by Tamara Leigh
There followed the silence of Pendery facing Pendery—an air of hostility between father and son.
Elan broke the quiet. “I do not wish to go!”
Her father turned on her. “I give you a quarter hour, then I will drag you out by the hair if need be.” He came back around, cast an angry eye upon his son, next Rhiannyn, and strode after the king of England.
“I am sorry, Rhiannyn…Elan,” Maxen said, “but it must be as the king commands.”
“I will make ready,” Rhiannyn said.
“I hope Edwin cuts William’s heart out,” Elan shrilled. “Disembowels him. Severs his—”
“Elan!” Maxen barked.
“I do,” she retorted, tears streaming. “How dare he do this to me! Who does he think he is? God?”
Likely, Maxen thought. “Do as you have been told, Elan,” he said, and there being many things to which he must attend before the ride, turned away. And found his beautiful wife moving toward him.
Her face lightened with the meeting of their eyes, and he saw there the love she had proclaimed on the night past. Something to live for.
He reached to her as they drew near, and for a moment, their hands clasped and he felt the ring he had given her. Then their fingers slid past each other’s and she said, “I will help you collect your things, Elan, then you can assist with mine.”
“I ought to go naked,” Maxen’s sister mumbled, “then he would see I am in no state to ride a horse.”
“Would that not be a sight?” Rhiannyn said. “Had I the courage, methinks I would bare all with you.”
Maxen stepped outside into the awakening day and considered the inner bailey and the outer beyond that teemed with preparations for the coming encounter.
“Bend, Edwin Harwolfson,” he rasped, “else you will be dead.”
As uncomfortable as the long ride had been for Rhiannyn, she knew it must have been miserable for Elan. Whereas Rhiannyn had ridden with Maxen—excepting those times when William commanded him to his side—Elan was too large to ride with Sir Guy. Thus, she had ridden at her betrothed’s side, crying and complaining much of the way.
Fortunately, the pace had not been brutal, though it was surely not out of consideration for Elan but merely part of the king’s plan.
Dusk dusted the skies before William called a halt to the procession, and on the ridge above a grassy field bordering a wood, a camp was erected. The place was named Darfield, and it was here on the morrow Norman would again meet Saxon in battle.
It was dark before Maxen returned from the king’s tent. Throwing back the flap of the tent raised for him and Rhiannyn, he said, “He knows we are here.”
She sat up on the pallet. “Edwin?” she asked, though she knew it must be. The tent, lit from without by the torches set about the camp, showed Maxen’s shadowed figure as he moved toward her.
“Aye.” He dropped down beside her. “He is in the wood, but on the morrow he and his followers will gather at the opposite end of the field to face William.”
“You are certain of that?”
“I am—as is the king.”
She put a hand on his arm. “Mayhap Edwin will withdraw.”
“You think so?”
He did not believe it, and neither did she.
So why do I deceive myself with false hope? she silently chastised. Even if Edwin turned away, the confrontation would simply come a day or so later.
“I do not think so,” she said, “but what of the negotiation you proposed?”
“Although King William wearies of these uprisings, his power increases with each victory. Thus, as he likely views the defeat of Harwolfson as a great triumph, I am fairly certain he will negotiate only if Harwolfson makes a fine show. And mayhap not even then.”
How she hated it was but a matter of whether Edwin came before the conqueror weak or strong—no concern for what was right and wrong.
“I fear for you,” she whispered.
“I would rather you pray for me, Rhiannyn.”
“That, too.”
Silence, during which too many thoughts leapt to mind—questions whose answers would change naught, reflections that would only fill the silence, and pleadings Maxen had already heard and done his best to answer. But knowing this might be their last night together, that come day he might lay down his life for his king, Rhiannyn pushed all aside and said, “Will you remain with me a while?”
He pulled her into his arms, turned his palm into hers, and wove their fingers together. “How fares Elan?”
“I worry for her. She complains of cramping and pains.”
“Christophe is with her?”
“And Sir Guy.”
“What does my brother say?”
“Though he knows herbs and healing well, he has had little experience with birthing and is at something of a loss.”
Maxen sat up. “The king’s physician ought to be summoned.”
She stayed him with a hand to his arm. “He has been summoned, and by now he is with her.”
“What if the babe should come now?”
“Though Elan tells it is weeks before it is due, it is not uncommon for a child to be delivered ere its nine months have all passed.”
“In good health?”
“I have seen it, though rarely with a babe of less age than Elan’s.”
“You believe it would fare well if it was delivered early?”
“I think it possible, but it is for the physician to say.”
“Then let us pray.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
By the time night yielded to day, the king and his army stood to arms. As at Hastings, William had positioned his soldiers in three lines—archers at the fore, heavy infantry in the middle, the cavalry of knights at the rear. In the midst of the cavalry, he waited for Edwin Harwolfson to challenge him for the kingdom.
Skirts billowing in the chill morning breeze, mantle flapping against her back, Rhiannyn stood atop the ridge and gazed upon the great formation that might soon be broken if the miracle for which Maxen and she prayed did not come.
How many did they number? she wondered, beginning another count. Again, she lost track, this time when her gaze fell upon the papal banner fluttering high above the king. As it had been flown at Hastings, so it was here, its presence proclaiming William the Bastard the favored son of the Holy Church and bestowing upon him the papal blessing of conquest.
Rhiannyn shifted her gaze to Maxen who was mounted alongside his king. His thoughts surely burdened by the day ahead, he had spoken few words before leaving her earlier. But prior to his departure, he had taken her face between his hands and kissed her long and lingering. And when he had pulled back, his gaze had touched her features as if to memorize them for eternity.
Insides churning, Rhiannyn had watched him withdraw, and only when his shadow melded with the dark had she attempted to confront emotions so at war with one another she had nearly choked. On the one side of her, she wished The Bloodlust Warrior of Hastings to rise again and ensure Maxen survived the battle. On the other side, she prayed this day would prove he had purged the beast. But then she might lose him…
She thrust aside her emotions and put all her prayers into resolution through negotiation. Of course, William did not present the only obstacle to that path. There was yet Maxen’s avenging father.
Rhiannyn picked out the man who sat alongside his son. If the king did find Edwin’s army to be of sufficient threat, the old man would surely raise an outcry. In which case, it could only be hoped the elder Pendery held no sway over William.
“Rhiannyn.” A hand touched her shoulder, and she turned to Christophe.
“Elan calls for you,” he said. “She is in labor.”
“Since when?”
“The first hours of morn.”
“What does the physician say?”
Christophe made a face. “That what will be shall be, since he must make ready to attend the king should injury befall him in battle.”
&
nbsp; Elan would have her babe in the midst of what might be a war? And without benefit of a physician who would likely but tend the scrapes and scratches of his precious king?
“Will you come?” Christophe asked.
“Of course.” She stole a last look at Maxen, fixing the image of his broad-shouldered back in her mind, and nodded for Christophe to lead the way.
The physician was exiting Elan’s tent when they reached it. “I have given her a draught for the pain,” he said. “There is nothing to do but wait.”
“Naught but see her child safely into the world,” Rhiannyn said.
He halted, peered at her across his shoulder. “It is only a Saxon.”
“You—”
Elan’s cry snatched away Rhiannyn’s retort, and she ducked beneath the flap Christophe raised for her.
“I am here, Elan,” she said, hurrying forward.
Hair in disarray, face contorted, flushed skin beaded with perspiration, she barely resembled the young woman she had been the day before. Only her large belly rising up beneath the blanket evidenced she was the same.
She grabbed Rhiannyn’s hand, and squeezing with all her might, whispered, “I am dying.”
“You are not. You are simply having a baby.”
“Simply!” Fury replaced the pain on Elan’s face. “You try it and see how simple it is.”
“Mayhap I will. And it will be you holding my hand and me bellowing at you.”
Elan struggled as if to keep hold of an anger that, perhaps, was easier to deal with than pain, but it slipped from her face and she laughed weakly. “Then it will be my turn to tell you lies about how simple it is,” she said, and added, “Sister.”
The acknowledgment they were now kin warmed Rhiannyn. Brushing the damp hair off Elan’s brow, she said, “I am sure you shall, Sister.”
Suddenly, Elan slackened and sank into her straw mattress. “Ah,” she breathed, “it is almost worth the pain to feel its absence.”
Christophe moved to his sister’s feet and lifted the blanket. “I must look as the physician told me to.”
“Think you I care anymore?” she grumbled and grabbed the blanket and tossed it off her nearly naked body.
It was as Rhiannyn’s mother had once told her—modesty had no place in the birthing of children.
Though clearly flustered, Christophe completed his examination and hastened the blanket back into place. “The time nears,” he said and looked to Rhiannyn. “Once the head shows, I will need you to help me lift her to squatting and support her upright. It will require great effort if the babe is long in coming. Can you do it?”
“I can.”
It was not long before another contraction hit Elan. “It is killing me!” she shrieked.
“Find a smooth piece of wood to place between her teeth,” Christophe instructed.
One finger at a time, Rhiannyn extracted her hand from Elan’s. “I will be back soon,” she said, though she doubted she was heard. Slipping out of the tent, her gaze lit first upon the morning sky, next the throng of Saxons advancing on the field where King William sat ready to do battle.
Fear ran through her. Maxen had said Edwin would come, and he had. And it did not appear to be a straggling army marching with him but an impressive array of Saxons come to change what Hastings had wrought.
Dear Lord, she prayed, let this spectacle be sufficient to turn William to peace. Let him suffer enough doubt about the outcome that he does as Maxen proposed. Let—
Elan screamed.
Rhiannyn dragged her gaze from the scene and bent to search out a piece of wood.
Maxen stared at the army marching toward William’s. Although it could mean his death if he went into battle, he was pleased by what he saw.
In a formation identical to William’s—archers, infantry, cavalry—came Harwolfson’s soldiers of a number that appeared equal to the Norman army. They might even number more. All were armed with either a spear, a sword, the great two-handed battle-axe of the Saxons, or a bow and arrows. Some were garbed in chain mail.
Though such a show of force Maxen had wished for, he had not thought it possible Harwolfson could muster it. Most admirable.
“Dear Lord, cavalry,” William muttered.
Maxen knew what he was thinking. Much of the Norman victory at Hastings was owed to the Normans being accomplished at using horses in battle, whereas the Saxons had fought on foot—something Harwolfson intended to remedy this day.
“Look how he comes,” William growled. “See how he configures his army to mine. He mocks me!”
Likely the king had never been better matched. Still, though the Saxon rebels looked the part, it did not mean they could fight the part.
“And weapons aplenty,” William continued. “I would not have believed it possible.”
Maxen turned his regard upon his liege. “We do battle?”
“Of course we do battle!” Baron Pendery snapped. “I fear not a Saxon dog whose greatest accomplishment is the ravishment of an innocent young woman.”
The king’s response was quick and crushing. “Do you think to tell me what to do, Pendery?”
Maxen’s father hid his surprise well. “I do not, my king. I but voice an opinion.”
“Too loudly!”
The baron bent his head in deference. “Pray, forgive me.”
William returned his gaze to his adversary, waiting through the clamor and clatter of the Saxons’ advance which would be followed by the dead silence that always fell before a clash.
“I die,” Elan panted where she hung limp between Rhiannyn and Christophe in the aftermath of a contraction that had brought the baby’s head to crown.
Rhiannyn reached to the chest behind and scooped a dripping cloth from the basin there. She squeezed excess water from it and patted the cloth across Elan’s brow. “Soon it will be over,” she said, trying not to hear the movement of Edwin’s army, the sound of which shot up the ridge.
“And I will be dead,” was Elan’s oft-repeated rejoinder. But this time the eyes she turned to Rhiannyn believed it to be true. “I must confess ere my last breath.”
“Nonsense,” Christophe said. “You will live to rear this child as it ought to be.”
“I must—”
Another contraction, and when it was over, she rolled her head on her neck and dropped it on Rhiannyn’s shoulder. “Hear me?” she beseeched. “I must free myself of this burden.”
Rhiannyn wiped her brow again. “Do not talk. You waste your strength.”
“I must needs…” She swallowed hard. “It might make a difference.”
“A difference?” Rhiannyn asked.
Elan nodded. “It was not ravishment.”
Rhiannyn slammed her gaze to Christophe whose eyes were as wide as hers felt.
“I knew who Edwin was.” Elan whimpered. “Willingly, I gave myself to him.”
“Why?” Rhiannyn asked.
A bitter smile rose to her sister-in-law’s chapped lips. “With which would you rather present your father—ravishment you were incapable of preventing or…” She moistened her lips. “…discovery on your wedding night you are not a maiden?”
Then Edwin had been a pawn in Elan’s desperate plan to absolve herself of the responsibility of lost virtue. “I see,” Rhiannyn said.
“My father must be told,” Elan said. “He—” In the next instant, she was incapable of words. However, screaming was not beyond her, and she deafened Rhiannyn’s ears as the baby tried again to force its way into the world.
This time when Christophe pressed the wood between her teeth, she clamped down on it.
“Push,” he commanded, “and do not stop until I say.”
And so she did.
As Rhiannyn continued to support her, she longed to think on Elan’s confession and find some use in it, but this was not the time. She only prayed it would not be too late when the time came.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Underestimated—exactly as planned, Edwin t
hought as he reined in his mount amid his cavalry. He and his followers had made themselves scarce these past months to ensure the usurper misjudged their numbers and strength.
It was a formidable army the Norman had assembled, but not as immense as it would have been had Edwin revealed the extent of his own. Silence had served him well.
He could only have been more pleased were his men equal in training and skill to his adversary’s. He had worked them hard for this day, and though they were no longer simply men of the earth, the land yet resided in their hearts. Also in their hearts was revenge justified by the right to take back what was theirs, and of no better service was it than in this present capacity.
As the remainder of Edwin’s forces took position, he looked across the field to where his counterpart was mounted behind the papal banner.
How like Hastings, he mused. Then, as now, William had flaunted the Church’s approval of his theft of another people’s country, then he had slaughtered nearly all. Would this day end the same?
“Nay,” he said, not realizing he spoke aloud until the word was out of him. God owed him this. Today, the Saxons would triumph, and their lands would be returned to them.
“Your mind is heavy,” Aethel broke into his thoughts. “You think on that other battle?”
“I almost expect to see King Harold here,” Edwin said and looked down at the man who stood alongside him.
Though Aethel was of the infantry, he had marched to the field beside Edwin. “What think you?” the big man asked, jutting his bearded chin toward the enemy.
Once more, Edwin picked out William atop his mount. “Whatever happens this day will secure England’s future.” He moved his gaze left of the man who named himself king and settled it on a large figure. Though he could not make out the man’s features, he was certain it was Maxen Pendery.
Edwin’s smile felt bitter. God willing, this day he would have his revenge tenfold. Not only would Normans be purged from English soil, but he would repay the man who had taken not only his lands, but the woman who was to have been his wife. And if he ever got his hands on Elan Pendery…