LadyOfConquest:SaxonBride

by Tamara Leigh

  She had made a mistake, driven by the recklessness it was said came too easily to her, but there was no way to change the past. Nor wipe away traces of it.

  She heaved a breath up her face, shook her head. There would be time aplenty to dwell on it. For now, she would enjoy the hours before last light.

  He saw her long before she saw him, which was as it should be. But who was this fair young woman who, from the top of her head to her fine woolen mantle, down to the toes of her slippers, looked a lady? And why was she without escort?

  For all the anger that had become as much a part of him as breathing, Edwin could not help smiling. She was lovely, her ashen hair visible beneath the veil the stirred air lifted. And as she drew near the bordering wood, he saw she was not as dainty as she had appeared from a distance. She was of average form, but it was the only thing average about her. Though he could not determine the color of her eyes, they sparkled as she scanned the trees. Then from her pretty mouth came laughter.

  She spurred her horse into the wood, slowing when fully hidden from sight of the castle walls—not fifty feet from where Edwin had set himself to watching the stronghold of Trionne.

  She reined in and patted her horse’s neck. “Once again,” she said in clear Anglo-Saxon, “we have done it—escaped them one and all.” She grimaced, an expression which might have turned another’s face unattractive but not hers. “Not that our absence will be noted.”

  A curious creature, Edwin mused. More, the lady could prove useful.

  He peered over his shoulder and motioned for those hidden behind and to the sides to hold their positions.

  The men nodded and sank more deeply into their hiding places.

  When the lady prodded her horse deeper into the wood, Edwin moved, using the sounds of her movement to mask his. In this way, he overtook her and gained ground ahead that would arouse less suspicion than if he had revealed himself at the edge of the wood.

  Then the act began. “Testra!” he called as he worked his way back over ground he had just tread, and called twice more for a horse nowhere near.

  Blue eyes wide, the lady halted her mount and stared at Edwin, who feigned his own surprise. “Who are you?” she demanded.

  Guessing she had passed into her twentieth year, he said, “I fear I have lost my horse. Rather, he has lost me.”

  Her lids narrowed. “Who are you to come upon my father’s lands?”

  Father’s? A smile being difficult to suppress, Edwin used it as a sign of friendliness and stepped forward. “Your father’s lands?”

  “Aye, Baron Pendery, possessor of all you have no doubt tramped this day.”

  Maxen and Christophe’s sister, though had he not heard she was ten and seven? Regardless, a better pawn he could not have hoped for. But how to convince her to come down from her horse so he might steal her away?

  “I am Bacus,” he said, using the name of his brother who had fallen at Hastings, “come from across the wood to seek winter shelter in yon castle.”

  Something measured showed in her eyes. “Of what village are you, Saxon?”

  “Of no village. Thus, I seek to enter Trionne.”

  “You and hundreds of others. Have you something to offer they have not?”

  With steps made to appear casual, Edwin began to close the distance between them. “I have good knowledge of the training and care of horses. But tell me, by what name are you called, daughter of Pendery?”

  She smiled faintly. “I am Lady Elan.”

  “I should have known, for much is told of your beauty.” Much he had not heard, though there had been mention she was lovely.

  This time, she smiled with her teeth.

  Edwin used her moment of vain unguardedness to draw half a dozen steps nearer. And halted, certain a single lunge would have her off her horse.

  “Aye, my lady, you make a man’s eyes ache to look upon you,” he fed her more.

  She fluttered her lashes, slowly moved her gaze down him. Returning to his eyes, she asked, “What do you hope to gain with such flattery? Is it truly winter shelter you seek?” She leaned forward, and in a conspiratorial tone, added. “Or a tumble up my skirts, Bacus?”

  Edwin could not hide his surprise over her unladylike daring, nor how astute she was. Might she have guessed who he was? Instantly, he rejected the possibility. She was suspicious, but she could not know—unless this was a trap laid for the wolf. It seemed hardly possible, for he had advanced on Trionne with the tightest control of his forces, and those he had left a short space behind had not called out a warning.

  “What do you think I seek, my lady?” he asked.

  She shifted in the saddle. “I think you are neither Bacus, nor come to beg shelter at Trionne. And Testra—your horse’s name, eh?—is likely tethered nearby.”

  If a trap, she played her part poorly by voicing her suspicions, but still he was wary. He arched an eyebrow. “Then who might I be, and what think you I do in your wood?”

  He nearly startled when she put out a hand, beckoning him to assist in her dismounting.

  Now the trap would be sprung if it was indeed a trap, he thought. Eyes watchful, ears alert, sword and dagger a hand away, he strode forward. When he raised his arms to her, she came into them.

  No whisper of a breeze begot by advancing soldiers, no vibration of their coming beneath his thin-soled boots. Not a trap. Merely a woman filled with foolishness.

  When he released her, she did not step back as a lady ought to, but tipped her face up, frowned, and touched a finger to her lower lip. “I think…” she played at thoughts he did not doubt she knew well.

  Something he had long ago pushed down rose in Edwin as he looked upon her comeliness and felt the warmth of her body across the small space. In her face were eyes of blue framed by long lashes; beneath, a fine nose; and below, a mouth full and red. It was by no artifice she was lovely. God had made her so.

  Affecting revelation, the lady gasped. “I think you are one of those Saxons who does not accept his Norman master.”

  Perceptive, he allowed, but not in the safeguarding of her person. In this, she was unwise. “If you believe that, why are you unafraid?”

  She stepped nearer, causing him to be filled with a longing distant from revenge. “Because, Bacus of no lord, I like what fills my eyes.”

  It was Edwin who stepped back. The woman had set herself to seducing him! Might it be a lie that she was Elan Pendery? No lady he had known was so brash and provocative. Certainly, Rhiannyn had not acted in this manner, and she had been a lady only by Thomas Pendery’s decree. Indeed, the only women Edwin had known to behave in this manner were those who took coin for favors upon the sheets.

  “Have I put you off?” she said.

  “It surprises me to hear a lady speak so. Indeed, it makes me question if you are, indeed, a lady.”

  “There is a time to be a lady and a time to be a woman,” she said. “This day I deign to be the latter.”

  Whoever she was, he did not doubt he would enjoy knowing her better, but he remained too taken aback to do more than stare.

  “How much more invitation would you like, Saxon?” She unfastened the brooch from her mantle and let the garment slide from her shoulders to her feet, revealing a bliaut of finely woven material and a figure as lovely as her face.

  He hated that he must seem like an untried boy, but though his pride was in danger of being ground beneath her pretty slippers, it was she who came into his arms. Lady or not, Elan Pendery or pretender, he claimed her mouth—or perhaps she claimed his.

  She was no more Elan Pendery than he was Bacus, Edwin determined, certain the elder Pendery would not tolerate such behavior from his daughter who must wed with her virtue intact. But whatever the name of this woman who was surely several years older than Pendery’s daughter, of three things he was certain—she was of the nobility, was not inexperienced, and was a pretender through and through.

  She scooped up a handful of water, sipped it, and let the rest t
rickle between her fingers as she straightened. When she turned back, she smiled prettily.

  And thus, they regarded each other.

  “Methinks you are a brooder, Bacus.” She closed the distance between them, leaned up, and lightly kissed him. “Still, I may be in danger of falling in love with you.”

  Liar, he wanted to name her. Instead, he forced a smile.

  She tsked, set herself back on her heels. “You could at least lie and tell me you feel the same.”

  Not for the first time, he wished he had not taken what she had given. The little bird might have pretty feathers, but he sensed the beak and claws of a hawk.

  “How is it you came alone to the wood?” he asked, determined he would speak no more of what had transpired between them. “I would not think your father would allow it.”

  “He would not,” she said with such pleasure it allowed a glimpse of the child beneath the woman.

  Might he have been wrong in believing she was a score of years aged? “Who allowed it?” he asked.

  “The guard at the postern gate. We have an understanding.”

  Lovers, then. “I am sure,” he said derisively.

  She wagged a finger. “Not that kind of understanding, Bacus.”

  “Then?”

  She adjusted her veil. “As I am fond of freedom, so he is fond of fine drink. One for the other, you see.”

  Norman greed, Edwin labeled the man’s conduct. No lady ought to be allowed to leave the castle without escort. “The man should be flogged and clapped into irons for making such a bargain. No Saxon would allow what he did.”

  She laughed. “He is Saxon,” she said, reminding him the Penderys had resided on English soil when it was still English, their association with the Saxons going back more than twenty years.

  “A Saxon turned Norman,” he said.

  “One or the other, it is no concern of yours. Unless…” She touched a finger to his flesh above the V of his tunic. “…you are in danger of falling in love with me.”

  Though Edwin knew she could prove a useful pawn regardless of who she was to the Penderys, in that moment, there was nothing he wanted more than to send her away. Of course, when he held all of Trionne come the morrow, they would meet again.

  “You are back to Trionne?” he asked, turning toward her horse.

  She drew alongside him. “Unless you would like my aid in locating your mount.”

  There was teasing in her eyes. Certes, she knew there was no horse that needed finding, that he lied the same as she, but still she showed no fear.

  He halted alongside her mount. “Nay, the beast cannot be far off.”

  “As you will.” She offered her arm. “Do you hand me up, I will be on my way.”

  He lifted her into the saddle with nearly as much ease as when he had lifted her down. “Fare thee well,” he said and stepped back to allow her to turn her horse.

  She did so. However, when some distance separated them, she reined around and smiled. “I know who you are, Edwin Harwolfson.”

  He stared.

  “I knew the moment I happened upon you.”

  He jerked free of his stupor. “What is your game?” he demanded, knowing he stood little chance of reaching her before she put heels to her horse.

  “Farewell, wolf!” With a snap of her wrist and a nudge of her heels, she spurred her horse away.

  Knowing if he was to salvage his plans for Trionne he must apprehend her, Edwin bolted after her. Over thicket, muddy ground, and stream he bounded, around trees and beneath low-hanging branches he raced. But though twice his prize was nearly within reach, he was forced to surrender the chase.

  Breath heaving, he stood at the edge of the wood staring out upon the meadow, into the midst of which sped horse and rider. Gradually, the two diminished in size until they were a speck against the castle walls.

  Edwin berated himself for his stupidity in allowing the vixen her freedom. There had been little danger in her thinking it was but a discontented Saxon to whom she had given herself, but that she knew he was Edwin Harwolfson…

  He cursed loudly. Though it was possible the lady who was not a lady in the truest sense might not inform Pendery of the one who watched outside his walls, he could not risk trying to obtain what was to have been his greatest triumph to date and the cornerstone of the Saxon uprising.

  He slammed a fist into a tree trunk and felt the pain of bloodied knuckles, but it did not compare to his rage and desire for revenge. He drew his arm back to strike again, but Dora came to mind.

  She would know what to do. She always knew, just as she had known Rhiannyn would betray him with another.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  There was great cause to celebrate. This day, the promised supplies had arrived from Trionne. But though wine and ale flowed freely, the platters of viands were only slightly more generous than in previous weeks.

  Many grumbled that they were allowed little taste of the windfall, but the lord of Etcheverry refused to diminish foodstuffs that must sustain them through what could be a harsh winter.

  Avoiding his gaze that she felt often upon her, especially this night when she first wore the green bliaut made of his cloth, Rhiannyn moved down the table filling tankards and goblets. When the last of the ale dripped from her pitcher, she returned to the barrel against the far wall. It proved as empty as her vessel.

  Had the last one who dipped into it called for another barrel to be carried up from the cellar? If so, was the butler too deep in his cups to do so?

  She crossed the hall and descended the steps to the cellar. Aldwin was where he was often found—in a corner slumped on a stool.

  “Aldwin,” she groaned, “what am I to do?” His answer a stuttering snore, she retrieved the pry bar with which she had been unsuccessful the last time she had tried to use it and crossed to the nearest ale barrel.

  She had just slid the tool beneath the lip when a sound carried to her from the dungeons where Aethel and the others remained imprisoned. She stilled, wanting to go to them, but certain she would not make it past the guard. Though she listened to discover the source of the noise, it did not come again and she returned to the barrel. This time, the lid gave, and she triumphantly laid it aside and dipped her pitcher in the ale.

  The sound came again, followed by a throaty laugh. Theta?

  Rhiannyn set her pitcher atop an unopened barrel and crossed to the dungeon’s entrance. She peered around the doorframe into the dim corridor where shadows moved on the walls across from the guard’s station.

  More laughter, murmurings, and other noises that could be mistaken for pain. Not pain, she knew, for she had heard such sounds when Thomas summoned Theta to his bed and knights took women servants to their pallets.

  Rhiannyn wavered between returning to the hall and taking advantage of an opportunity that might not come her way again. With all that stood between her and Maxen—lies, deceit, accusations, misunderstandings—and twice now his mercy upon the Saxons, she knew she should not tempt fate. She really should not.

  Fixing her gaze on the moving shadows, she stepped lightly into the corridor and slowly advanced.

  In the alcove of the guard’s station, she glimpsed the lovers. As thought, it was Theta whom the guard had lured to his dreary world beneath the castle.

  Rhiannyn slipped past the station and headed for the cells around the bend. But upon turning the corner, she halted in this cold, dark place and shivered as memories swelled—days and nights when a vengeful Sir Ancel had asked questions of her whose answers had earned her the abuse of his hands, and sitting bound and blindfolded before a faceless Maxen whose anger and condemnation had made of him a beast. It was as she had imagined hell must be. It must be the same for Aethel and the others.

  She retraced her steps, retrieved a torch, and ventured forth again. When she drew near the open cell in which Maxen had first presented himself to her, she kept her eyes trained ahead. Upon rounding the next bend, the silence from the cells ahead made
her falter.

  The possibility Aethel and the others might no longer be here, and the implications therefrom, too horrible to think on, she told herself they slumbered. It was, after all, near on night.

  Not that they would know the moon from the sun in this place, she reminded herself.

  “Who goes?” a voice hissed.

  Thanking the Lord, she hastened forward. “’Tis Rhiannyn, Aethel,” she said in a high whisper.

  “The harlot,” said another.

  “I am here.” Aethel pushed his large fingers through the grate of the door in the end cell where she had passed day after night after day.

  Ignoring the faces pressed to the other grates she passed, Rhiannyn lifted the torch and shined it on the small opening to reveal a portion of Aethel’s bearded visage.

  “Have you a key?” he asked.

  “Nay, I—”

  “Why have you come? Did he send you?”

  Maxen. “Nay, I am here without his knowledge.”

  “Come to pay your last respects ere he hoists us to our deaths?” one of the others sneered.

  Rhiannyn wanted to deny it, but she did not know Maxen’s plans. Not since their discussion while she had cut his hair weeks past had he spoken of them. “Has he come to you?” she asked.

  “He has,” Aethel said, “bringing lies of food, shelter, and land for all who settle peacefully beneath his rule.”

  And they had declined. “Would you rather suffer death than the chance he speaks true?” she asked.

  “A Norman speak true?” scorned the Saxon in the cell beside Aethel’s. “Because he beds you well does not mean God speaks through him.”

  “He does not bed me,” Rhiannyn protested.

  “’Tis what Theta tells,” another hissed.

  “Keep your mouths about you,” Aethel snarled.

  She was not surprised Theta came here to work her worst upon Rhiannyn’s name. “Theta lies.”

  Aethel grunted. “Aye? Is it also a lie you alerted the Normans when Edwin came to free us?”

  “Theta revealed them, not I.”