by Tamara Leigh
“What if Harwolfson will not accept Blackspur?” he asked. “If he cannot be prevented from coming against us on the battlefield?”
William’s shrug moved from his mouth to his shoulders. “If Sir Guy survives, you may give Blackspur into his keeping.”
Sensing the king had given all he would, telling himself to be content with having made negotiation an option, Maxen said, “I thank you for granting me an audience, Your Majesty. If you would now grant me my leave, I shall return to the donjon to speak with Sir Guy on the matter.”
Across the fire-lit night, William said, “Your leave is granted.”
Maxen bowed and pivoted, but he was soon called back around. “My liege?”
The king tapped his left hand with his right. “Put a ring on your lady’s finger, Pendery. Then make an heir on her.”
The first could be done this night, perhaps even the second. “I shall, Your Majesty.”
William motioned him away, and though it was Rhiannyn to whom Maxen wished to go, he went in search of Guy.
“What do you think will happen?” Rhiannyn asked Maxen who had stretched out beside her on the pallet she had made for them in an alcove off the hall.
After returning from his walk with the king and conferring with Sir Guy, he had come to her and, amid the rustling and murmuring of the multitude settling in to their rest, quietly revealed what had been discussed regarding the coming confrontation with Edwin.
“What will happen…” he murmured as if to himself and turned his head toward hers on the pillow they shared. “Do you wish the truth?”
The three walls of their makeshift chamber casting deeper shadows than those found in the open hall, she caught the gleam of his eyes before the familiar planes of his face emerged. “Aye, the truth.”
“Though, as told, the king was receptive to victory through negotiation—providing the rebel army presents a threat—methinks Harwolfson will not be satisfied with anything less than Etcheverry.”
Rhiannyn believed this to be true. If Edwin could be calmed, it would not be by way of what had been promised to Sir Guy.
“Thus,” Maxen continued, “’tis more likely we go into battle on the morrow.”
Rhiannyn let out the breath she had not realized she held. “Dear Lord.”
Maxen turned onto his side and levered onto an elbow. Leaning over her, he slid a hand across her temple into her hair, spread his long fingers, and gently rubbed her scalp as if she, more than he, bore the strain of what was to come—he who refused the most powerful man in England the sword of The Bloodlust Warrior of Hastings.
“I will not be that man again, Rhiannyn,” he said as if his wandering thoughts had happened upon the path hers wended. “At least, I shall continue to fight it, for more than once I felt that presence this day.”
Rhiannyn nearly shuddered over memories of what he had become in meeting Ancel over swords. Though justified in taking the knight’s life, he had seemed little more than a throw from the beasts of the wood. At William’s side, would he indiscriminately slaughter as he had done at Hastings?
“With whom did you feel its presence?” she asked.
“William, when he addressed you as if you were my leman.”
There was no need to point out the king could not be faulted for his belief, nor did she wish it to weigh on Maxen any more than it already did.
“More than once you felt its presence?” she prompted.
“Again upon the wall when I roused the king’s anger.”
“By encouraging him to negotiate with Harwolfson.”
“Before then.”
“Over what matter?”
He drew his fingers from her hair to her shoulder, slid them down her arm, and lifted her left hand. “You again,” he said and sat up. “When I revealed we have long been wed.”
Rhiannyn’s insides leapt—with happiness, disbelief, and fear. In a trembling voice, she said, “Truly?”
“Truly, Rhiannyn mine.”
Tears ran to the corners of her eyes, and she said, “He was angered?”
“He was and is, but it is done. Now…” Something warm and smooth touched the tip of her third finger, slid down its length. “…all will know the truth of the woman who shares not only my bed but my life.”
Throat so tight it hurt, she drew her thumb across the softly rounded edge she had feared would never be felt upon her hand—visible evidence of their vows that should not matter, but did.
“For months I have carried this ring on my person,” Maxen said.
“Months?”
“In anticipation of this day, I had the smithy at Blackspur fashion it for you.”
She swallowed hard. “What of William? He will permit this?”
“He has permitted it. We have but to allow him the lie that he secretly granted us permission months past.”
It was too easy. “What price?” she asked.
“Rhiannyn—”
“What price, Maxen?”
“I am to prove as worthy against Harwolfson as I was at Hastings.”
“Ah, nay!”
He pressed fingers to her lips. “As worthy. If peace can be brokered between the king and Harwolfson, I will work it. If peace cannot… With God’s aid and the certainty you await my return, I will fight for my liege as is my duty. And only as is my duty.”
She stared up at him, wished she could clearly see his face the better to carry this moment with her always, regardless of how long always might be. How she loved this man whom she had once believed impossible to love!
A sob escaped her.
“It is well, Rhiannyn,” he rasped.
Another sob.
He put an arm around her, drew her close, and lowered to his back.
Pressing her face into his neck to muffle sounds of misery that were anything but, she felt her heart beat in time with his.
He who had hated her for his brother’s death, cared for her.
Impossible.
He who had used her to gain Edwin’s camp, had become her shield.
Impossible.
He who had not trusted her, had set her over his household.
Impossible.
He who had wed her in secret, had been true to her.
Impossibly possible.
“Hush, Rhiannyn,” he said.
She lifted her face to his. “All that was impossible is made possible.”
After a long moment, he said, “A blessing.”
“Aye. Do you forgive me, Maxen?”
“What have I to forgive you for?”
“I was frightened when you said…” She steadied her breath. “…we must keep our vows secret. I was afraid you might set me aside.”
“This I know. And I gave you cause to feel that way.”
“But even after I understood the reason and believed you, I feared I was wrong in doing so. And when you almost eagerly agreed to wait on children, I feared even more.” She shook her head. “I suppose it means I never truly believed you.”
“Rhiannyn, I understand. As for waiting on children, I did not object because I did not wish you to suffer more stigma than already I had cast upon you by allowing others to believe you were but my leman, and…”
“What?”
“I, too, knew fear—that the man who had become The Bloodlust Warrior would not be a worthy father and the chasm between my sire and me would seem small compared to what there might be between our child and me.”
Realizing here, too, was what it meant to become one—feeling the other’s pain and uncertainty—Rhiannyn pushed up and kissed his jaw. “Just as you make a wonderful husband, Maxen, you will make a wonderful father.” This time, it was she who sought his hand. Taking hold of it, she pressed it to her lower abdomen.
“There,” she said, soft and low. “There.”
He was still some moments, then his fingers splayed and began moving over what would grow round and full.
“I am sorry I lied when you asked if I was with child,” she
whispered. “I was… I do not know what I was. Lost?”
The breath went out of him, and her own stuck when he pulled his hand away. But then his fingers were in her hair again, urging her head beneath his chin.
“There will be no more lies between us,” he said firmly, but without anger.
She began to smile, only to trip over her love for him and fall back to a time when these feelings had not existed—when he had been beyond angered. Because of Thomas.
On a day of rain and tears, she had accepted the dying man’s anger—and curses—as his due. Though she no longer did, it must be told, for like lies, it was between Maxen and her.
Praying he would be as accepting of it, she said, “No more lies—nor hidden things.”
He stiffened so slightly, she was certain she only noticed because she expected it. “Hidden things?” he said.
“To which I alluded in Andredeswald when I revealed to Brother Justus I feared for my soul.”
“Ah. Thomas’s curses.”
The irony of them, she thought and said, “Aye, but what you should know is that while he lay dying in my arms, ’twas me he blamed for his death. Had I not run from him—”
“We have already discussed and resolved this, Rhiannyn. You could not have known he would come after you without escort. Thomas’s death is upon him, not you.”
She did accept that—mostly.
“Now what other hidden things would you have me know?”
She pressed nearer him. “To the heavens he called for his brother to avenge him. I thought he meant Christophe, but when you came to me in the cell, I knew it was you.”
“The Bloodlust Warrior.”
“Aye, so terribly vengeful.”
“Summoned by Christophe,” Maxen pointed out, “not Thomas, and not for revenge. You know that, aye?”
“I do.”
He stroked her arm. “I am sorry I frightened you. I was angered by my brother’s death and certain I was best locked away where I could harm no one. Never would I have guessed I would wish to be here at Etcheverry—with you.”
Rhiannyn clasped those words to her before continuing. “A thousand times—to eternity—Thomas cursed me.”
“Also as already told, words only, spoken by a man angry with his own death whose passing comes too slowly…” He trailed off, then asked, “Was my brother in much pain?”
Though tempted to deny it, it would be another lie. “He was.”
Maxen’s hand on her arm stilled and, feeling his dark emotions, she said, “What of your vengeance against the one who murdered him?”
His chest rose with a deep breath. “If I am to know who it was, the answer must come to me. No longer will I seek it.”
“You accept his death?”
“As much as I can. Now, tell me the curses he spoke against you.”
Under the circumstances, it seemed almost silly. “Thomas said that if I would not belong to a Pendery, I would belong to no man, that never would I hold a child at my breast, and never again would I know the love of a man.”
Maxen gave a disbelieving grunt. “Though the first is true, that you will only belong to a Pendery—as I will only belong to you—it is not a curse but a blessing. And further proof that God does not serve man is that our child will be at your breast come the new year.” He clasped her nearer. “As for the last, I do not understand how I am capable of feeling as I do, but you have my love, Rhiannyn.”
She stopped breathing, then a short, sweet laugh spilled from her as she wrapped her heart around his declaration. Maxen Pendery, once and nevermore her enemy, loved her. But before she could assure him he was not alone in this, he swept aside the silence as if for fear she would not.
“Once more, I must ask you to hold close the truth,” he said, “this time that you are with child, though only until the morrow when the king reveals he granted us permission to wed ere you came to my bed.”
She frowned. “For what?”
“William would prefer to permit our marriage because I wish to claim the child you carry, the better to maintain it is he who controls his nobles’ fates. But I would have the truth known that you were never my leman and our child was legitimately conceived.”
“Of course,” she whispered, then said, “Surely you know—must know—you are loved as well, Maxen.”
She felt his breath in her hair. “I dared hope, deore.”
Beloved. Had that word in her language ever sounded so beautiful? “No matter what comes,” she said, “on the morrow and every day thereafter, I love you, Maxen Pendery.”
“As ever I love you, Rhiannyn Pendery.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
The baron of Trionne was not pleased, so much that William must know it. But the king seemed unconcerned. His word was law. Thus, having announced he had months past granted Maxen permission to wed Rhiannyn and ordered their vows kept secret to prevent Harwolfson from moving on Etcheverry, the marriage could not be undone.
Unfortunately, Elan’s father seemed determined someone should suffer for his son’s choice of wife, and that was his daughter.
“I do not wish to go!” she wailed where she came up off her chair before the hearth. “How can you ask me to look again upon the one who did this to me?” She gripped her swollen belly.
“I am not asking,” Baron Pendery growled, “I am telling. You will witness the miscreant’s death—this your revenge.”
“It is enough for me that he dies!”
“It is not enough for me. Make ready to ride!”
On the verge of speaking in defense of her sister-in-law, despite the certainty it would not go well for her, Rhiannyn was grateful when she heard the heavy tread of boots well filled. Halting her advance at the center of the hall, she looked around and offered an apologetic smile when her husband’s eyes met hers.
Following the pre-dawn breaking of fast that had ended with acknowledgement of the lord of Etcheverry’s marriage, King William had commanded Maxen to accompany him to the camp. In the hour since, she had busied herself with duties which were now truly hers. But though it had been easy to ignore the curious castle folk who were fascinated by the ring upon her hand, Baron Pendery had made his every glower felt. Doubtless, he resented another lost opportunity to make an advantageous marriage for one of his children, and this one his heir.
“My sister—your daughter—is too far into her pregnancy to risk the ride,” Maxen called to his father as he strode across the room, having surely heard the heated argument through the open doors.
Baron Pendery swung around. “What? You fear she might lose this ill-gotten babe? Hardly a bad thing.”
Though Maxen’s stride did not falter, Rhiannyn saw him stiffen as if to suppress the desire to loose feet, arms, and fists. He halted before his father. “I do fear she could lose the babe,” he said, “as I fear she could also be put at risk. Thus, she remains at Etcheverry.”
The baron’s face flushed, and he thrust it near his son’s. “I say she goes.”
Heavenly Father, Rhiannyn silently prayed, let them not come to blows.
Maxen did not back down, nor give in to the temptation to make fists of his hands.
“Elan goes with us,” the baron repeated.
“She stays,” his son hissed.
“I am sorry, Maxen, but I must side with your father,” King William’s voice boomed across the hall, bringing Rhiannyn’s chin around to catch his entrance ahead of a dozen knights.
Maxen turned. “Your Majesty, surely you can see how far gone my sister is with child!”
“I see as well as you,” the king said, “and I see Lady Elan could prove useful—”
“Useful!” Maxen bit.
William strode past Rhiannyn and halted before the three Penderys, the smallest and youngest of whom whimpered into her hand.
“Oui,” the king said, “if I proceed with what we discussed yestereve.”
Though hope was found in his words—that rather than slaughter, he would try to make
peace with Edwin—what of Elan?
“My sister is promised to Sir Guy,” Maxen reminded him.
“And she will make your man a good wife,” William said, “should it be in the best interest of England.”
After all Maxen had shared with her on the night past, Rhiannyn would have been confused if not that her husband did not appear to suffer from that state. He was affronted. And he should be, for it sounded as if Sir Guy might not only lose the castle he had been promised, but his betrothed. But surely William would not offer up Elan, for just as Maxen’s sister did not want Edwin, Edwin could not possibly want the woman who accused him of a thing of which Rhiannyn was certain he was incapable.
Baron Pendery stepped alongside Maxen. “Your Majesty, may I ask what you discussed with my son—with what you might proceed?”
“As it is not likely to be carried out,” the king said, “you need not concern yourself. Eh, Maxen?”
When Maxen answered, his voice was further strained. “Regardless, Elan should remain here.”
“She will not, and neither will your Saxon wife.”
Rhiannyn stopped breathing, silently called to her husband to carefully descend the precipice from which the king might otherwise fling him.
As Maxen stared at his king, he felt his wife’s fear. Though one-on-one he was certain he would be the victor of a match between himself and William, it was not such a contest he faced. As rude as the truth was, with but a nod at those who had accompanied the king into the hall, Maxen’s life could be forfeit.
As evenly as he could manage, he asked, “For what would you have Lady Rhiannyn accompany us, Your Majesty?”
The king raised an eyebrow. “Having been betrothed to Harwolfson, she likely knows him well. Thus, should I require insight into the man, your lady wife—a loyal and most grateful subject—will be at the ready.”
No mistaking the threat in his words, Maxen eased his clenched teeth. “Then she shall ride with us to meet Harwolfson.”
As if there had been no edge over which all could have plummeted, William smiled, stepped forward, and gripped Maxen’s shoulder. “You will serve me well again,” he said, and turned and exited the hall ahead of his knights.