LadyOfConquest:SaxonBride

by Tamara Leigh

  “Non, lady.”

  He would know soon enough, she thought, her hand drifting to her belly that would not long remain flat. She sat up. “We should speak elsewhere.” Away from those with whom they shared the hall’s sleeping quarters.

  Sir Guy held out a hand. “I know a place.”

  The moment his fingers closed over hers, she was certain of one thing—she liked his touch.

  When they gained an alcove across the hall, he released her.

  Wishing he had not, for she might better gauge his reaction with his hand upon her, she said, “I am…” She caught her breath. “…with child.”

  Though her words must have shocked him, it was too dark in the alcove to catch his expression. “I see.”

  She sniffed. “Non, Sir Knight, you do not.” She let a long moment pass. “It is not any misbegotten child I carry. It is…” This time, her pause was not planned, her pending revelation flushing her with shame she had previously experienced in small measure. “It is the wolf’s child.”

  “As expected.”

  Elan felt a sinking in her center. Though she was aware her father had made it known Harwolfson had ravished her, she had not expected the news to spread so soon so far. Nor had she expected to regret it as much as she now did. Why? How could this man make her feel vile when she should not care what he thought of her? He was just another man, no different from Royden.

  “I understand your loathing, Sir Guy,” she said, unable to keep resentment from her voice. “I shall return to my sleep.”

  He pulled her back. “I do not loathe you, for surely you are not to blame for the babe.”

  No other, she silently admitted. “Non, I am not,” she spoke perhaps her hundredth lie on the subject of her violation.

  He nodded. “Harwolfson will pay for what he did. This I vow.”

  Though she shrugged off guilt as she had many times, it always left enough residue to easily return. Doubtless, either by her father’s hand, her brother’s, or this knight’s, her lover would pay a debt he did not owe. And all because she had needed to explain her lack of virtue. Still, Edwin Harwolfson had been a dead man long before she had named him a ravisher. Regardless of her accusation, he would die for his rebellion against the Normans. Thus, she was not to blame.

  Conscience easing again, she asked, “Why would you take up my cause, Sir Guy?”

  “If you wish it, lady, I would be your friend.”

  Friend? That was all?

  For shame, Elan Pendery, she silently chastised. You carry a misbegotten child and already your mind turns to taking another man into your bed.

  She summoned her prettiest smile, hoped some of it would be seen. “Then friends we shall be.”

  “Friends,” he affirmed.

  Oddly moved by his offer, she walked beside him to her pallet. “Good eve,” she said as she settled beneath her blanket.

  He reached down and pushed the hair off her brow, a stirring gesture for all its seeming innocence. “Good eve, lady.”

  For a long time, she stared at where he bedded down. Then, smiling, she gave over to sleep and its lovely dreams.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  “She is gone,” Maxen said.

  Rhiannyn turned from Lucilla to her husband who entered the hall. Leaving the vapor of his warm breath in the cold morning air outside, he pushed the door closed and continued toward her.

  “You speak of Theta?” she said, thinking he must have heard her ask Lucilla about the woman’s whereabouts.

  “I do.” He halted before her.

  Lucilla murmured something and hurried away.

  “Where has Theta gone?” Rhiannyn asked.

  “I have sent her with my father’s men. On their journey to Trionne, they will deliver her to Blackspur Castle.”

  “Why?”

  “She has plagued you long enough, and I will have no more of her lies filling the corners of Etcheverry.”

  Rhiannyn smiled. She knew he accepted it was Theta who had lied about the Saxons revolting against him, but it was good to hear it. And better she would no longer suffer the woman’s jealousy.

  “Does Sir Guy know you have sent her to Blackspur?”

  Maxen unfastened the brooch holding his mantle closed. “He knows, though as you have guessed, he is not pleased.” He drew the mantle from his shoulders and draped it over an arm. “As tempting as it was to turn Theta out and let her fend for herself, it seemed cruel—even for her.”

  “I thank you, both for removing her from Etcheverry and giving her another place to go.”

  “I fear she is not grateful.”

  “She shall be when the cold of winter is full upon us.”

  Maxen nodded. “She will be Sir Guy’s problem when he takes his place as castellan. Let us hope he deals well with her.”

  Ravisher!

  Edwin had kept his face impassive throughout the telling of his latest atrocity, but now, alone amid trees and lurking woodland creatures, he loosed his fury.

  “Jezebel!” he shouted. “Harlot! She-devil!”

  Words. Only words. And not one adequately expressed his rage.

  There was at least some truth in being named a knave, a miscreant, a pillager, even a savage, but to be branded a ravisher!

  He had not and would never take a woman by force, especially the one he now knew was Elan Pendery.

  For days after she had given herself to him in the wood, he had knocked his mind senseless pondering her motive for seducing one she had known was an enemy of her people, but the answer had evaded him then as it did now. Worse, the mystery was further clouded by her calling what had happened between them ravishment. Curse her to—

  “Hell,” Dora said in her grating voice.

  Edwin swung around. How did she do it? How was she, of bent and aged body, able to move so quietly over the obstacle-strewn floor of the wood? More, how had she known his thoughts?

  She smiled, revealing a new gap in her top teeth. “One day, you will have to accept I am who I am, Edwin.”

  A sorceress? Nay, she saw and knew things others did not because she was watchful and perceptive. “I do not believe in such things,” he said.

  “How can you say that when I put breath back into you after it was gone?”

  With less patience than the other times he had refuted her claim, Edwin snapped, “There was yet breath in me when you pulled me from beneath the others.”

  Her pocked nostrils flared. “Did I not foretell you would be the one to free your people and England of Normans?”

  He widened his stance. “It has yet to be known if, under my direction, the Normans will be vanquished.”

  As if he had not refuted that as well, she continued, “It was I who showed you the truth of Rhiannyn. A truth now proven.”

  Was it? If Aethel and the others were to be believed, she had not abandoned her people, had only yielded when given no choice. Yet what of the one lost to an arrow through the back? Had Rhiannyn known what Maxen Pendery planned?

  “She knew,” Dora answered.

  Edwin shot his gaze to her. “You read me well, Dora, and perhaps you are gifted with seeing and making sense of what others cannot, but that is all.”

  She advanced and halted before him. “Aye, I have sight, though you know well I possess more. I have the power—”

  “Enough!” He would not be drawn further into her web, certain that to do so would be to consort with the devil’s own. Not for the first time, he wondered why he did not send her away. He longed to, but something kept him from doing so.

  “She will bear you a son, Edwin,” Dora said in a conspiratorial tone.

  He frowned. “Rhiannyn?”

  She grunted with disgust. “’Tis the harlot I speak of—Elan Pendery.”

  He was too taken aback to remind her she had also named Rhiannyn a harlot. Was it possible his tryst in the wood had made a babe? “A son,” he murmured and was disconcerted when the possibility of fathering a child tugged at a part of him he had t
hought trampled beneath hatred and revenge.

  “Heed me well,” Dora said. “He cannot be allowed to live.”

  “What?” Edwin barked. “You suggest I murder my own child?”

  “It matters not by whose hand, only that ’tis done.”

  “You go too far, old woman!” Edwin curled his fingers into fists. “Be gone ere I rid myself of you forever.”

  Her pink eyes widened. “The child will be Norman!”

  “If there is one, by my blood, he will be Saxon.”

  “It takes but one drop of Norman blood to foul the entire child.”

  Edwin found nothing enjoyable about killing another, but in that moment, the thought of snapping her ugly neck appealed to everything ill in him. “I will not tell you again.” He thrust a hand to her chest.

  Dora stumbled back, nearly tangling her feet in her trailing mantle. “All I have done for you!” she cried. “I gave you back your life, not only at Hastings, but when Thomas Pendery—” She gurgled on the spit she sucked into her lungs.

  All came together then, and Edwin knew he should not be surprised. “’Twas you who threw the dagger.”

  She eyed him. “I killed him.”

  He felt chill fingers skim his every limb. Mayhap she was, indeed, a witch, for how else could such a wizened body have the strength to toss a stick ten feet, let alone hurl a weapon twenty or more feet and make its mark?

  “Why?” he asked.

  Her tongue flicked between her teeth, wet her bottom lip. “He meant to kill you, and I could not allow it—not after all I gave to put life back into you.”

  It was true that with the injury Thomas Pendery had dealt him, he would likely have died by the man’s sword. But now, as then, Edwin found no pleasure or pride in his enemy’s death.

  “You are owing to me,” Dora said.

  “I owe you naught! Most especially, I do not owe you the life of my son.”

  “Such a little thing, Edwin. ’Tis all I ask.”

  He reached for her.

  “You have been warned!” she shrieked and hastened away.

  When she was gone, he dropped his chin to his chest. He was weary—of everything that had anything to do with blood and battle, of running, pillaging, and wondering when the usurper would overtake him.

  More than anything, he was weary of the evil the old woman breathed into his life.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  April, 1069

  Winter melted into spring, and with the passing of Easter, word came of King William’s victory at York over the rebel forces that attacked the city and castle there. But of Edwin Harwolfson and his insurgents, it was said they were not present—thus, not among those who had fallen to the king.

  Strangely, Edwin had been quiet these past months, and rumors abounded. It was said he amassed weapons not by thievery alone, but through forging; many of his men possessed horses to ride into battle; his followers numbered in excess of a thousand; their training was merciless and patterned after the Normans. But what was true and what was not could only be speculated upon. And worried over.

  The king had yet to pull Maxen into his contest to keep England under his control, but the day approached, and each day until then was but temporary reprieve.

  Although winter was past, there were still grumbling bellies, but no one at Etcheverry went unfed. The food was rationed for every man, woman, and child, an extra measure allowed for women who carried unborn babes, including Elan. But Maxen’s sister partook little of what was set before her, almost as if she hoped to starve the growing child out of her. However, it would not be easily cast aside, pressing forward into the world until all knew by sight of Elan’s pregnancy.

  The young woman was an enigma, one Rhiannyn steered clear of as much as possible, and not just because she lied about Edwin.

  Elan could be pleasant enough when it suited her, but for all her quick wit and childlike charm, she was better known for her bouts of moodiness and ability to be at once fetching and offensive. Thus, she alienated many—though not Sir Guy.

  The knight was surprisingly tolerant of her moods, and a humor not apparent before showed itself when Elan needed coaxing out of a particularly low spirit. And if one looked closely, one might even glimpse adoration in his eyes.

  As Elan grew rounder, her tirades worsened despite Sir Guy’s support. Something festered in her. Still, it was a surprise what passed in the hall on a cool spring day.

  As the nooning meal neared its end, she thrust to her feet. “I hear you!” she cried. “All of you whispering behind your hands. And you!” She pointed at Meghan, who stood with pitcher poised above a tankard. “You dare speak ill of me! You who cast your favors about as generously as one casts herbs upon rushes.”

  “A lie!” Meghan shrilled. Though she had been intimate with a knight here and there, she did not suffer Theta’s reputation, especially now that she and Hob—the Saxon felled by Sir Ancel’s arrow—were moving toward marriage.

  “Lady Elan!” Sir Guy called, stepping from the hearth where he and a handful of knights had gathered.

  “Ill fortune upon your heads!” she spat. “A pox on you all!”

  “Elan!” Maxen commanded her to silence.

  “Think you I require your respect? I do not!” She pressed a hand to her belly. “This babe is misbegotten, but so are many of you. What have I to be ashamed of when my son is of the Saxon who will bring you to your knees?”

  Rhiannyn made it to her side before Maxen and Sir Guy and cautiously laid a hand to her arm. “You are tired,” she said low. “Come and rest on your brother’s bed.”

  Elan jerked free. “And what of you?” she spat. “You who seem most proud to be my brother’s harlot—”

  “Enough!” Maxen pulled her away from Rhiannyn.

  “I am not finished!”

  “My lord,” Sir Guy entreated, “if you would allow me, perhaps I can settle your lady sister.”

  Elan rounded on him. “Think you I am a dog to be patted into submission and set aside? I want no more of your understanding!”

  Hurt rose on the knight’s face. And was gone. “Fine,” he said. “Muck about in your self-pity all you like. I am done with you.”

  As he strode toward the men he had left in coming to her aid, Elan stared after him with eyes wide and mouth agape.

  “I have also had enough,” Maxen said and pulled her toward his chamber.

  She wrenched free, and in a high, miserable voice, cried, “Sir Guy!”

  He did not look back.

  “To my chamber,” Maxen said, once more taking hold of her, “and from there, the convent.”

  She strained away, but he pulled her after him.

  Moved by the young woman’s despairing face as she struggled to keep her champion in sight, Rhiannyn hastened after Maxen. “My lord,” she said as she came alongside, “what harm in allowing Lady Elan to talk with Sir Guy?”

  “Harm?” he said with unbroken stride. “What good? I ask. He speaks to her every whim, indulges her when a firm hand is more needed, and tries to understand what cannot be understood.”

  “Mayhap—”

  “Mayhap naught! I am sick of all this coddling. It ends this day.”

  Rhiannyn jumped in front of him. “I beseech thee, let her speak with him. She…needs him.”

  As he stared at her, she glimpsed softening about his features others might not notice. But it was a face she now knew well.

  “Pray, Maxen, allow me,” Elan begged.

  Sir Guy was before the doors when his lord called him back. With obvious resentment, he returned. “My lord?”

  “My sister asks you to lend her an ear. Are you willing?”

  “I am not.” His jaw shifted. “But for you, my liege, I shall listen.”

  Maxen looked to his sister. “End this, Elan, else ready yourself for the convent.”

  “We will speak outside,” Sir Guy said and led her toward the great doors.

  Rhiannyn watched them go from sight,
then turned her regard upon her husband. She was pleased his anger had receded to the point he wore a slight smile.

  “Only for you,” he said. And it could not be more true, Maxen thought. If not for Rhiannyn, he would have unleashed the words building in him these past months, and which he had nearly shouted when his sister thought to name Rhiannyn a harlot. Without waiting for a full day’s light, he might even have sent Elan on to the convent. Only for Rhiannyn.

  He stepped near, said low, “Might my wife join me in our chamber?”

  He liked her slow smile. It invited kisses. Cupping her elbow, he led her around the screen, and when she slipped into his arms, he accepted her invitation. And more.

  Afterward, when she lay with her head on his chest, hair spilled over him, his thoughts went where they were wont to go. As he had assured her, he had not made a babe on her all these months as evidenced by her regular menses. But with each passing day, more and more he loathed the waiting that prevented him from acknowledging her as his wife and seeing their child in her arms.

  He was not certain he could have managed it as long as he had if his men, the castle folk, and her people had not quickly accepted she was no ordinary leman. Of course, some had been resistant to showing respect, but a blackened eye or bruised jaw greatly improved their dispositions. More, Rhiannyn made the waiting tolerable. Despite her initial misgivings, she had settled into the role, and he took it as a sign of trust. And she had good cause to trust him.

  Regardless of what the king determined, no matter what loss might be suffered, he would not give her up. He wanted his Saxon bride for all the days to come, to make children upon her, and grow old with her. He wanted the waiting done.

  “I thank you, Husband,” she whispered.

  He gently pulled his fingers through the curls turned around them and settled his hand to the small of her back. “For my lady’s desire,” he murmured.