by Tamara Leigh
“Send for him!”
Guy turned to the half dozen knights who had followed him around the screen. He repeated his lord’s command to summon Christophe, and the gathering thinned by the two who hastened away.
Maxen, knowing he had revealed too much of his ailing body to knights who were not yet fully under his control, attempted to level his gaze on their wavering faces. “Slaver elsewhere,” he said. “All but Sir Guy!”
They scattered.
As Guy fit the torch in a wall sconce, Maxen released the bedpost and collapsed on the bed.
Christophe must have run with all that was in his lame body, for he soon appeared, the knights sent for him following—Sir Ancel and another Maxen could not put a name to, as well as the servant, Theta.
“There is infection,” Maxen spoke in the language of the Saxons.
Christophe laid a hand to his brother’s arm. “God’s rood! A fire burns in you.”
“Then put it out.”
“I…” Christophe shook his head. “I can but try.”
“Then do!”
Christophe quickly removed the bandages, revealing the diseased flesh. “Aye, infection,” he murmured. “Some of the stitches are torn, and there is much—”
“What say you?” Sir Ancel demanded in Norman French.
“Is he dying?” the other knight asked.
Christophe looked over his shoulder. “It—”
“Do not interpret for them,” Maxen snapped, then ordered the two knights from his chamber.
Though the one complied immediately, Sir Ancel lingered.
Several times, Maxen had glimpsed challenge in the man’s eyes. But this time, it was wide open.
“My lord.” Sir Ancel dipped his head in mock deference, pivoted, and made a leisurely exit.
“I may have to kill him,” Maxen murmured.
“Theta,” Christophe called, “bring my bag.”
Hips swaying, the woman approached and set it on the mattress.
“Guy,” Maxen called.
The knight circled the bed to avoid interfering with Christophe’s ministrations. “My lord?”
“Did you find him?”
Confusion furrowed Guy’s brow before understanding smoothed it. “Regrets, but the Saxon you seek is not amongst those captured in Andredeswald.”
Then the witch’s man had either escaped again or met his death.
Maxen lowered his lids, but feeling himself drift out of consciousness, opened them and called, “Guy! Bring Rhiannyn to me.”
Christophe’s head jerked up. “For what?”
“And a chain,” Maxen continued, “an iron at each end.”
“What do you intend?” Christophe demanded.
“Do it now, Guy!”
“Aye, my lord.”
“What do you?” Christophe asked again following the knight’s departure.
Maxen pushed a hand up his damp brow and plunged quavering fingers into his hair. “So hot. As if I am in hell.”
Christophe leaned near. “You are not going to tell me?”
“You will see.”
“If you hurt her—”
Maxen bolted to sitting, forcing Christophe to step back. “You will do what? Allow me to die?”
Christophe’s eyes widened, and his mouth silently worked before words emerged. “Non, Maxen! You are my brother. I but wish to know your intentions.”
Maxen dropped back upon the mattress. “You shall,” he rasped. “Soon.”
Rhiannyn did not turn from the cloudy night she stared into. Pendery’s coming was of no surprise. She had heard the stirring within the bailey, the talk upon the walls, the scrape of boots on steps, and the ring of metal on metal. He came for her, though why he wore chain mail and what he wanted were questions to which she feared the answers.
Her skin did not prickle when he stepped into the room, and even before he said, “I am to bring you to my lord,” she knew another had been sent in his stead.
She turned from the window to the knight whose face was lit by a torch carried by the squire who accompanied him. It was Sir Guy, and he wore only tunic and hose—not the chain mail she had thought she heard. In Thomas’s time, the knight had not been friendly toward her, but neither had he been harsh.
“What does he want of me?”
He frowned. “That is for him to tell.”
Knowing it would be useless to resist, she crossed to the door. “I will follow.”
“You will be led.” He captured her arm.
As if escape were possible, she silently scoffed.
The squire stepped aside to allow the knight and Rhiannyn to descend ahead of him. As he did so, she heard again the ring of metal she had believed was chain mail, and saw the young man had a chain looped over his arm.
Her heart sped, but she did not falter in step, nor inquire into it.
She was led to the donjon and into the hall where the knights had roused from their beds. Some sitting, others standing, they spoke in hushed tones until she came to their attention. Amid the silence, she walked with her chin high beside Sir Guy.
The sight that awaited her when they came around the screen made her falter.
Guy corrected her course and guided her to the far side of the bed, opposite where Christophe and Theta bent over Pendery whose chest glistened with perspiration. Of greater note was the redness and swelling around the wound he had received while rescuing her from death.
She looked to Christophe.
He met her gaze, and there was fear in his eyes.
In saving her life, might his brother give his?
“My lord,” Sir Guy said, “I have brought the Saxon woman as ordered.”
Pendery’s lids lifted. After what seemed a struggle to bring her to focus, he shifted his gaze to his knight. “The chain?”
“I have it.”
He closed his eyes, nodded.
The silence stretched until Sir Guy asked the question not answered. “What would you have me do, my lord?”
“One iron on her…one on me.”
Rhiannyn caught her breath.
“Non, Maxen,” Christophe exclaimed, “you cannot mean to chain her to you.”
“Now you know,” he mumbled, eyes remaining closed. “Do it, Guy.”
The knight waved the squire to him, took the chain, and reached for Rhiannyn.
She turned to flee, but the squire caught her around the waist. Ignoring her yelp, he tossed her onto the bed alongside Pendery and held her there while Sir Guy fit the iron on her wrist. However, she proved too fine-boned, and it slipped off over her hand.
Muttering, Sir Guy dragged the chain lower and fastened the iron around her ankle.
“Why?” Christophe found his voice, though it broke as the child in him overwhelmed the man.
“To ensure…” Pendery rasped. “…she is here when I recover.”
“The tower room will serve as well.”
“Under whose watch? Yours, Christophe?” Dry laughter. “Finish your ministrations, Brother.”
Tight-lipped, Christophe took the bandages from Theta and began binding them around Maxen’s waist.
“My wrist,” Pendery said and lifted it to receive his end of the chain.
Sir Guy did as bid, and asked. “What of the key?”
As the squire continued to hold Rhiannyn down, she stared at the scrap of metal.
“I entrust it to you,” Pendery said.
Sir Guy opened a pouch on his belt and dropped the key in it. “I will keep it with my life.”
Pendery turned his face to Rhiannyn, narrowly opened his eyes. “Freedom is in the length of chain, and that is all I give you.” He swallowed loudly and moved his gaze to the squire. “Release her.”
The squire obeyed, and Rhiannyn scrambled off the bed and fell to her knees on the floor. The clattering chain followed, snaking across the mattress and pooling on her thighs. She thrust it off, lunged to her feet, and retreated as far as the links allowed—three short strides fro
m the bed.
Christophe’s eyes, large in the torchlight, offered an apology, but she looked away. Though certain he had been his brother’s unwilling pawn, the trust she had placed in him had proved beyond detrimental to the Saxons awaiting death on the morrow. And looking upon him was too much a reminder of that.
She heard his pained sigh, but kept her gaze averted.
“You must not move overly much, Maxen,” Christophe warned. “If there is any chance of preventing the infection from going to rot, these stitches must stay.” No response. “Did you hear me?”
“I heard,” Pendery mumbled.
“Good. The herbal I am giving you should ease the pain and heat. Can you lift your head?”
Pendery complied, a frown his only reaction to the medicinal pressed upon him.
“Now sleep,” Christophe said and retrieved the torch from the sconce and motioned for Theta to precede him from the chamber.
“I will keep watch over him,” Sir Guy said.
Before Christophe could reply, Pendery said, “I have no need of a keeper. Leave me to my rest.”
“But Rhiannyn—”
“A mere woman. Go!”
Sir Guy threw her a warning look, and he and the others departed.
For long minutes, Rhiannyn did not move where she stood back from the bed. Though the dim light cast by the torches in the hall revealed the shape of Pendery, she could not know if he slept. If he did, she had no wish to awaken him.
When she finally moved—but a slight shifting of her weight—the chain rattled. Pendery did not react, but as she began to relax, a clatter not of her making sounded, and the chain grew taut.
She resisted, the flesh of her ankle chafing from the strain of the iron, but Pendery’s strength in sickness remained greater than hers, and she was reeled toward the bed. Lest he tried to pull her onto it, she dropped to her knees when she came alongside. And there he was, his shadowed face above hers where he had levered onto an elbow.
She thrust her hands against his chest, and as he dropped onto his back, she registered the damp and heat of his body.
“You burn,” she whispered.
She heard his labored breathing, and after some moments, he said in her language, “Most bright. Think you I approach…hell?”
Perhaps he did, for what hope had he of living if the fever did not soon break? How long before the fire consumed him?
“You wished death upon me,” he slurred, “but does it take me, ’twill not save your people. Only I and…the one you protect, can do that.”
Remembrance of the words she had tossed at him jolted her. Was it possible—
Nay, they were but words. As he himself had told in the guise of a monk, no power did she possess to bring them to fruition. If he died, the blame would rest with her, though not because she had wished it on him. No matter his purpose in rescuing her from Dora, he had taken a dagger to save her.
An ache at her center, she touched his shoulder. “Sleep, Maxen.”
“Lights,” he said low. “And colors. Never have I seen so many.”
Did the fever worsen? Might he succumb this night?
She told herself it did not matter. But it did.
A short time later, his breathing deepened. Slowly, and with as little rattling of chain as possible, she lowered herself. Sitting on the hard floor with her back against the bed, she joined her hands before her face and began praying for something it seemed God alone could provide—peace for England and no more deaths upon her conscience. Including that of Maxen Pendery.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The convulsing of Maxen’s body and the rattle of chain pulled Rhiannyn from sleep. She straightened from where she had slumped against the bed and rose to her knees.
The dawn filtering through the windows set high in the wall confirmed the fever had not abated. Maxen was flushed, and so heavily perspiring that moisture beaded on his face, and his undertunic clung like a second skin.
Rhiannyn put her knees to the bed and took his heated face between her hands. “Maxen!” she called.
Eyes tightly closed, he shouted something, then wrenched his head to the side. Convulsing again, he kicked at the coverlet that had ridden down around his braies.
She dropped her feet to the floor and shouted for Christophe as she stretched the loudly protesting chain as far as it would go. It brought her up short at less than half the distance to the screen. But as the links settled, she caught the sound of hurried footsteps, familiar because of their uneven nature.
When Christophe came around the screen, she said, “He is worse. He throws himself about and is so very hot.”
He leaned over his brother, and as she watched, lifted each eyelid. “Maxen!”
Given no response, he grasped his brother’s shoulders and shook him.
Maxen shouted something that ended on a growl, jerked aside, and dropped onto his stomach.
Face fearful, Christophe looked to Rhiannyn. “I will need assistance in turning him. Will you help?”
After a moment’s hesitation, she moved toward the opposite side of the bed.
“I will do it,” Sir Guy said.
Surprised by his appearance, she halted.
The knight brushed past her and leaned over Maxen.
Rhiannyn was grateful it was he who aided Christophe in turning his lord, and more so when it was he who suffered Maxen’s fist.
“God’s wrath!” Sir Guy gripped his jaw and shifted it side to side.
Once Maxen stopped resisting and settled on his back, Christophe drew the coverlet up his chest. “Keep him still,” he said. “I will return shortly with a draught to ease his restlessness.”
On his way out, he pressed a hand to Rhiannyn’s shoulder. “Not your fault,” he said and crossed the room and disappeared around the screen.
It surprised her that he continued to hold her blameless, though Thomas was dead and his oldest brother well on his way. Strangely, she almost resented that he refused to hate her. It would be easier if none showed her kindness. Then perhaps, she could harden herself as Maxen did—feeling nothing for anyone and using deceit as a weapon without thought of the innocents who might fall beneath it.
“If not your fault,” Sir Guy said, looking over his shoulder, “whose?”
Though she knew his taunting was not without justification, she said, “You have but to look to Duke William for your answer.”
His mouth tightened. “King William.”
A sore point, but she would not argue it.
He returned his attention to his lord who had begun to strain again. “I do not care to have you hovering at my back, Rhiannyn,” he said. “Go around to the other side so I can see you better.”
She stood straighter. “What cause have I given you to fear me?”
Her words had the effect one expected from a warrior whose bravery was questioned. “Now!” he snapped.
She pulled the chain with her to where Christophe had stood, and as she drew alongside, Maxen resumed his thrashing.
Sir Guy gripped his lord’s shoulders, leaned his weight on the bigger man, and managed to keep him down long enough for the fit to pass. Then he put his mouth so near Maxen’s ear that Rhiannyn had to strain to catch his words.
“Fight it, Maxen. Fight it!”
That his loyalty appeared more than mere fealty surprised Rhiannyn. Was Maxen capable of returning friendship? Did he? “You are friends?” she asked.
The knight’s expression told she had overstepped, and though he need not have added words to it, he said, “I would hear no more of your deceitful voice.”
Shortly, Christophe reappeared with Theta and two other women whose arms were filled with all manner of items. Though Theta met Rhiannyn’s gaze, the other two—Mildreth and Lucilla—looked elsewhere. Both were from Rhiannyn’s village, and taken by Thomas at the same time as she. They were as close to friends as Rhiannyn had, but she knew that as long as they suspected she had betrayed her people, she would be denied the solac
e previously found in their company.
As for Theta, Thomas had taken her from a village near Hastings. For some months before Rhiannyn was brought into the castle, the woman had regularly shared his bed, and though he had not wed her, it was said she had greatly pretended the role of lady. But all had changed with Rhiannyn’s arrival. Though she herself had refused to be coaxed into Thomas’s bed and rejected his subsequent offers of marriage, Theta had been displaced and made no pretense of her feelings for Rhiannyn.
“Lady, the water and washcloth are for you,” Christophe said, nodding to the items placed atop the chest, “and the garments.”
She raised questioning eyes to him.
“Uncleanliness spreads disease,” he said. “If you are to share this chamber with my brother, you must be clean.”
She glanced down her front. Her early grave, the trek through Andredeswald, and two days in the tower had left her slovenly.
“I understand,” she said.
“All of you must be clean,” he added.
Did he intend her to bathe before those present?
As if reading her expression, he shook his head. “When we are gone.”
Theta snickered.
“Quiet thyself!” Christophe ordered and thrust a basin and washcloth into the woman’s hands. “Cool your lord.”
Her face lightened, and she smiled at Rhiannyn as she moved to Maxen’s side.
Knowing she would make a show of touching her lord, Rhiannyn returned to the foot of the bed.
“If you will raise him, Sir Guy,” Christophe said, “I will give him the draught.”
The knight lifted his lord, and Christophe put drink to his brother’s lips. Initially, Maxen protested, but then he gulped down what was given him.
Next, Christophe turned his efforts to the bedding. He called orders to Mildreth and Lucilla, creating a flurry of activity that had Rhiannyn hugging the bedpost to avoid being swept away with the stagnant floor rushes. New rushes were spread, herbs sprinkled, and surfaces wiped clean. The bedding was changed so completely Maxen had to be lifted to accomplish it.
When it was time to fit him with clean garments, Rhiannyn turned her face aside to avoid seeing him unclothed.