LadyOfConquest:SaxonBride

by Tamara Leigh

  Mildreth gasped. “Lucilla!”

  “’Course now he’s had ye, he’ll not wed ye, and any babes will be fatherless little souls.” She sighed. “I did warn you ’bout that.”

  “Hush,” Mildreth hissed.

  Rhiannyn pushed her fingers into her palms to keep from touching her abdomen. Might Maxen’s child grow there? Not if Thomas—

  I do not believe his curse, she reminded herself. If she never grew round with child, it would be because God chose not to gift her with children, not because a dying man demanded it of the Lord.

  Lucilla chuckled. “But at least it will be a fine brood of bastards Pendery makes on ye.”

  Rhiannyn caught her breath. Though any child she conceived would be legitimate, the thought of others naming it so cruel a thing for however long it took Maxen to find or make a way through the king made her hurt anew.

  Bastard.

  What if something—namely, Sir Ancel—happened to Maxen before he could reveal they had wed? Their child might forever bear that name.

  Bastard.

  What if the king took her from Maxen and returned her to Edwin? Her former betrothed would not accept the child of his Norman enemy.

  Bastard.

  And what if Maxen did deny their vows and set her aside—

  Nay, she told herself, not that.

  “Rhiannyn!”

  She whipped up her head, wondered when she had lowered it, and braced her hands on the table.

  “Are you ill?” Mildreth asked.

  Feeling a hand on her back, Rhiannyn looked to where the woman had come to stand alongside her.

  “As Lucilla said, I am tired.” She tried to smile, but could not for what she must ask of the woman. “Mildreth, know you what will keep a child from growing in me?”

  The woman shot her gaze to Lucilla, glowered.

  Rhiannyn pushed off the table. “Do you know?” she asked again.

  It was Lucilla who gushed advice, Mildreth who more often asserted some means were ineffective, others dangerous. However, the latter gave Rhiannyn hope by reluctantly revealing such aid was provided to the smithy’s wife who had birthed five children, one a year, and nearly died in delivering the last two.

  But the one who had given her the means to prevent conception was not easily approached for who he was to Maxen. Still, Rhiannyn went in search of Christophe.

  “How fares the worker?”

  Christophe looked up from the dried plants he had spread on a table. “Blessedly, his arm was merely out of joint. I have fit it back in place, and he will have to wear a sling, but he should fully recover.”

  “I am glad.” Rhiannyn drew a deep breath, stepped inside. “Maxen spoke with you this morn?”

  As if to be certain they were alone, he glanced around the one-room hut where he prepared his medicinals and motioned her forward.

  She closed the door behind her.

  “Aye, we spoke—and well.” That last was said with wonder, but then he frowned. “I do not like what must be thought of you until he deems it safe to reveal you are wed.”

  She pulled her lower lip between her teeth. “Do you believe him? That our marriage is as valid in his eyes as it is in God’s and mine?”

  Do not hesitate, she silently beseeched.

  He hesitated. “I am inclined to believe him. You?”

  Her shoulder jerked, and she hastened to allay the unbidden expression of doubt with, “I am.”

  “But only inclined.”

  Pain in her palms alerting her to the dig of her nails, she splayed her fingers on her skirts. “Too much is unknown, too much could happen, and too much is in the hands of one who would use me to bring down Edwin.”

  The name Christophe spoke against his king was not one she had ever heard pass his lips, but he apologized.

  “Though I pray I shall remain wed to your brother,” Rhiannyn said, “we cannot be certain all we hope for will come to pass. Until it does, I would make no children with Maxen. Thus, I am in need of a means of preventing conception.”

  Though the stunned expression on his face made her wince, she continued, “I understand you provide one to the smithy’s wife.”

  Distress deepened the lines in his face. “I prepare it just as Josa put down.” He jerked his head toward a small table in the corner upon which sat dozens of rolled parchments. “Though were it known,” he added, “the Church would look ill upon it.”

  Rhiannyn had not considered that. “Is the herb effective?”

  “It is a root,” he corrected, “and it is mostly safe and effective in making a woman barren for as long as she uses it.”

  “Mostly?”

  “On occasion, a child takes, though it could be more the result of consuming insufficient doses.”

  “And when one stops taking it?”

  “If ever a woman was fertile, she is fertile again. Had not Thomas—” He snapped his teeth closed.

  Rhiannyn stepped nearer. “What of Thomas?”

  He was some time in answering. “Theta also uses the preparation—of her own making, not mine. During her time with Thomas, I noted she ceased preparing it. As I suspected she hoped my brother would get her with child so he would wed her instead of you, I warned Thomas. He told me he would take precautions, and she did not conceive though he continued to have her to bed.”

  “Is the root safe, Christophe?”

  “For the woman.” His eyes flicked to her abdomen. “But if she is already pregnant, she should not take it lest it harm her unborn babe.”

  Rhiannyn touched her belly. Regardless of what was thought and said of her if she and Maxen had made a child on the night past, such a risk she would not take—at least, not until the arrival of her menses proved her womb was empty.

  She sighed. “In this, I will not ask for your help.”

  “I am glad.” Christophe smiled. “You love my brother. Am I right?”

  It was the same question he had put to her this morn, and to which she had not responded.

  “I have seen how you look at him, Rhiannyn. I would but know if I am right in believing it is love that shines from your eyes.”

  What harm? she decided and said, “I tell only you this, Christophe. I do love Maxen, and if he never returns my affections, methinks I shall ever love him.”

  The length and depth of his smile widened. “He is not as easy to read as you, but he is changed in a way which makes me think he will return your affections if he does not yet.”

  Though wary of embracing what he told, Rhiannyn said, “I hope ’tis so.”

  “And I hope, Sister, when all comes right, you and Maxen will give me a nephew or niece—better, several of each.”

  His words made love fill her so full, it felt as if it might burst from her. “If God wills it, dearest Thomas,” she said softly and left him to sort his plants.

  Outside, she looked heavenward.

  Lord, she silently prayed, forgive me any wrongs I dealt Thomas, and if you did lend an ear to his curse, let it pass so all comes right for Maxen and me and we are blessed with little ones.

  The day dragged toward its close, as if the night was its enemy and it would not willingly go into that darkness.

  But it went, and Rhiannyn’s hands that pushed needle and thread pushed no more. However, her expectation of being allowed to take the evening meal in the lord’s chamber proved false.

  Maxen insisted she sit at his side upon the dais, the same as she had done as Thomas’s unwilling betrothed. She had reminded him that in the eyes of all she was but a leman, but he said their suspicion did not concern him, and when their marriage was made known, such consideration would give credence to the vows they had exchanged.

  Thus, Rhiannyn sat beside her husband, picked at her food, and as she tried to ignore the curiosity on all sides of her, mulled the possibility that even now she was with child. And were she not, this night her husband would be granted another opportunity to make it so.

  Could she resist him? Not feel
what he had made her feel last eve? If so, would he allow her to turn from him?

  The trencher into which she had been staring blurred, and she longed for her mother who would surely have better prepared her for what to expect in being intimate with a man.

  Fearing Maxen would notice her tears, she drew a long breath through her nose.

  “It is over,” he said near her ear.

  She turned her face to him, and he offered a crooked smile, the charm of which she would not have guessed he possessed. It made her smile in return, and the longing for her mother recede.

  He pushed his chair back and stood. “An early night for all,” he announced.

  There was grunting and grumbling from those who wished to linger over tankards of ale, but it was accompanied by the scrape and screech of benches, the thump and rasp of booted feet.

  Maxen reached. “Come, Rhiannyn.”

  As he raised her, she was tempted to teasing—at least, the appearance of it—and said low, “Then I will not be bedding down in the hall this eve, my lord?”

  Regret flickered in his eyes and he rumbled, “Your place is with me.”

  But would it remain with him?

  She pushed down doubt, told herself she must be patient and understanding and all things that did not come easily to a conquered people.

  When they were on the other side of the screen, Maxen pulled her before him. His kiss was light and brief, then he released her and said, “The day has been long, and there is naught I want more than to lie down with you.”

  She wished it too, but not another opportunity to get her with child.

  As he stepped past her and began unfastening his belt, she peered down her bliaut and grew warm at the thought of removing it. Though she had given all of herself on the night past, her modesty remained intact.

  Maxen’s did not. He removed his boots and pulled off his tunic and undertunic. Back bared, he glanced around. “Would you like me to assist?” he asked.

  She shook her head, reached for her sash, and eager to turn the conversation, said, “Did you tell Sir Guy the truth of us?”

  Clad in long braies, Maxen crossed the chamber and lifted her sewing from the chair arm. “I did not, but like you, methinks he suspects there is more to us than what we allow all to believe. But worry not. He will not speak of it.”

  As she began loosening her laces, he said, “I fear you should have taken my measure before you began sewing for me.”

  She looked up and was grateful he kept his back to her. “I used another of your tunics to determine the size.”

  “Unfortunately, nearly all the tunics I possess belonged to Thomas, and they are ill fitting.”

  Rhiannyn suppressed a groan. She had been so pleased at her solution to busying her hands in the absence of his measurements that she had not considered how much larger he was than his brother. “I can make the seams smaller,” she suggested. Hoping she had left enough room to do so, she padded across the floor and reached around Maxen to take the pieced tunic from him.

  He relinquished it, turned, and slid his gaze down her. “It seems you do require assistance.” He settled a hand to her waist and urged her closer.

  “Let me hold the tunic to your back so I might know whether or not it can be made to fit,” she said.

  He plucked it from her, tossed it on the chair behind, and began raising her bliaut.

  What am I to do? she wondered as the skim of his hands caused her body to start answering questions she would rather it did not in the absence of a means to prevent a child.

  Her bliaut joined his tunic on the chair, and it was she who moved nearer when his warm hands made themselves felt through her chemise. And when he kissed her, she pressed nearer yet.

  He swept her into his arms, carried her to their bed, and laid her down. “A moment,” he said and moved away.

  As he extinguished the torch and candles that provided most of the chamber’s light, Rhiannyn came back to herself.

  “Maxen,” she said when he lowered beside her, “I do want this, to be with you in this way.”

  The fingers he had pushed into her hair settled at the back of her head, and she felt more than saw his frown. “But?”

  “This night, can you not just hold me?”

  With his eyes, Maxen tried to part the shadows around Rhiannyn’s face, but he could make out little more than the glitter of her gaze, the curve of her nose, and her full lower lip that he longed to taste. From the night past, he knew she was not averse to making love. Thus, she must be telling him her body needed time, and he counted himself a swine for not considering one so recently virtuous might suffer discomfort.

  “Aye, leof, to hold you will be enough.” He turned her, and as he pulled her back into the curve of his body, felt her surprise. Doubtless, she had expected it to be difficult to stop a man from claiming his husband’s rights.

  “Cold?” he asked and reached behind to retrieve the coverlet.

  Beginning to relax into him, she said, “Not with your arms around me.”

  Drawing his hand back empty, he attempted to fill it with the soft curve of her belly. There was too little of it, but in time, their child would more than fill his hand—both his hands, then his arms. He was warmed by anticipation, but almost immediately cooled. What kind of father would The Bloodlust Warrior of Hastings make?

  “I thank you for my morgengifu,” Rhiannyn whispered him back to this moment. “You could not have gifted me with anything of greater value.”

  And that is why I feel for her as I do, he thought, then added, however it is I feel for her. As Christophe had long known, and perhaps even Thomas, Rhiannyn was no Theta—indeed, like no woman he had encountered.

  “I am glad to have pleased you,” he said. “Now, sleep. On the morrow, your Saxons go free.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  In the outer bailey before the portcullis being raised inch by creaking inch, Aethel stood tall and proud at the head of the four who were to accompany him away from Etcheverry. Though by presence alone, the great man was menacing, he was more so with his wild hair and beard that he made no attempt to put to order. He looked like a bear Rhiannyn had seen skirting her village when she had been a child with only dreams to cloud her eyes.

  When the portcullis made its last protest, a quiet fell over the bailey as knights and men-at-arms looked on, and those Saxons who had given their fealty to Maxen watched from the sidelines. The prisoners remained unmoving, though their eyes seemed everywhere as if suspecting Norman trickery.

  Maxen stepped before Aethel. “Do you reach Harwolfson, I would have you deliver him a message.”

  “Do I reach him?” Aethel boomed. “You think I will not?”

  Ignoring the belligerence, Maxen said, “Tell him I will see him come spring, and we will end this.”

  “I will tell him.” Aethel looked past Maxen to Rhiannyn. “Have you also word for Edwin?”

  “Naught,” she said, almost wishing she had been less effective in persuading Maxen to allow her to attend this leave-taking.

  Aethel took a step toward her.

  In an instant, Maxen’s dagger was unsheathed, its blade pressed to the Saxon’s throat. “Leave now, else you will leave not at all!”

  Rhiannyn stared at the dagger that had been placed on her tray so it might be the instrument of death for Maxen as it had been for Thomas.

  “I mean her no harm,” Aethel said.

  “Good, else I would have to disembowel you.”

  As Rhiannyn stared at her old friend, she was certain she had nothing to fear. He was not the same Aethel of her childhood, but neither was he the one who had frightened her during her visit to his cell. Though his eyes were hard, there was a softness at their centers.

  “My hands are empty,” he said. “Surely a word with Rhiannyn will hurt naught.”

  Before Maxen could refuse, she stepped forward. “What is it, Aethel?”

  With Maxen’s blade continuing to threaten the large vein in his n
eck, he could barely bend his head to look down upon her. “I would ask your pardon.”

  Then he no longer believed the lies told of her? Did not think her a betrayer? She swallowed to keep control of her emotions. “You need not.”

  “I do. I misjudged you. Thus, I beg your forgiveness.”

  Because she had asked for and been granted his release? It mattered not. “You are more than forgiven.”

  Aethel’s smile was slight. “God be with you, Rhiannyn of Etcheverry.” He shifted his regard to the man who held his life on the edge of a blade. “And God be with you, Pendery. You will need Him.”

  Accepting the threat without expression, Maxen lowered the dagger and jutted his chin toward the freedom beyond the walls. “Deliver my message.”

  Aethel grunted and motioned the others to follow him beneath the portcullis. With only the clothes on their backs, a pouch of food and a skin of drink each, the five passed out of the bailey to begin a journey that could see them traipsing all of England in pursuit of their leader.

  “I would like to go up to the wall-walk to watch them away,” Rhiannyn said, nodding at Christophe who had already gained that advantage.

  “I will take you.” Maxen led her to the steps and reached a hand behind.

  She twined her fingers with his, raised her skirts, and followed.

  At the top, he drew her to the notch in the wall past the one before which Christophe was positioned, and pulled her in front of him. “They are in little hurry to quit Etcheverry,” he mused as he stared over her head.

  Aethel and those coming behind crossed the land at a pace which seemed almost leisurely. Still, Rhiannyn was certain if it were not Aethel leading, the four would run for the wood.

  She smiled. No matter the outcome of Edwin’s battle and what role the Saxon played, Aethel would ever be in her heart.

  The shrill sound of a loosed arrow ran the air, and an instant later, the Saxon at the rear of the party dropped to his knees. A darkly feathered shaft protruding from his upper back, he fell on his face amid the scrubby grass.