LadyOfConquest:SaxonBride

by Tamara Leigh

Wise. Fortunately, not all of him was trapped in Rhiannyn’s web. He would discover for certain, or reasonably certain, if the Saxons had rebelled. If so, this time he would deliver punishment.

  Rhiannyn stared ahead—beyond the guard who stepped around the Saxons to gain her side, past Christophe to a point of emptiness.

  She was about to become what Lucilla had warned against—Maxen’s leman. Blessedly, she had not succumbed to him earlier, for she would have nothing with which to bargain. But what if a child was born of their union?

  No children, Lord, she silently beseeched. I would be barren as Thomas wished it ere I deliver into this world a child branded by illegitimacy.

  She looked out over the Saxons, nearly all of whom gazed at her with some degree of pity. They knew what she had surrendered, and those who had thought it already given to Maxen Pendery—having been most vocal in naming her a harlot—appeared contrite.

  Rhiannyn offered Meghan a tight smile and looked to the guard at her feet. He was rough in the removal of the manacle, but she knew it only from watching him. She hardly felt the scrape of the iron on her skin as, over and again, she heard the shrill voice of one who had foretold this day.

  ’Tis another she will fornicate with, old Dora had said. Another she will fornicate with.

  Agitation dragged the minutes into hours they were not. He was restless, not merely with waiting, but irritation at Christophe’s plea that he behave the godly man and leave Rhiannyn untouched—that he return her yielding to her and have faith in her word the Saxons were innocent.

  Maxen had withheld his reproach and sent his brother away. However, it was the youth who had the last word, declaring Maxen’s future with Rhiannyn doomed if he took advantage of her attempt to save her people.

  Future. Though Maxen spurned the thought, Christophe’s words continued to press in upon him, and he groaned. The young man had declined a lordship of his own, certain he would make a weak master, but he was gifted with wisdom.

  As Maxen further contemplated his brother, his mind wandered so far from the one he waited upon that he nearly startled when Rhiannyn came around the screen.

  He considered the waif she presented—hair wild and unclean, face smudged and unsmiling, mortar-streaked clothes more destined for the burn pile than the wash.

  “You may leave us,” he told the guard, and a moment later was alone with Rhiannyn—as he had longed to be since she had come out from beneath his mattress a sennight past with feathers in her hair.

  He raised his ride-weary body from the chair, crossed to her, and lifted her chin. It was then he saw the remains of a bruise beneath her eye. Thinking he must have been too angry and the outbuilding too dim to have not noticed it before, he rasped, “Someone struck you?”

  She lifted a hand toward her face, but quickly returned it to her side. “A disagreement only.”

  “Who?” he barked.

  Clearly, she contemplated another lie, but she said, “The Saxon woman, Meghan. I fought—and bettered—her. It is done.”

  A woman. And Rhiannyn had prevailed. A strange swell of pride for her victory pushed through him, but he determinedly turned his thoughts to the pact they had made.

  Staring into eyes that at first appeared vacant, but upon closer examination revealed a spark in their depth, he said, “The Saxons are being questioned.”

  Confusion rose to her face, next suspicion. “Why when our arrangement precludes such?”

  “I must know what they have to tell.”

  She pulled her chin out of his hand. “And if you determine they are culpable?”

  “It will be as it should have been. Those who betrayed will be punished.”

  The spark in her eyes flamed, and he felt the weight of her loathing. But she raised no hand against him, nor gave further retort. Instead, she spun and headed from the chamber.

  With one stride, he caught her. “Where are you going?”

  She glared up at him, and he thought how lovely she was even amid filth and deception.

  “It is beyond me why you wasted your time in bringing me here.”

  “You have changed your mind?”

  She gasped. “For what should I yield to you?”

  “Your Saxons.”

  Her laughter was scornful. “As they have gained naught, you are owed naught.”

  “But they have gained.”

  Confusion returned to her face. “You speak in riddles, Maxen Pendery. I yielded so my people would not suffer undue punishment, and you are not keeping your end of the bargain.”

  “If the Saxons are shown to be guilty, their fate is the same as it would have been when I came to the outbuilding. If they are innocent, all will be as it was when I rode to Blackspur. I give them an ear, Rhiannyn, a chance to convince me of their loyalty a second time, a chance they had not ere you made a sacrifice of yourself.”

  The flicker in her eyes evidenced she understood. “It is not what you agreed to,” she said.

  “Do you recall, I did not say what I would give in return for your yielding.”

  “You knew exactly for what I offered myself—absolution, not trial.”

  “Only a fool imperils his life for naught but the pleasures of the body, Rhiannyn. But come, do you have so little faith in your people you fear their answers to my questions?”

  She drew herself up to her full height, which was not much. “The Normans believe what they wish to believe, not the truth.”

  Deciding he was done with an argument of which neither could convince the other, Maxen asked, “Do you accept these conditions?”

  He saw refusal in her eyes, and she drew breath as if to speak it, but when she breathed out, it was on the words, “I accept.”

  He lowered his head and touched his lips to hers. He was not surprised by resentment he could almost taste, but he regretted it. He longed for the woman with feathers in her hair and a hopeful smile on her lips, the woman who had said she liked him—Maxen Pendery who, for those blessed minutes, had been free of what he had become at Hastings.

  And could be again. If he heeded Christophe. More, if he heeded what he knew to be right regardless of whether or not he wore the robes of a monk.

  He raised his head, and as he silently battled the two sides of him, considered the upper bow of her mouth, its lower curve, her neat white teeth. Then he released her. “Forgive me.”

  She frowned.

  “The Saxons will be questioned, for I cannot blindly grant them absolution, but I decline your yielding.”

  Her lids fluttered. “Why?”

  Though tempted to leave it be, he said, “Since receiving news of the Saxon betrayal, I have been moved by anger, to which one entrusted with the fate of others should not succumb. Since the day you and I were last here, I have been further moved by desire, to which your friend, Lucilla, would have me fall victim that I might wed you. Thus, I decline. You will not share my bed.”

  A soft breath fell from her, and the extra bit of height she had gained slid from her shoulders. “I thank you.”

  “It is your champion, Christophe, you ought to thank.” He hated the resentment in his voice. “Now, I leave you to remove those filthy garments.”

  She startled, and though he disliked how quickly he tried to put her at ease, he said, “I ordered a bath for you. But, as told, it is not for my benefit—other than to make you presentable enough to once more serve in my hall.”

  As the distress eased from her face, he said, “You may use my robe for cover until the water arrives.” He nodded at the garment on his iron-banded chest, turned, and called for ale as he strode around the screen into the hall.

  Too confused to indulge in the relief begging to be felt, Rhiannyn stared at where Maxen no longer stood. When several minutes had passed and he did not reappear, she crossed to the chest and fingered the fine material of his robe.

  “I am reaching him, Lord,” she whispered. “Am I not?”

  More minutes passed, during which she caught the sound of his voic
e as he conversed with others in the hall.

  Finally, she untied her bliaut’s sash, removed her garments, and wrapped herself in a robe too large and too suggestive of the one who had last worn it.

  The water for her bath arrived, and she sat on the edge of the chest as the Saxon serving women carried pail after pail to the waiting tub. They knew—or had known—the purpose of their task, as evidenced by the way their eyes darted at her. But though tempted to tell them that whatever tales they had heard, Maxen would not dishonor her by claiming her as his leman, she feared she would not be believed. After all, she was in his chamber, wore his robe, and would soon be in his tub.

  When she was once more alone, Rhiannyn removed the robe and stepped into the warm water. A gasp of pleasure fled her. Not since before she had escaped Etcheverry with Thomas in pursuit had she enjoyed a proper bath. She sank back and sighed as boiling water cooled by the many steps from the kitchens seeped its warmth into her, and only then realized how cold she had been.

  After all of her was warmed, she washed her hair and began removing the dirt that gave her skin a gray cast. She scrubbed until she shone more pink than pale, until her flesh stung with raw awareness, and the water lost its clarity. Then she stepped from the tub, dried herself with a towel delivered with the bath water, and once more donned Maxen’s robe.

  She waited, hoping he would send someone with clean garments so she could leave, but only a tray of food was delivered amid the rising din of those who came to the hall to feast.

  And feast they did, while she picked at her viands and waited.

  When she heard Maxen call for silence, she guessed two hours had passed since he had left her.

  Fearing the announcement he was about to make concerned the questioning of the Saxons—that already their fate was decided and it was not a good one—she crept to the far side of the screen. Peering around it, she could see most of the hall.

  When all quieted, Maxen rose from the high seat. “As I have this day returned from Blackspur Castle and found it to be in a state near ready for settlement,” he said, “it is time to announce the one I have chosen to install as its castellan.”

  Most eyes turned to Sir Ancel, who sat a half dozen men down from Maxen. Wearing a smug smile, he raised his goblet toward his mouth.

  “Sir Guy Torquay,” Maxen said, “stand.”

  Stunned silence reflected Sir Guy’s bewilderment as he rose at the right hand of his lord.

  “For serving me faithfully,” Maxen said, “your reward is Blackspur Castle. At its completion, I shall bestow it and its lands upon you to protect and lord in my name.”

  Before Sir Guy could answer, Sir Ancel slammed his goblet to the table, stood, and reached for his dagger.

  Rhiannyn’s heart leapt, but before she could call out a warning, Maxen said, “Think on it carefully, Ancel.”

  The knight gripped the hilt, and across the distance, Rhiannyn saw his hand flex as if he measured risk against gain. Risk prevailed. Leaving the dagger sheathed, he opened his hand, spread his fingers wide to show they were empty, and said, “Blackspur is mine.”

  “Blackspur is Pendery,” Maxen corrected. “And I am Pendery.”

  “Thomas promised it to me.”

  “Thomas is dead.”

  Ancel’s hand moved to the dagger again, hovered, and lowered to his side. “You will not honor your dead brother’s wishes?”

  “I will not.”

  The knight gave a curt nod, stepped over the bench, and traversed the hall to the doors that stood open to the night.

  Rhiannyn returned her gaze to the high table and caught the look Maxen exchanged with Sir Guy as he lifted his goblet in salute. There followed a murmur of agreement, and others raised their vessels to join their lord in receiving Sir Guy as castellan of Blackspur.

  Rhiannyn crossed to the chest, once more made a seat of it, and clasped her hands between her knees. If Maxen had not been convinced it was Sir Ancel who had placed the dagger for her to slay him, surely he must believe now. But why did he do nothing? Did he believe the knight was made merely of threats? Or did he wait? And for what?

  As night lengthened, the din in the hall lulled to the quiet of sleep, and still she remained alone and unable to leave. Even had she been willing to don her filthy garments, she could not, the women who had delivered her bath water having taken the bliaut and chemise with them.

  Where was Maxen? Why did he not come?

  She dropped her feet to the floor and paced the chamber several times before returning to the chest. She lowered to it and scooted back until she came up against the mattress. Exhaustion pulled at her, and after a time, she closed her lids for just a moment.

  He would not awaken her, Maxen decided as he considered the angel who lay half on his bed, half on the chest holding his clothes, her hair golden even in the dim light.

  He regretted not sooner returning or sending clothes so she could leave. However, his preparations to announce Sir Guy as castellan of Blackspur had pushed Rhiannyn not to the back of his mind—never that—but to the side of him where he had ever felt her presence though he tried to ignore it.

  Doubtless, with nearly all abed, it would be believed she had, indeed, yielded to him. But there was naught for it.

  He slid his arms beneath her and lifted her.

  She stirred, pushed her face into his shoulder, and resumed her deep breathing as he carried her into the hall. He laid her on the bench he had discovered she had claimed for herself when, in the days before his journey to Blackspur Castle, he had arisen before dawn. Then he had not touched her—had only stood a time and looked upon her—but now he laid a hand to her cheek.

  She murmured, turned onto her side, and curled in on herself. Since the robe was not as thick as the layers of clothing in which she usually slept, he bent to a snoring knight and took the blanket from atop him. The man grumbled but did not awaken.

  As Maxen draped the ragged blanket over Rhiannyn, one who had come unannounced to his back murmured, “My lord?”

  Maxen turned. Only Rhiannyn was capable of rendering his instincts and senses useless such that he had not heard Sir Guy’s approach. Had it been Sir Ancel, the knight would be gloating over Maxen’s body, the rushes turned red.

  I must do something about him, he told himself. And soon.

  “What is it?” he asked in a harsh whisper.

  “May we speak in your chamber, my lord?”

  “Can it not wait until the morn?”

  “It can, and would have had I not seen you here.”

  Maxen motioned him to follow.

  As they crossed the hall, movement drew his gaze to the right, and torchlight revealed Christophe sat up on his pallet against the wall. There was a crooked smile about his mouth, and Maxen did not doubt he had seen his older brother enter his chamber and too soon return—that he approved of Rhiannyn being delivered to the hall and guessed the pact made with her had been, at least, postponed.

  Dismissing him, Maxen continued forward. “All the Saxons have been questioned?” he asked once Guy and he gained his chamber.

  “They have, and all tell the same. As Rhiannyn told, they denied Harwolfson for you.”

  “Why?”

  “In this it seems most were honest, my lord. They stayed your side for what you can provide. They are tired of fighting, tired of cold, and most tired of hunger.”

  “A beginning,” Maxen muttered. “What of Rhiannyn’s role?”

  The knight shook his head. “There is not one among them who does not say she also stood down. They tell she pleaded with Harwolfson to leave.”

  Pleaded, though she had done nothing to alert the Normans of the enemy within. But it was too much to expect. After all, she was still a Saxon no matter who made himself her master.

  Pushing a hand through the hair on his scalp that had grown long enough to allow the gesture, Maxen dropped into the chair. Could he believe the Saxons? Of course, the real question was whether he could believe Rhiannyn. />
  “What do you think, Guy?”

  “Though the Saxons are not to be trusted, I now believe it more likely they did choose to stay.”

  “And Rhiannyn?”

  Guy shook his head. “I thought she had betrayed, but perhaps not.”

  As Maxen wished to believe. “Theta?”

  “She has much to gain by lying—at least, thinks she does.”

  “Such as?”

  “You, my lord.”

  Maxen scoffed. “Is that so?”

  Guy shrugged a shoulder. “You asked what I thought, and that is my answer now that more is known of what transpired.”

  Maxen nodded. “On the morrow, return the Saxons to their work upon the wall.”

  Guy did not appear surprised. “What of punishment? A reminder of what will be if they turn on you?”

  There was merit in the suggestion, and would have appealed to the Maxen of Hastings. This Maxen, wound up as he was with Rhiannyn, spoke from another side of his mouth. “No further punishment.”

  “And of their guard?”

  “Double it.”

  “As you will.” The knight turned away.

  “Guy.”

  “My lord?”

  “We have not spoken of your reason for allowing Rhiannyn to work on the wall.”

  He shifted his weight, though not self-consciously. “As she wished it, it seemed the easiest way to keep watch over her, and there looked to be little threat to her in the mixing of mortar.”

  “That was your only reason—keeping watch over her?”

  This time, the shifting of the man’s body showed unease. “I pitied her longing to regain her people’s acceptance.”

  “Did she regain it?”

  “I believe so, though methinks more because of the stand she took for them following Harwolfson’s flight.”

  Whether or not Rhiannyn’s return to her people was of benefit to Maxen had yet to be determined, but he nodded his approval. “You have served me well.”

  “As is my desire.”

  “Is it also your desire to lord Blackspur?”

  Guy strode the distance between them, went down on a knee before Maxen, and bowed his head. “I am pleased and honored you have chosen me. Upon my vow, you will not regret it.”