by Tamara Leigh
She lifted her face to his, scowled playfully. “I speak not of that, but of Elan and Guy.”
“Elan,” he groaned, wishing talk of her had been allowed to lie a bit longer. “What am I to do with her?”
“Methinks much depends on Sir Guy.”
“You think he can straighten her crookedness?”
“If anyone can.”
“Why do you care so much, Rhiannyn? Why, when she is mostly cool toward you and names you a harlot?”
She pushed up on an elbow and leaned forward, causing her hair to curtain their faces. “Because I know I am not one, as does my husband whose opinion matters most.”
He touched her lower lip. “Regardless, she hardly deserves such kindness.”
“I know she is difficult, but I feel for her.”
“Though you believe she lies about Harwolfson?”
“If Edwin did, indeed, father her child, she does lie.”
After these past months, Maxen was more inclined to believe his sister was a liar than Harwolfson a ravisher, but he kept it to himself. “Spring is upon us,” he said, reminding her he would likely face Harwolfson across a battlefield before long.
She tensed. “So it is.”
“There is something I need to ask you—about Harwolfson.”
“I shall do my best to answer.”
“What would it take to make peace with him?”
She caught her breath. “Even I have heard it is his death William seeks.”
“Aye, but methinks I may be able to convince the king otherwise, providing I can also convince Harwolfson.”
Rhiannyn sat up. “I thought you also sought his death.”
“After all I have told you of Hastings?” He rose to sitting. “If there is a chance to prevent further bloodshed, that is the course I shall seek.”
She nodded slowly. “But will William follow your course?”
If the king yet held him in high regard as he had following Hastings, it was possible. “Perhaps, but the first question to be answered is, what will it take to convince Harwolfson peace is the better way?”
Tears brightened Rhiannyn’s eyes. “I knew you were worthy of heart.”
Was he? Did his hope of peace with Harwolfson prove the savage of Hastings was worthy of being loved? That he was nearer to forgiving himself as she said he must? If he could prevent the battle between William and Harwolfson, might he be able to do so? More, might God finally forgive him his atrocities?
“What price Harwolfson’s peace?” he asked again.
“I do not know. I but pray it is not so far gone he has no price.”
“I understood he sought to reclaim Etcheverry.”
“Aye, his family’s lands, but I fear they no longer figure into his rebellion and it may take all of England to satisfy him.” She bit her lower lip. “Are you saying you would give him Etcheverry?”
“If it would end his uprising and the king agrees, I would relinquish the lands and castles to him.”
Not for the first time, he glimpsed something in Rhiannyn’s eyes that should not be possible. Love? Or but deeply felt gratitude?
Love, he told himself, needing to believe it. Rhiannyn loved him.
“I believe you will succeed and bring peace to England,” she said.
He shook his head. “Though Harwolfson’s following numbers great, there are others who seek to oust the Normans. Thus, even if he can be reconciled to King William, the fighting will lessen, but it will not end. Not yet.”
Rhiannyn’s smile fell, but returned moments later. “There can be no end without a beginning, and that is what you will have if you convince William and Edwin to set aside their differences.”
Maxen nodded. “There is something about Harwolfson I have long pondered. As a royal housecarle, he should have died alongside his king, yet he survived the death of his lord and returned to Etcheverry to mount his rebellion.”
“So he did, though it is told he should be among the dead, not the living.”
“Dora.”
Rhiannyn startled. “You know.”
He shrugged. “I know the rumor the old woman brought Harwolfson back to life after death had taken him.”
“Perhaps.”
“You discount the possibility he was truly dead?”
She fidgeted. “Edwin does not believe it. He always said there must have been life in him when she pulled him from beneath the others.”
Then Harwolfson was more God-fearing than pagan, Maxen concluded. “How badly was he wounded?”
“He should have died for all the wounds sustained and blood lost, but Dora would not allow it—even when Edwin prayed for death so he might not suffer the disgrace of one who had survived his king on the battlefield.”
“If that is so, why did he not end it himself when he was able?”
“I think he might have, but when he was well enough to walk the village and saw for himself what the Normans had wrought, something came over him.”
“Revenge.”
She nodded.
Maxen studied her face and the sorrow that had displaced what he hoped was love. “You have answered my questions well. I thank you.”
She sighed, scooted down.
He urged her onto her side and pulled her back against him. As her breathing deepened, he found himself brooding over what he had learned. Harwolfson was a man of honor, but also revenge. Loyal to his own, but recklessly so. A Christian, yet one who kept a witch at his side. Stubborn, but able to bend—at least, slightly—when the occasion warranted.
For an hour or more, his mind spun with plotting, but finally he rose, turned the coverlet over Rhiannyn’s sleeping figure, and clothed himself to go in search of Elan and Guy.
It was Christophe he found before a game of chess.
“I would call it love,” said the youngest Pendery when he caught sight of his brother, and he moved a bishop across the board and captured a piece.
Longing for evidence Rhiannyn did feel love for him, Maxen said, “Of what do you speak?”
Christophe stood, crossed to the other side of the board, and seated himself. Gaze fixed on his game, he said, “Elan and Guy. Whom else would I be speaking of?”
Wily youth, Maxen mused. For certain, his words were not exclusive to Elan and Guy.
Christophe looked up. “Sir Guy and our sister have a great liking for each another.”
Maxen dropped into the vacated chair. “What makes you think that?”
Christophe leaned back. “The way they gaze into each other’s eyes, the way they hold hands. But what most convinced me was when they kissed.”
“Kissed?” Maxen demanded.
“In the garden.”
Maxen pushed to his feet, but Christophe stood and stepped into his path. “He is good for Elan. Do not take from her all that is holding her together.”
“And let her further suffer the attentions of a man?” Maxen growled, uncaring others might hear.
“I assure you, these attentions she does not mind.”
“It is unseemly.”
“Only if he does not offer to wed her.”
Maxen narrowed his lids. “You think he will?”
“I know he will.”
“How?”
“I overheard him ask if she would grant him permission to approach our father and request her hand in marriage.”
When Maxen did not respond, Christophe said, “It would be a good match.”
For Elan, but Guy? “I do not know that I agree, Christophe.”
“Agree or not, our unwed sister is with child, and Sir Guy cares for her though he is not the father. If he is willing, our father would be a fool not to accept him, for it is unlikely another worthy man will offer for her.”
“You are right.” What Maxen did not say was he would not wish to be the one who spent the remainder of his life with one such as Elan.
“Ah, see!” Christophe exclaimed and, as if his mind had remained half on his game, picked up a piece and moved it
. “I have won!”
Maxen grinned. “Who lost?”
“My opponent, of course.”
“But were you not your opponent?”
Christophe chuckled. “One must make do with what one has.”
Maxen was not unaware of how solitary Christophe was in the absence of his medicines and patients, distanced from others not only by age but a lame body that made him more suited to books than weapons.
Swept by an increasingly familiar longing to be the brother he had not been to Christophe in a long time, he said, “What think you of playing me?”
The youth’s eyes widened. “I think well of it!”
Rhiannyn awoke to laughter. She turned to Maxen, but found his warm body had become a cold spot.
More laughter pricked her ears. The indoor games and conversations of winter, though less so of spring, were not without mirth, so why did this laughter seem out of place?
She sat up and listened for the next outburst. This time it was met with the laughter of others, but at its center were the voices of Maxen and Christophe, their united laughter a new sound to her.
Hurriedly, she dressed and stepped into the hall. Before the hearth, a dozen men were gathered, their heads bent toward something.
“Pardon,” Rhiannyn said as she eased her way into the group.
“Come see what my brother has done to me,” Maxen said.
She glanced from him to the chess game, then to Christophe’s exultant face. “I do not understand.”
Maxen caught her hand and pulled her to his side. “Look at his cleverness.”
He explained Christophe’s moves that had cornered Maxen’s king, but Rhiannyn heard little of it. She was too filled with joy at seeing these two grow closer, treating each other as brothers rather than the distant acquaintances they had seemed when she had first returned to Etcheverry.
“I am thoroughly beaten,” Maxen said.
“Another match?” Christophe asked.
“You would see me on my knees twice in one day?” Maxen shook his head. “Perhaps on the morrow I will try again.”
“Anyone else?” Christophe called to the others.
Shaking their heads, they began moving away.
Seeing Christophe’s disappointment, Maxen said, “They fear you, ’tis all.”
Christophe grinned. “I give them good reason.”
“Rhiannyn?” said a soft, almost apologetic voice.
Rhiannyn turned. As it was the first time Elan had addressed her without anger, spite, or impatience, she stared.
“I would speak with you,” Elan said.
Rhiannyn glanced at Maxen and Christophe and saw both appeared as surprised as she. “Now?”
Annoyance flashed in Elan’s eyes. “If the time is not right, we can speak later.”
Wondering what she was up to, for it was unlikely she was amiable for any reason other than personal gain, Rhiannyn said, “Let us speak now.”
“Come with me outside?”
Rhiannyn sent Maxen a questioning look before following his sister from the donjon where none could listen in on their conversation.
“I wish to apologize,” Elan said.
“For?” Rhiannyn blurted.
“Treating you ill.”
Rhiannyn frowned. “Forgive me my confusion, but I had not thought you cared for my feelings.”
“I do not much.” Quickly, Elan added, “But I begin to.”
“How so?”
“You convinced my brother to allow me to speak with Sir Guy. Thus, I owe you.”
“That is all?”
Elan shrugged. “Methinks you are not so bad. You perform fairly well the duties of the lady of the castle, lend an ear to the servants when they pick at one another, and seem to make my brother happy, which makes him somewhat tolerable. Nay, you are not so bad.”
Though not tactful, at least it was spoken. “I thank you, Elan.”
Looking pleased, the young woman said, “That is all,” and started to turn away.
Rhiannyn touched her arm. “I hope one day we can be friends.”
Elan appeared taken aback, but said, “It is possible,” and hurried into the hall.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
June, 1069
Meghan smelled of garlic, the odor so pungent Rhiannyn feared she would retch.
Raising a hand to stop the woman from speaking further, Rhiannyn said, “Tell Mildreth ’tis a good menu,” and turned and walked as steadily as she could to the lord’s chamber. Once around the screen, she dropped to the floor, crossed an arm over her abdomen, and lowered her head toward her knees.
“Nay,” she groaned, “let it not be.” But it was. She had feared it yesterday upon realizing a fortnight had passed without her monthly flux. Though part of her was gladdened by this further evidence—of which she had no need, she told herself—that Thomas’s curse was only angry words, the part of her waiting to be acknowledged as Maxen’s wife was awash in regret.
The nausea was slow to pass, twisting her insides, but finally her belly calmed.
Wiping moisture from her brow, she lifted her head. Here in this chamber was where she would birth the child she should not yet have made with Maxen. A joyous thing it ought to be—and might be if the wait was soon over.
And if he does not set you aside, spoke the voice of distrust that had become mostly a whisper these past months.
She shook her head. Maxen had given his word, and she had no reason to believe he did not speak true.
No reason? distrust argued, this time above a whisper. Did he object when you told you wished to wait on children? Might he have been a bit too eager to agree—he, a noble who ought to be impatient to make heirs?
“Cease,” she rasped. Maxen might not love her, but he seemed content to have her in his life, made her feel cherished, and felt more for her than desire.
But all might change now you are with child, the voice slid in again.
Attempting the impossible—to think no more about the child growing in her—she stood. Paying her mind no heed, her hand pressed itself to her belly. She would be about a month pregnant, and as it was now June, the child would be born midwinter if it came into the world in a timely manner.
She dropped her hand to her side. Maxen had seemed certain his method of preventing pregnancy was as effective as Christophe’s, but it had failed. Or perhaps it had never truly worked, and she was simply not easily impregnated.
Not that it mattered. She was with child, and she could not change that.
Naught that I am willing to do, she silently amended, having caught whispers of how one might terminate a pregnancy. Protectively, she wrapped both arms around her abdomen. The timing was ill, but the babe was Maxen and hers.
An exultant squeal from beyond the screen made her jump.
Elan, she realized when it came again, this time followed by Sir Guy’s gruff laughter.
Rhiannyn stepped from behind the screen and located her sister-in-law and the knight where they stood before Maxen who had recently entered the hall and taken his seat at the high table. The others who had been present when Rhiannyn had retreated to the chamber were absent. Dismissed?
“What is it?” she asked as she drew even with Elan.
“He agrees!” Elan pointed to the parchment Maxen held. “My father agrees to the marriage.”
Though Rhiannyn and Elan still had difficult moments, their relationship was tempered by understanding and tolerance. Hardly a friendship, but it was an improvement.
“I am happy for you.” Rhiannyn moved her gaze from Elan’s glowing face to the man who would wed her.
The knight nodded and Elan glowed more.
“We will begin preparation for the ceremony,” Maxen said.
“Nay!” Elan squealed. “Not while I am round as a pig.”
Maxen lifted an eyebrow. “You would postpone the wedding until after the child is born?”
She scoffed. “I will not be rushed into this. I wish a proper wedding, a
proper gown, and a proper figure to display my finery.”
Maxen leaned forward. “Your vanity will cast more ill upon this child than has already been.” He looked at her swollen belly. “Though it is too late for any to believe the babe is Guy’s, the sooner the ceremony is performed, the better.”
“I am not keeping the child,” Elan reminded him.
“Even though you are to wed?”
“Of course! It was ill-gotten on me, and I will not suffer its upbringing—nor ask Guy to suffer it.”
“You are its mother, Elan.”
“Not by choice.”
Maxen shifted his gaze to his friend. “What think you?”
The knight, visibly uncomfortable with the question, answered stiltedly, “If Elan wished to keep the child, I would make it as good a father as I am capable of, but the decision is hers.”
“There, you see,” Elan said. “My decision.”
Aching for the babe whose mother intended to abandon it, Rhiannyn wondered if it could be reared at Etcheverry with her own child.
“Very well.” Maxen’s tone was gruff with dislike. “The wedding will be stayed until after the child’s birth. Now I have work to do.”
Elan and Guy withdrew, but Rhiannyn remained, wanting to tell Maxen their wanted child was wrapped safe and warm inside her body. But the dissenting voice stirred up bile that made her swallow hard.
Maxen pulled a ledger in front of him, dipped a quill in ink, and looked to her.
Struggling against the impulse to once more seek evidence of her babe who might, at least for a time, be named misbegotten the same as Elan’s, she curled her fingers into her palms.
“What is it, Rhiannyn?”
She blinked. “Naught. I simply forgot to leave.”
While she inwardly sighed over her silly choice of words, he smiled. “Forgot to leave?”
She made a face. “Obviously, I am tired.”
His eyebrows drew close. “You take too much upon yourself.”
“Nay, I am just not sleeping well.”
“I had not noticed.”
“Worry not, a short lie down and I will be made right.” She turned and started toward their chamber.
So fraught were her emotions that she did not hear Maxen move until he was upon her. He clasped her shoulder, pulled her around, and lowered his face near hers. “Are you with child, Rhiannyn?”