by Tamara Leigh
Something pricked at the edge of Edwin’s awareness. He looked to his adversary, and seeing nothing amiss, turned his regard upon his men.
Though silence prevailed, something unspoken coursed through a good many of them. Far too many.
He looked more closely, from one man to another. And knew. The eerie silence before battle had sent unease through their ranks. Not the tense excitement of seasoned warriors about to perform their life’s work, but the worry of men about to leap into something they doubted themselves capable of—mayhap were not capable of.
Dear Lord, why? Edwin sent heavenward. After all the times these men had proven themselves capable, why did they now doubt themselves?
The silence, he once more concluded. Though it was nearly as familiar to Edwin as his sword, few of his rebels had faced it.
They would not fail, he assured himself. Once the battle commenced and warfare filled the air, they would wield their weapons more sharply than ever.
Edwin nodded to himself—and stilled when a high-pitched wail split the silence. It was not the sound of trumpets or battle cries. It was…
He frowned. A baby?
Acting as his own herald, Edwin Harwolfson’s son told the world he had come. Born early but seemingly in good health, the infant loosed lusty cry after lusty cry.
While Christophe tended Elan, Rhiannyn supported the babe against her chest and cleansed the birthing from his skin—and happened upon what might be needed to prove his parentage.
“Ah, blessed,” she whispered, recalling her first encounter with Edwin. He had removed his boots to wade in the river while they talked, and she had noticed the absence of the small toe on his left foot. Unabashedly, he had confided that a hundred years earlier, a witch had cursed his family such that all Harwolfson males would in this way be known for their treachery. When she had asked what treachery he spoke of, he had smiled devilishly and changed the topic.
Once Edwin’s son was swaddled in the crook of her arm and had quieted to snuffling and whimpering, Rhiannyn sighed over him. Joyous, as if this were the babe she had made with Maxen, she could almost forget what transpired on the field beyond—rather, what would transpire once the clash sounded.
Lowering to her knees beside the new mother, she said, “Your son, my lady.”
Elan kept her eyes tightly closed.
“See here, I have your son, Elan. Pray, look upon him. He is so beautiful—”
She jerked her head opposite. “I do not…want it.”
It. Not him. As if the babe had not come from her. As if he were something not human.
Rhiannyn glanced at Christophe. Though his head was bent to his work, he had clamped his bottom lip between his teeth.
“Elan,” she tried again, “I know you are weary and hurting, but your babe needs its mother’s breast. You must—”
“I must do naught!”
Christophe’s head came up. “Aye, Elan, you must!” he said, tone so sharp the infant renewed its cries.
“Take it away!” Blindly, she threw out an arm and struck Rhiannyn in the shoulder. “I cannot bear to hear it!”
Having dropped back on her heels lest Elan strike again and hit the babe, Rhiannyn stared at her sister-in-law. Were she not so ill with birthing, a hard shake would be in order, but it could wait for later.
Later…
Rhiannyn peered across her shoulder at the tent opening beyond which a battle might soon be fought that could take from her and hundreds—thousands!—all that was dear to them should Maxen’s bid for negotiation fail.
The babe shrieked, loosed an arm from its swaddling, and flailed a tiny fist.
“Ah, precious one.” Rhiannyn stroked the hand of this child who could become as fatherless as he seemed to be motherless. “What would you have me do?”
His cries easing, he splayed his fingers and closed them around her finger.
Then Rhiannyn knew. Clasping the babe close, she stood and started toward the tent opening. “Christophe,” she said over her shoulder, “I require your horse.”
“Where are you going?”
“To end the battle ere it begins.” She stepped outside.
Just over the ridge, the two armies faced each other as they waited for the trumpets to sound the commencement of the deadly contest. Determined to reach Edwin before that happened, she loosed the reins of Christophe’s horse and stepped to its side to mount—no easy feat while cradling a babe.
“What do you intend?” Christophe demanded.
Grateful he had followed, she looked around. “Edwin must see he has a son.”
“But—”
“Trust me in this. Take the babe and hand him up when I am mounted.”
He accepted the bundle, and when she was astride in the fashion of men, passed the babe into her arms.
“It will end,” she said and urged the horse toward the sloping end of the ridge marking the southernmost edge of William’s army.
As much as she longed to set the horse to a gallop, she kept a pace safe for the babe, though still likely to distress him. However, when she glanced down, she saw Edwin’s son had drifted to sleep as if the bump and bounce suited him. A good sign for a warrior’s son.
Although she had intended to skirt William’s army before any could turn her back, she was noticed before she gained the field. Using surprise to her advantage, she made it past the formation. As shouts and the restlessness of horses goaded by their riders disrupted the still of both armies, she guided her mount over the open field between William and Edwin.
Let none fire upon me, she prayed. Let them see I present no threat.
Certain Edwin would be among his cavalry, as William was with his own, she searched him out. It was not necessary, for a path opened down the center of his army and he came toward her.
Expression tight, he motioned his men to quiet and commanded her, “Come no nearer!”
She reined in and turned her mount sideways so Edwin could see the one she had brought with her.
“What have you come for?” he asked as he neared. “More trickery?”
She pushed the cloth away from the babe’s face. “To present your son, Edwin.”
He jerked, would surely have faltered in step had he been on foot. “Son?” He halted his horse several feet from her.
“Aye. Yours.”
As he narrowed his gaze on the babe, a change in the air brought Rhiannyn’s head around. A single horsemen had broken from King William’s formation and galloped across the field. Maxen.
“Edwin, pray let him come!” she entreated. “Surely you cannot fear one man with so many at your side?”
“More Pendery trickery,” he growled.
“I vow, he did not know I intended this—I hardly knew myself. He but seeks to protect me.”
“What do you intend, Rhiannyn?”
“Peace.”
“There can be no such thing between Saxon and Norman.”
“But already there is. If you would just—”
The sound of arrows nocked and the hiss of strings being drawn arrested Rhiannyn’s voice. Peering past Edwin, she saw his archers had trained their weapons on Maxen. “Edwin,” she pleaded, “order them to stand down.”
He dropped his gaze to the babe, turned in the saddle, and motioned for his men to lower their weapons.
Rhiannyn nearly slumped with relief.
“The babe is of Elan Pendery?” Edwin said.
“Aye, just born.”
She heard his breath, glimpsed something of the past in his eyes, then he said, “He should have been of you and me, Rhiannyn.”
It was true. “In a different time and place,” she said.
His lids narrowed. “You love Pendery?”
As there seemed no way to make her answer easier to swallow, she said, “I do.”
Maxen gained her side a moment later. “Almighty!” He closed a hand around her arm. “What do you, Rhiannyn?”
“The woman who was first mine has presented me wit
h a son,” Edwin said derisively.
Maxen looked from his wife’s pleading eyes to the one who, if not for Hastings, would have been her husband. Never had he felt such fear as when she had ridden toward the enemy. He had known immediately she carried Elan’s babe, and had been fairly certain of what she intended—unlike the king who had roared over what he perceived to be treachery.
Thinking he might go mad before he was heard, but knowing death would be his end if he did not contain himself, Maxen had waited for a break in William’s cursing before explaining his wife’s behavior. He had told the king he was certain this was her way to peace—that in being shown his child, Harwolfson would more easily submit to Norman domination.
For once, Maxen’s father had proven useful. His ravings gave the king the presence of mind to set aside his own anger and ponder the situation. Fortunately, he had quickly granted Maxen permission to cross the field. Though never would Maxen have put Rhiannyn in such jeopardy, he knew what she had done was good, the trumpets having yet to sound. Now there was a chance which the king’s pride had seemed inclined to let slip away.
“What think you of your son, Harwolfson?” Maxen asked.
The man flicked his gaze over the child before settling it hard upon the one who asked. “As ’tis told he was born of ravishment, he cannot be mine.”
“It is not true he was got in that way,” Rhiannyn said, “but it is true he is yours, Edwin.”
“How grand of you to believe me incapable of such behavior—believing me over the Pendery harlot.”
“Lady Elan recants.”
“What?” Maxen and Harwolfson asked in unison.
“As she was giving birth, she revealed the truth to Christophe and me. She said she gave herself to you to hide her loss of virtue from her father.”
Maxen had not expected such, having presumed that, regardless of what had brought Elan and Harwolfson together, she had been untouched before their encounter.
“That may be,” Harwolfson said, “but do you count the months, you will see the babe comes too early to be mine.”
“He was born young by a few weeks.” Rhiannyn began to uncover the infant’s feet. “But Harwolfson blood gave him life.” She lifted the little one’s left foot. “Four toes on this one, as have you, Edwin.”
Seeing the struggle in the rebel’s eyes, Maxen waited.
“This is your peace, Rhiannyn?” Harwolfson demanded, throwing his arms wide. “A son in exchange for all of England?”
“England is William’s,” Maxen said.
“Not after this day!”
“Even more so after this day if you fight a battle you cannot win.” Having seen Harwolfson’s men up close, and the uncertainty many tried to hide, he was convinced of it, though he would not tell the king.
The rebel glanced behind. “My army outnumbers the usurper’s.”
“Numbers only. Of more import is what each man brings to the battle. Can you say half your men are experienced in bloodletting? A quarter? If you stay the course, William will make but another example of you.”
This time, Harwolfson sent his gaze to the king’s army. “Do we die here or in his prisons, it makes no difference. Here we have a chance to regain what is ours. Your way, we lose all.”
“Not if you give the king good reason to keep you and your followers alive and free.”
Though Harwolfson tried to hide his interest, enough shone through to hang hope upon, furthered by his glance at the babe.
“What do you propose, Pendery?”
“Submit. Give the king your fealty, and methinks he will award you Blackspur, along with a goodly portion of land upon which to settle your Saxons.”
Disbelief erupted from Harwolfson in the form of laughter. “Blackspur, the castle you have raised upon my lands?”
As it was not truly a question, Maxen did not respond.
“Why not Etcheverry Castle, then?” Harwolfson demanded.
“That King William will not consider.”
“Convenient for you.”
“Are you interested, Harwolfson?”
“How much land with Blackspur?”
“One quarter of the Etcheverry lands.”
“One quarter!”
“Are you interested?” Maxen repeated.
Harwolfson’s lids lowered to slits. “Were I, for what should I believe you would honor the bargain?”
“If King William agrees, you have my word it will be done.”
“Ha! What of your word to Aethel and the others when they were told they could depart Etcheverry without harm? What of the man who died upon the shaft of your arrow?”
“Not my arrow, and neither did he die.”
“He was shot in the back!”
“Edwin,” Rhiannyn said, “’tis true. It was the knight, Ancel Rogere, who shot Hob. For it, Rogere is dead and, blessedly, Hob lives.”
“If that is so, why has he not come to me?”
“He has accepted Maxen as his lord.”
“Not the Hob I know.”
“A different Hob,” she conceded. “Of the same flesh, but of a changed mind, one that has chosen peace.”
As the rebel searched her face for a lie, Maxen said, “You, Harwolfson, more than the king, have the power to ensure this day is not covered in blood. I urge you to wield your power well, not just for yourself, but for those who follow you.”
Harwolfson considered him, then reined his horse about as if to put heels to it. He did not. Back stiff, he surveyed his men.
Hoping the rebel wisely weighed their lives, Maxen moved nearer Rhiannyn and said low, “Brave, my foolish little Saxon. If I live long enough to have you in my bed again, you will owe me for every worry dealt me this day.”
In spite of their circumstances, she managed a small smile.
The minutes stretched, but finally Harwolfson came back around. “I will bargain with the usurper.”
The burden that had plagued Maxen’s soul for over two years shifted slightly, but something in the man’s eyes told him to control the relief rising through him—to creep rather than flood. “Speak, Harwolfson.”
“These are my terms. The usurper grants me the entirety of Etcheverry—all of its lands and both castles.”
Maxen ignored the small, desperate sound Rhiannyn made and said, “I have told you, he will not give that.”
“Further,” the rebel continued, “every one of my men, regardless of what they have done to reclaim their country, will be pardoned alongside me.”
“I will put it to the king,” Maxen said gruffly.
“And I want your sister.”
Only the saddle’s pommel beneath Maxen’s hand kept his fingers from turning into a bone-crushing fist.
“Maxen,” Rhiannyn said softly, desperately.
The distress on her face revealing her fear The Bloodlust Warrior moved beneath his skin, he returned his gaze to Harwolfson. “I cannot agree to that. Though my sister has done you ill, she will not suffer your revenge.”
One side of the man’s mouth hitched. “I make no secret I despise her, but you are wrong about my intentions. As she is the mother of my son, I will take this fine example of a Norman noblewoman to wife. And that is not for you to decide. It is for your king.”
He was right, and though Maxen was certain William would not bend on Etcheverry, the man would toss his sister Harwolfson’s way without so much as a thought for Elan’s betrothal to Sir Guy.
“Edwin,” Rhiannyn said. “Here is what you want—your son.” She nodded at the dozing babe who was years away from the knowledge this day he held sway over the lives of many.
“I do,” he said.
As she had known when she had determined to ride out to him. She moistened her lips. “If Lady Elan could be convinced to give over the babe for the sake of peace—and your son’s wellbeing so he never suffers what would surely be unending discord between his parents—would it suffice?”
Maxen struggled to keep surprise—and admiration for
Rhiannyn—from his face. Unless the birthing had changed Elan’s feelings toward her babe, his sister still intended to cast the child upon the Church. Thus, Harwolfson was being offered something of greater value because of the sacrifice required by the woman who had wronged him. And likely, the rebel would find satisfaction in that bit of revenge.
“A child needs its mother,” Harwolfson said.
Rhiannyn inclined her head. “But until you wed a woman who will be a good mother to him and a loving wife to you, a wet nurse will serve.”
Maxen waited with his wife for Harwolfson’s answer, hoping that when dealt William’s refusal to give over all of Etcheverry, the man would be so set on gaining possession of his son he would settle for Blackspur.
It was not a man who snapped the ensuing silence, but a babe less than an hour old. He whimpered, wriggled, and once more set to crying.
“He is too long without his mother’s milk,” Rhiannyn said.
The rebel nudged his horse alongside hers and peered at the howling babe. “My son,” he murmured and touched its lower lip.
The babe dropped his chin and sucked at his father’s knuckle.
“Indeed, he is hungry,” Harwolfson said with what seemed wonder.
“What will you do, Edwin?” Rhiannyn asked.
His nostrils moved with a deep breath. “Though you would have me think it a sacrifice his mother makes in yielding him, I do not believe it—not of the one who, in covering her sin, tried to put greater sin on me. Thus, methinks she intends to give her Saxon-tainted babe to the Church.”
More silence, during which Maxen felt Rhiannyn’s answering tension.
Harwolfson loosed a hollow laugh. “I can think of naught better for my son than that I bend on taking his mother to wife. But that is all.” He drew back his hand and winced as the babe resumed crying. “Deliver him to the one who birthed him,” he said. “Pendery and I will finish this.”
Rhiannyn looked to Maxen, and at his nod, prodded her mount across the field.
“I did not kill your brother,” Harwolfson said while both men watched her progress.
“As Rhiannyn has told. But I believe you know who threw the dagger.”
“At the time, I did not, but I know now.”