LadyOfConquest:SaxonBride

by Tamara Leigh

  The guard’s mouth went agape when Maxen appeared with the one who did not belong here. The man and the drunken one in the cellar would be dealt with on the morrow. They could wait. Maxen could not.

  He ascended from the cellar into the hall. Not wishing Rhiannyn to suffer the curiosity of his men, he continued to hold her face against him. But there was nothing he could do to shield her from the sudden lowering of voices that rose again with coarse mutterings only a drunken man would speak in the presence of his lord.

  Maxen felt Rhiannyn stiffen, but she did not attempt to lift her head, nor to clamber down from him.

  He nearly ordered his men to their pallets, but the revelry would provide his bride and him with privacy that could not be had in a chamber separated from a silent hall by a screen.

  It was Christophe who made Maxen falter. The youth stood quickly from before the hearth, and when he caught his brother’s regard, his eyes shone with condemnation. Of course he thought the worst of The Bloodlust Warrior of Hastings—believed his brother had decided to make Rhiannyn his leman after all. And Maxen could not fault him. But there would be time aplenty to set Christophe and the others right.

  Though the hall was well illuminated, only a glimmer of light filtered through to the chamber he entered, no torches having been lit this side of the screen.

  It would do for now, he decided. Beyond this night, there would be days in which to look well upon his wife’s every curve and hollow.

  He set her on her feet alongside the bed, and she immediately released him.

  “What they all think of me…” she breathed.

  When she did not look up, he raised her chin and regretted the uncertainty in her eyes. “The night is ours,” he said. “The morrow is soon enough for them to know it is the lady of Etcheverry who shares my bed.”

  She slowly nodded.

  “Now, Wife”—he lifted the sash tied around her waist—“I would do this right.”

  She frowned. “Is there a wrong way to do it?”

  He did not think her innocence feigned, and it made him all the more determined he would not too soon yield to desires suppressed since he had committed his life to the Church.

  “Indeed there is, but I vow you will not know it.” He untied the sash, dropped it to the rushes, and turned her back to his front. Drawing aside her hair, he pressed his mouth to the soft place between neck and shoulder.

  Rhiannyn set her head back against his shoulder and whispered, “Is this the right way?”

  He raised his head and met her gaze that, despite what she asked of him, was no longer uncertain. “But one of many,” he murmured and drew one hand up her hip to her waist and began loosening her bliaut’s laces, with the other hand, turned her face up to his.

  He set his mouth upon hers.

  She sighed into him.

  And kiss by kiss, touch by touch, lace by lace, they gained the bed. And became one.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  His promise kept, Maxen held her against his side, and once again she listened to the beat of his heart beneath her ear. It had eased and become so steady she thought it might put her to sleep if she could but still her mind.

  But no matter that silence had finally fallen over the hall, no matter that she closed her eyes and slowed her breath, her thoughts went hither and thither—from that night in the cell to this, from these past years to the years before them, from terrible loss to blessed gain.

  “Blessed,” she whispered, not realizing she spoke the word until it slipped into her own ear.

  She had thought him awake, but when he did not react in any way to indicate he had heard, she lightly drew her fingers over his chest.

  Not for the first time this night, she recalled her mother’s warning of two years past when marriage to Edwin was imminent. She had revealed what a woman must endure on her wedding night, reassuring Rhiannyn each time thereafter would be easier and offering hope that, eventually, there would be some pleasure.

  She had been wrong—at least, where her daughter was concerned. And Rhiannyn guessed it had more to do with Maxen than herself, for with what seemed great patience, he had kept his vow to know her the right way, awakening her to things heretofore a mystery. But more sweetly, he had made her feel cherished—almost loved, though he could not possibly feel such for her.

  But how I love thee, she silently spoke what she dared not say lest she scatter all that now was. Though she could admit to desiring Maxen, to reveal a love he might never return would make her ache to the point of pain. Of which Thomas would approve, for he had wished her to never again know the love of a man.

  Thus, she must resolve to be content with what she had. And grateful, for it was much. Rhiannyn of Etcheverry was Maxen’s wife.

  A Pendery, she silently acknowledged the part of Thomas’s curse that if she would not belong to a Pendery, she would belong to no man. Surely this was not what he had meant, but for those who believed in such things, they would think the curse come true this night. Even so, what had happened between Maxen and her was no more a curse than white was black.

  Even if I am never more to him than fricwebba, she consoled, recalling when he had given her the name of one who weaves peace by wedding the enemy, one whose duty it was to bear children to blend the bloodlines of the two peoples.

  Will I bear children? she wondered and recalled the other part of Thomas’s curse—never would she hold a child at her breast, the pain of which would be second only to the possibility of never knowing the love of a man. The love of Maxen…

  She recalled his words in Andredeswald when, in the guise of the monk he no longer was, he had said God did not serve man—that a person wishing ill upon another had no power over the one they cursed, and they were but words spoken in anger. Regardless, tears sprang to her eyes, and she closed her lids and pressed her teeth into her lower lip.

  “Why do you cry?” Maxen’s voice rumbled from his chest.

  She lifted her face toward his, and against her cheek felt the moisture she had spilled upon him.

  “Regret?” he asked, and when he glided a thumb beneath one eye, then the other, she knew the bit of light played upon the tears fallen from her lashes.

  “No regret,” she said. “Memories only.”

  “Of your family?”

  Of the family I might not make with you, she silently corrected. Of the love you may never return.

  But as she could not tell him that, and the loss of her parents and brothers were ever near, she said, “I still feel adrift without them.”

  “Speak to me of them.”

  “Why?” she asked warily.

  “Though I have heard of their deaths at the hands of Normans, I ought to know more about who and what shaped the woman I have taken to wife.”

  Though it was not an unreasonable request, it made her uncomfortable.

  “Unless you are not ready.”

  After further hesitation, she once more settled her head on his chest. “The conquering haunts me. As, methinks, it haunts you.”

  Maxen tensed. It was true. That past was rarely far from this present, especially Hastings—the screams of life yet lingering in those hunted by death, the smell of blood tenfold worse than the mass slaughter of pigs, the desperate mutterings to God who seemed to have turned away, the eyes of the dead wide with disbelief, and Nils…

  Set upon by his own people.

  “Forgive me,” Rhiannyn broke through memories that tempted him to more blood upon hands so thoroughly soaked no amount of prayer had made them white.

  Tempted only, he told himself and, finger by finger, unclenched the fist at his side and called his body back from the edge that made his muscles ache. “Perhaps one day I will tell you what haunts me, but this eve, let it be your telling.”

  He felt her draw breath. “’Twas a one-room wattle and daub hut in which I was born and raised, and though all I had of my own was a pallet, it was enough. While my father and brothers worked the land under Edwin’s father,
my mother and I kept the home and sewed for Lord and Lady Harwolfson. I quarreled often with my older brother, Claye, who was even more protective of me than my father, but Mother knew how to soothe hurt feelings, and Father how to turn anger into laughter. We were happy.”

  She gave a little gasp. “I know it must sound dismal, but they were wonderful times. Often hard, but never short of love.”

  Far different from Maxen’s upbringing. He had been raised in the comfort of a great hall, his training for knighthood of paramount importance to a father whose contact with his sons was nearly exclusive to that end. Her life did not sound dismal. In some ways, it was enviable.

  “And Harwolfson?” he asked, his thoughts having earlier ceased their circling around the Saxon rebel when tears had followed her whispered blessed. “How did you come to be betrothed?”

  “Though he was not the eldest son, his gain was to be great in wedding a noblewoman who was her father’s only child. Thus, he rode from King Edward’s court for the wedding, but when he arrived at Etcheverry, he learned his intended had been taken by fever. Until that day, I had known him only by sight, but shortly thereafter, we talked.”

  “How is that?”

  “He happened upon me while I gathered rushes at the river, and though I begged leave of him so he could be alone to mourn, he insisted I finish my task. After a time, he spoke of his betrothed. Though he had not met her, he was saddened by her loss, and more so when he told of the son he had hoped a year would bring him. He so wished to be a father.”

  Idly, for Maxen did not believe Rhiannyn yet knew the power of her touch, she drew her fingers over his sternum, causing his heart to accelerate. “When I had bundled the rushes, I asked for my leave-taking, but he bid me sit beside him. Though unseemly, I could not refuse the lord’s son. Hours later and after much talk, it was as if we had known each other for years.” She laughed softly. “Great friends, I thought. Wife, he decided, and told me so. I did not believe him, but his father came to mine the following morn and the betrothal was made.”

  Maxen told himself he had no cause to feel jealous. She had said she preferred to remain here with him than be betrothed to Harwolfson again. Too, there could be no doubt neither the Saxon rebel nor Thomas had known her as Maxen had this eve. Even so, he asked, “Did you wish to wed Harwolfson?”

  “I did.” Her fingers upon his chest stilled. “He was a good man, Maxen. The Edwin of Andredeswald is not the one beside whom I sat at the river. But even as changed as he is, I believe the man I knew remains, albeit dug down deep beneath these years. Norman or Saxon, such loss—especially of loved ones—cannot be erased.”

  Nils once more rose to mind. “It cannot.” Reminding himself of the reason he pressed her about Harwolfson, Maxen asked, “Did he love you?”

  She was silent so long, he thought she might not answer, but she said, “Though I know not how to read love in a man, I do not believe he felt that for me.”

  “You were not dear to him?”

  “Methinks only insomuch as being pleasant to look upon, of good health to bear children, and of enough wit to converse well outside of bed, which is as my mother told me when I asked why our lord’s son wished to marry one far beneath him.”

  Maxen reconsidered the king’s missive. Alongside Harwolfson, it had occupied his thoughts since he and Rhiannyn had consummated their marriage. From what he had gleaned of her relationship with the Saxon rebel while in Andredeswald, and from what she told, it seemed unlikely she would be a means of bringing the rebel to heel. Too, just as she had not fled with Harwolfson following Thomas’s death, and again when he had stolen inside the castle walls, the man did not seem of a mind to force her to leave with him. Thus, not dear to him.

  “Why did you not wed immediately?” Maxen asked.

  “We meant to, but hardly had our families agreed upon the betrothal than King Edward died and Edwin was called back to London. Then King Harold ascended the throne.”

  Maxen needed no further explanation. Harold Godwinson’s reign had lasted less than ten months. Rife with conflict, it had culminated in his defeat at Hastings. “Your menfolk stood with Harold.”

  “It was Edwin’s father with whom they stood, and he with Harold. Wynter—my younger brother—was barely fifteen summers old when he marched to Hastings…” Her voice trailed off.

  For some minutes, Maxen allowed her to take refuge in silence, and it was with reluctance he pressed onward. “What of your mother and you?”

  She stiffened. “We remained behind.”

  He stroked her head. “What happened?”

  Breath shuddering across his chest, she said, “Days before the great battle, the Normans rode on our village. We resisted, but there were so many, and we were mostly women, children, and men of too great an age to stop them. They ravished our womenfolk, pillaged our homes, and set nearly every building afire.”

  “How did you escape?”

  “When we could no longer hold them off, my mother and I hid in the stables, but they set fire to it as well. As we fled, the roof collapsed. It burned my skirts, but my mother…” She swallowed convulsively. “Though I tried to pull her from beneath the timbers, the fire burned too hot, then the Normans came for me. I fled to the trees, and all the way there I heard my mother’s screams.”

  Rhiannyn was crying again, her tears wetting his skin.

  “They did not capture you.”

  She shook her head. “In that, God was with me. Day and night, I prayed for my father and brothers’ return, but they never came. Hastings stole them away.”

  It struck Maxen he might have slain one or more of her menfolk, but before he could step into his own hell, Rhiannyn’s storm rolled out. Though she turned her face into his chest and shook with the effort to hold all inside, a sob escaped.

  Maxen held her and murmured comforting words he had not believed himself capable of. When she finally lay slack in his arms, softly hiccoughing, he smoothed tear-dampened hair off her face and murmured, “What I can make right, I shall. I give you my word.”

  Impulsive.

  Staring into darkness, the woman pressed to his side holding to him in sleep, Maxen discarded the word.

  Imprudent fit better. Though aware of the danger in taking Rhiannyn to wife, he had not shown due care for the consequences of willfully defying a king. In his bid to replace memories of that place where first Rhiannyn and he met, he had offered a solution to their mutual attraction. A godly one to overcome her objections—and his own, though he would not have stood as firm as she.

  Wedding her had been the right thing to do. Even now, unable to sleep for what his actions portended, he would do it again to ensure she was not taken from him, for it was not mere desire he felt for her. But here imprudence must end.

  Had he immediately answered the king’s missive, informing him he had wed Rhiannyn and correcting the assumption she could be no more to him than a leman, William would not have liked it. However, allowances would more easily have been made for not seeking permission to take to wife the woman his brother had also wanted.

  Thus, a way must be found to keep hold of Rhiannyn should the king persist in the belief she was dear enough to Harwolfson to be used against the rebel, something Maxen was certain William would not hesitate to do should the opportunity arise—even were it known she was now wed to another.

  “I will find a way,” he promised himself, just as he had promised Rhiannyn that what could be made right would be made right.

  Hours later, when stirrings in the hall scattered the silence and the somnolent dawn peeled back its lids to gaze upon Etcheverry, Maxen stared at Rhiannyn’s hand that had remained pressed to his chest throughout the night—as if she found the beat of his heart reassuring. Next, he peered into her trusting, upturned face.

  So wrong about her, he lamented. In so many ways.

  But of those things about her of which he was most certain, it was that she would not like what must be done to keep King William from descending up
on Etcheverry and undoing what had been done. But, hopefully, the woman with whom Maxen had vowed to spend his life could be made to understand. And play the game for as long as necessary.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Rhiannyn awoke in a tangle—not of blankets, but of limbs not all her own. She did not move or open her eyes, but lingered over the warmth of her husband’s body at every place they touched, savored the slow rise and fall of his chest, counted the beats of his heart, and silently thanked the Lord the night past had been real.

  “Wife,” she whispered and opened eyes that no longer ached from crying.

  She had known it was morn from the light prying at her lids, but was surprised the day had reached so far beyond the dawn. Not only had she slept through the rising of those who made their beds in the hall, but so had Maxen who ever rose with or before all others.

  She tilted her head back and considered his face. It was too troubled for one who slept, and she wondered how long he had lain awake after sleep had taken her.

  Carefully, she extricated herself and lowered her feet to the floor. Her garments lay amid the rushes where they had fallen on the night past, and were more tangled with Maxen’s clothes than her limbs had been with his. Cheeks warming in remembrance of how they had touched, she scooped up the clothes, crossed to the chest, and laid them on the lid.

  As she donned her chemise, she heard the approach of one whose footsteps were set apart from others’. Hurriedly, she crossed to the screen and peered around it.

  Christophe faltered when he saw her, sloshing water from the basin he carried onto the towel draped over an arm. Continuing forward, he offered a smile amid concern.

  Like the others, he assumed the worst. Thus, eager to assure him all was well and there being no others present in the hall, she hugged her arms around her chemise-clad body and stepped around the screen.

  When he halted before her, she saw rose petals floated on the water in the basin. “For you,” he said.