus, might remain loyal to the ma
n, Maxen stepped around the screen. Once inside the chamber, he lifted the coarse Saxon tunic he had donned after the struggle with the witch’s men and began peeling away the crude bandages. However, the bloody flow having been stemmed, the material stuck fast to the wound.

  He dropped the tunic and stepped around the screen to call for water and fresh bandages, but Christophe had anticipated the need. His sideways hitch prominent, he approached alongside a woman servant who carried a basin of water and long strips of linen that fluttered to the rhythm of her swaying hips.

  A Saxon woman whose face knew more expression than a glower, Maxen mused as he received her inviting smile. It was a welcome change after Rhiannyn, but not enough to make him want to take her to bed.

  Although two years of celibacy made his body ready to know a woman, he was not. But eventually he would, for if he must live the sinful life of man, there seemed no reason he should not live all of it. The same as before Hastings, though this time with memories between.

  “Sit,” Christophe said. “Theta and I will tend you.”

  Maxen raised an eyebrow. “I did not know you had taken an interest in healing.”

  “There was a need, and I filled it.” Christophe dropped the bag he carried onto the bed.

  “What mean you?”

  “With the continual warring between Saxons and Normans, there must be someone to care for the sick and fallen.”

  “There are others trained for that work.”

  Christophe met his gaze. “There was one, but he is dead.”

  “How?”

  “Murdered.” He turned his attention to the contents of his bag.

  “Continue,” Maxen ordered, annoyed at being forced to rise to his little brother’s bait. “What do you wish me to know?”

  Christophe came back around. “He was a Saxon, his name Josa, and he was a good man. Much of what I know of healing I learned from him.”

  “And?”

  “He had the misfortune of continued loyalty to his own. In an attack upon the castle when it was first being raised, several Saxons fell. After all quieted, and Josa had finished tending Thomas’s injured men, he slipped outside the walls to see if any among his people lived. There was one, and Josa was attempting to aid him when Sir Ancel struck him down with a blow to the head. Murdered.”

  Though Maxen longed to harden himself against the injustice, he asked, “What of Sir Ancel?”

  “You wish to know if he was punished?”

  “Oui.”

  “Thomas was angered, but he did nothing to prevent Ancel from doing the same in the future.”

  “Then you blame Thomas.”

  Christophe drew a deep breath. “I am not saying our brother was bad. I am saying he was not good—and certainly not blameless for all the ill that has befallen the Penderys.”

  Maxen dragged the tunic off over his head. “I have listened,” he said, “and I am finished.” He lowered to the chest at the foot of the curtained bed to await his brother’s ministrations.

  “You are a cold man,” Christophe said and began removing the dirty bandages.

  Though tempted to send him away, Maxen quelled the impulse. If the wound was to be cleansed of any infection that had set in, he needed his younger brother. If he died later, so be it, but not before he had done what he had come to do.

  The wound was cleansed, stitched closed, and smeared with a salve so pungent Theta grimaced as she re-bandaged it.

  “Rhiannyn is well?” Christophe said, eyes luminous with concern that made Maxen want to shake him.

  “As you saw, she lives,” he said, then finding the woman servant’s fingers too inclined to caress, he took the bandage from her and finished winding it around his waist.

  Christophe stepped nearer. “I did not ask that.”

  Displeased by his championing of Rhiannyn, Maxen said, “Regardless, ’tis your answer.”

  “Then I shall see for myself.”

  Maxen caught his arm. “I will not have her work more of her deceit upon you,” he growled, distantly aware they were not alone—that the Saxon woman stood nearby, and his retainers were on the opposite side of the screen. “You will stay away from her.”

  The youth’s attempt to pull free was unsuccessful. “Before I sent for you,” he said, “I was lord of Etcheverry. I ruled all you have come to claim.”

  “You, Christophe? Need I remind you it was not of my choosing to shoulder the responsibilities of the heir, that it was Sir Ancel who lorded Etcheverry in your stead?”

  Hurt flitted across the youth’s face. “I had thought you would be different after the monastery.”

  The words struck a chord in Maxen that was better left unplucked. Fighting an inner battle, he squeezed his eyes closed. “So had I.”

  “Then—”

  “Do you forget Thomas lies cold beneath the earth?” Maxen exploded. “That the woman you call lady is responsible for his death?”

  Christophe took a step back, and Maxen regretted the words he had been holding in for weeks. Though he had come near to speaking them many times, he’d had enough presence of mind to contain them. Until now.

  Releasing Christophe, he harkened back to his journey to Etcheverry. Throughout, he had hoped his brother could be groomed to become the heir, thus freeing Maxen to return to the monastery. But it seemed a false hope. Not long after his reunion with the youngest Pendery, he had accepted it was unlikely Christophe could shoulder such responsibility. He was too gentle, too innocent, and too determined to remain so. The bitterness that came with that realization ran too deep for Maxen to keep it hidden forever, and now it was known.

  Christophe’s voice broke through Maxen’s torment. “It was a trick, oui?”

  Maxen knew to what he referred. He had not revealed his plans for Rhiannyn to anyone, allowing all to believe she had truly escaped. And when he had departed three days past, he had told none of his destination. Now they knew.

  “Christophe,” he began, and out of the corner of his eye saw the Saxon woman cock her head with interest. “Leave us!” he growled.

  “Harmless,” Christophe said as she retreated. “She speaks little French.”

  “No Saxon is harmless,” Maxen retorted, “especially those who wish to bed a Norman.”

  Christophe pushed a hand through hair far too long to show any resemblance to the preferred Norman style. “You have not answered me. You tricked me, did you not?”

  Maxen had, but it did not absolve Christophe of what he had done, nor of what he might do in the future. “I did, and you betrayed me.”

  “By aiding Rhiannyn?” He shook his head. “It cannot be called betrayal if I did something you wanted. In fact, it is just as well said that I followed your instructions.”

  “You are saying you would have done it had I asked?”

  “Non.”

  Maxen turned opposite, threw open the chest containing the garments that had been Thomas’s, and removed the quilted jerkin he would wear beneath his dead brother’s hauberk. “Betrayal, then,” he concluded. “By my design or no, you acted to betray me.”

  “I acted to save a woman innocent of the crimes of which she is accused.”

  Innocent. If Maxen could grab the word from Christophe’s mouth and throw it to the floor, he would grind it beneath his heel. “We have had this discussion before.”

  “Discussion! Nothing is discussion with you. It either is or is not, according to what you wish it to be.”

  Maxen used the time required to don the jerkin to cool his anger. “As I am lord,” he said, “it should come as no surprise.”

  “It does not, but still I would have my say.”

  Maxen nearly denied him, but Rhiannyn’s warning that Christophe would become a man only if he was shown respect and his voice not beaten down, flew at him. Though it angered him to give credence to what the woman had said, he inclined his head. “Have your say, and be quick about it.”

  Christophe blinked in surprise. “You are wrong about Rhiann
yn. Though she tried to make Thomas think her bad, she is good of heart. Never would she knowingly harm anyone.”

  Maxen stepped around the screen and ordered a languishing squire to deliver him the great hauberk. “The Saxon woman has duped you, young Christophe,” he said, coming back around, “the same as she did Thomas.”

  “I do not believe it.”

  “You do not think she betrayed you in leading your brother to his death?”

  “She but wished freedom. She could not know running from Thomas would bring death upon him.”

  “It is Thomas you blame?”

  “I do. Had he allowed Rhiannyn to return to her people, he would not be dead.”

  “If you think to convince me she is not responsible, you will have to do better than that.”

  “He as good as caged her, Maxen—imposing clothing, manners, and a title she wanted nothing to do with.”

  “He would have made her his wife,” Maxen said between his teeth, “not the bed warmer she deserved to be.”

  Christophe shook his head. “She did not love him.”

  “What fanciful notions have been put in your head? Many are the marriages made without love. Such foolish emotion is not required to unite warring families, to increase a family’s holdings, to breed children of good stock to carry on the name.”

  “But she did not want that.”

  “And look what her selfishness wrought,” Maxen growled. “Another brother dead at the hands of the Saxons and my chosen life stolen from me.”

  Christophe turned on his heel and limped away. “It is you who are selfish,” he tossed over his shoulder. “You who could make all right, but will not even try.”

  The hard truth of his words stole the rejoinder from Maxen. At an impasse, he watched his brother go, then closed his eyes and prayed for guidance. In the end, there was nothing—only growing enmity toward the woman who had disturbed his carefully laid plans.

  From the narrow window of her tower room, Rhiannyn watched Maxen Pendery ride out from the castle with a garrison of more than a hundred men, a third of whom were fully armored and mounted. The men-at-arms marched behind.