LadyOfConquest:SaxonBride

by Tamara Leigh

  Moment after moment breathed its last as Harwolfson considered her words, but finally he swung his gaze to Maxen. “Blackspur,” he said with a nod. “Tell your king I agree.”

  It was heavens more than Maxen had believed possible when he had earlier awaited the sounding of trumpets. Still, there was regret for Guy. But at least he would live and Elan would be his as promised. “The bargain is struck,” he said.

  Harwolfson shifted his regard to William. “Peace for as long as he keeps his end of it.”

  Rhiannyn sighed. “I thank you, Edwin.”

  He jutted his chin at Dora. “Leave her so we might see her properly buried.”

  “Ride with me, Rhiannyn,” Maxen said and reached to her. She came into his arms, and as he settled her on the fore of his saddle, he said, “We will speak again, Harwolfson.”

  “Certes, we shall.”

  Drawing Rhiannyn back against him, Maxen turned his mount and started back across the field with the king’s knights following.

  “It is truly done?” she asked.

  He gazed into her upturned face and wished he could say it was so. There would be other uprisings, possibly for years to come, but the end of Harwolfson’s rebellion would likely take the heart out of others that aspired to such size and strength.

  “It is not done, fricwebba, but the end is nearer.”

  “Then I must content myself with that.”

  Thinking he owed Christophe more than he could repay, Maxen put heels to his mount. As they crossed the field that, God willing, would only ever know the colors of earth and foliage, the burden that had once felt like the weight of a thousand years lifted further, and he marveled at how light abundant hope felt. And sent up a prayer of thanks that his life with Rhiannyn could truly begin.

  EPILOGUE

  Blackspur Castle

  April, 1070

  Edwin Harwolfson was restless. As he should be, Maxen supposed. These past months, the Saxon had chafed at his yoke while the Norman army devastated the north in a cruel winter campaign to put down rebellions.

  Though Maxen did not believe Edwin would rend the bargain made with King William, chiefly because of what he now had to lose, the lord of Etcheverry had been charged with ensuring his neighbor and those who had settled with him at Blackspur remained rooted to what had become Norman soil. And mostly, they had.

  The ones who believed their people still stood a chance of reclaiming their country had slipped away in the night, and neither Maxen nor Edwin had moved against them. Now many of those hopeful men whose lives had been spared the year before were surely dead. William had England by the throat and would not loosen his hold.

  But despite the unease hanging about Edwin like a rain-heavy cloud, he had planted himself at Blackspur for the sake of his son, whom he had named Harold after the king whose death had ended Saxon rule. Though not yet one year aged, the boy was of good size. With a serious, contemplative face and out of eyes as blue as his mother’s, he stared down at the shifting bundle from where he straddled his father’s hip at the center of the hall.

  “Your cousin, little one,” Rhiannyn said. “She is called Leofe.”

  Harold raised his upper lip to reveal a row of tiny teeth, turned his head aside, and dropped it onto his father’s shoulder.

  “’Twould seem,” Maxen said, “we need not worry they like each other more than they ought to—for now.”

  Rhiannyn laughed softly and stroked the flushed cheek of their four-month-old daughter who showed even less interest in Harold than he had in her. Sucking a wet fist, her eyes were all for her father. And, as ever, it was no easy thing for Maxen not to become absorbed in the beautiful child Rhiannyn had gifted him.

  He gave Leofe a grin that made her smile and coo around her fist, then returned his attention to Edwin whose gaze was on Rhiannyn, the mother of another man’s child. But though Maxen steeled himself for it to be longing reflected on the Saxon’s face, and to be doubly offended considering the man was also wed, it seemed more like sorrow. And he could hardly begrudge Edwin.

  He was again the lord of a worthy demesne, albeit half the size it had once been, and he loved the son given him by a Norman, but this was not the life for which he had been prepared to die. But with the further passage of time and fewer uprisings to weigh upon his conscience, he could come out the right end of a world much changed.

  “The demesne looks to be flourishing now winter is past,” Maxen said.

  Edwin turned his gaze to his neighbor. “Because it does,” he said sharply, though not as sharply as he had spoken during Maxen’s visits those first six months after Edwin had taken possession of Blackspur. He did not welcome a Norman on his lands, and he made no pretense otherwise. Still, his resentment had lightened, so much Maxen had finally agreed Rhiannyn could accompany him to Blackspur.

  Edwin looked to the babe. “Your daughter is beautiful, Rhiannyn.”

  “I thank you.” She glanced around the hall. For all its simplicity, it was of a grander size than the one at Etcheverry Castle. “Your wife, Edwin. Is she not here?”

  “She is, and has been made aware of your arrival. But come, sit and refresh yourselves while we wait on her.” He gestured to the high table, moved Harold to the opposite hip, and strode to the dais.

  “How long will you be with us?” he asked when they were seated, their goblets filled and platters of bread and cheese set before them.

  “Two nights, if it is well with you,” Maxen said.

  Edwin broke off a hunk of bread and yielded it to Harold’s eager hands. “As you will.”

  A quarter hour, marked by strained conversation, passed. Then the creak of wooden stairs was heard.

  Maxen looked across the hall, but before he could direct attention to the brightly garbed woman descending the last steps, Rhiannyn called, “Elan!” and passed Leofe into her husband’s arms.

  She ran to her sister-in-law who halted just off the steps. Moments later, her arms were around Elan, and with gasps of delight, they embraced as if feeling every one of the months since Harold’s birth beside a battlefield whose bloody destiny had been thwarted.

  Maxen shifted his gaze to Edwin and was comforted that the dislike that had shown from the Saxon most times he looked upon the woman who had deceived him was not much more than a flicker. Or might it no longer be dislike? Perhaps something more scaleable. Wariness?

  Edwin had not wanted to wed Elan Pendery any more than she had wanted to exchange Guy for the rebel. But when it was time to hand over her babe, she could not. With beseeching and sobbing before King William, and despite their father’s objections, she had gained their liege’s consent to remain with her child as the Saxon’s wife—providing Edwin Harwolfson agreed. Though it was with obvious distaste he did so, there had been relief about him to find his son’s mother was not entirely without substance.

  Guy had been hurt and angered to have been promised so much and to have it all given elsewhere. Still, in confidence, he had confessed that had Elan easily abandoned her child, it would have made him question if she was the woman with whom he wished to spend his life.

  Thinking to distance himself, he had decided to leave Etcheverry. Though Maxen hated losing him, he had known it was best for Guy and the family Elan was making with Edwin. Thus, he had approached the king on his friend’s behalf. It was agreed the knight would join William in further campaigns against the rebels and, if he proved himself as he had at Hasting, be awarded land upon which to raise a castle—a lord in his own right.

  More for Elan’s sake than the watch he was to keep on Edwin, Maxen had journeyed to Blackspur each month, several times in Christophe’s company. Though certain his sister was under no threat of physical harm, he had feared for the emotional state of one so foolishly young, heartbroken, subject to the demands of a babe, and hated by the one with whom she would spend her life.

  But tick by tick, husband and wife seemed to be making peace with each other, and Maxen thought it possible their marriage
would be tolerable enough to raise their son without inflicting wounds so deep Harold would suffer. It was the most he hoped for, and he prayed that if one or both strayed from their wedding vows, it would be done with discretion. Again, for Harold.

  “I have missed you!” Elan exclaimed, still holding fast to her sister-in-law. “You know not how!”

  As Rhiannyn returned her embrace, feeling the fullness of the young woman Maxen had assured her was not wasting to skin and bone, her worries receded.

  Elan seemed in good health, and there was lightness in her voice. Though she and Edwin might not be happy, if they could maintain civility, it would not be a miserable existence. In years to come, they might even settle into a kind of friendship.

  Rhiannyn pulled back slightly and smiled. “I have missed you as well, and I am pleased to see how Harold has grown—such a healthy, handsome lad.”

  “Though my father would not agree,” Elan said, “Harold is of good stock. As shall be our next.”

  Rhiannyn frowned. “I do not—”

  Elan captured her hand and drew it between them and onto her abdomen.

  She was not adequately fleshed merely because she ate well. As evidenced by the bulge that, though not yet visible, should not have escaped notice while they embraced, she was with child.

  “It was but the one time—again,” she fiercely whispered, throwing her eyes wide with exaggerated frustration.

  “Oh,” Rhiannyn whispered back, “I did not think you…he…”

  “As I did not, but one eve we were much too civil with each other.” A satisfied smile rose to her lips. “’Twas right after I sent Theta away. Maxen told you of it?”

  He had, and been proud of his sister. He had not witnessed the confrontation, but as Elan had related and Edwin had confirmed, Theta had made derogatory remarks about Rhiannyn in her mistress’s hearing. Elan had confronted Theta, and what had ensued sounded much like Rhiannyn’s long-ago brawl with Meghan.

  “Maxen did tell me of it,” she said, “and I thank you for defending me.”

  Elan shrugged. “You are my sister. And as ugly as my cuts and bruises were—Edwin tended them—I was rather proud of them.”

  Edwin had tended them… And now his wife was with child. “Tell,” Rhiannyn said, “does he know he will be a father again?”

  Elan leaned near. “I was so ill with worry when I missed my monthly flux. All I could think was that he would not believe this babe was his—that I had cuckolded him.”

  “But he does know,” Rhiannyn pressed, “and he believes he is the father?”

  “Aye, he knows and seems to believe.”

  “Seems?”

  Maintaining a whisper, she said, “He keeps a near eye on me and, for once, I am grateful. Otherwise, I might be bruising my knees praying this one also lacks a toe.”

  “Is he pleased you are to give him another child?”

  She gave a soft snort. “A fortnight past, he said I should begin sharing his bed, and after several days’ thought, I did. But the only time he intentionally touches me is to lay a hand on my belly—and once the dreaded wolf even pressed an ear to it.”

  Rhiannyn caught laughter behind her lips, and when it was back where it belonged, said, “Surely he is pleased.”

  She sighed. “At least he is not ever glowering at me. And when I am of a mood, I spare him my own displeasure.”

  “Mayhap one day you will discover you are happy together,” Rhiannyn submitted, only to regret words sure to bring Guy to mind were he not already there.

  Elan’s gaze wavered. “You dream where I dare not.”

  “Permit me the indulgence. And know I also pray for you and Harold and Edwin.”

  “I do that sometimes myself.” Elan removed Rhiannyn’s hand from her belly and, keeping hold of it, pulled her toward the dais. “Brother,” she called, “I would see your Leofe.”

  Maxen stood, and when his sister came alongside, kissed her cheek and passed the babe to her.

  Elan’s delight in the infant appeared as genuine as Harold’s jealousy.

  Straining toward his mother, the little boy reached with splayed hands and demanded, “Mama!”

  Gently jostling Leofe who had begun to fuss, Elan stepped alongside her husband’s chair and tapped her son’s nose. “Be big, Harold,” she softly rebuked. “You must become accustomed to mama holding another.”

  As he continued to protest and reach to her, Rhiannyn gave Maxen the gaze he sought. In answer to the question in his eyes, she nodded.

  His smile was uncertain, but when she brightened her own, he relaxed into his and said, “It appears I must congratulate my sister and her husband.”

  “So it does,” Edwin said with what seemed a determined lack of interest, then shifted his attention to the big man who entered the hall. “All is in readiness?”

  Aethel halted just inside the doors. “Aye, my lord,” he said and glanced at Rhiannyn.

  As when he had greeted her and Maxen upon their arrival in the outer bailey, there was a gruffness about him, but not the angry one that had made her ache for the Aethel of old. He would never again be that, but enough of him was returned that he was recognizable. And it made her heart feel more sweetly full.

  “If we ride now, Pendery” Edwin said, pushing back his chair, “we should be able to visit two of the four villages ere nightfall. And the sooner you can satisfy your king as to the state of a demesne lorded by a Saxon.”

  Not his king, but hopefully it would come with time.

  “Rhiannyn”—he stepped toward her and held out Harold—“your nephew.”

  Who should have been our son? she wondered as she opened her arms to the little one. Was that what Edwin was thinking? If so, it was not apparent in his eyes.

  She took Harold onto her hip, and for a moment there was such outrage in the boy’s regard she thought he might bundle his chubby hands into fists and strike her. But then he looked to his mother, and catching her gaze, dropped his head beneath his aunt’s chin and began to stroke the hair on her shoulder. Surely he was not now trying to make her jealous?

  Rhiannyn rejected the thought, but after Maxen and Edwin took their leave and the two women settled before the hearth, Harold vehemently shook his head when Elan attempted to exchange children to allow Rhiannyn to nurse Leofe. Finally, Harold was convinced to stand alongside his aunt while she put the babe to her breast. And after many a glance toward his mother that turned flirtatious, he walked on surprisingly steady legs and climbed onto her lap. Her betrayal forgiven.

  That eve, when Maxen lay down beside his wife after supper, he considered the sleeping babe between them, touched Leofe’s cheek, and smiled at Rhiannyn across the dim. “Methinks I shall have to bring you more often to Blackspur.”

  “Oh? Does absence from your wife and daughter pain you so?” she said, then added a note of teasing. “Or is it that you have never been offered the lord’s chamber?” She had noted his surprise when Edwin relinquished it to one who, in the order of nobility, could not be said to be his superior.

  “Above all, the first,” he said, “though I can hardly protest the comfort of the latter.” He patted the mattress Elan had proudly told Rhiannyn she had seen stuffed twice as full before taking her place in this chamber. “Too,” he continued, “you are good for my sister, and I thank you.”

  “Do you think it will come right for them?”

  “I do, though how right, only they can say.”

  “Then not as right as it is between us?”

  He pushed up onto an elbow, and peering down at her, said, “Though ’tis hard to believe any man could be happier than I, only God knows what is ahead for Elan and Edwin. Indeed, when we first wed, I did not even hope it could be like it is between us now.”

  Rhiannyn wondered if she would ever become so accustomed to the leaps of her heart that she would no longer notice them. “We are blessed,” she said.

  “Aye.” He lowered his head and kissed her brow. “Fricwebba.”


  Peace weaver.

  He kissed her nose. “Leof.”

  Dear.

  He put his mouth so near hers their lips brushed. “Deore. My beloved Saxon bride.”

  Dear Reader,

  On the day I finished the first draft of Lady Of Conquest—the last of my rewritten “Bride” books—I was so emotional that the writer in me attempted to convey some of what I was feeling in a note to my dear readers:

  I am wrung out, hand as tired of supporting my head as the desk must be of supporting my elbow, vision blurred as I reread the last line which requires no The End to alert the reader that at this time and in this place, the story ends—on paper. If I have written these lives well, the imaginations of those who have been the much-envied fly on the wall will take up what I have put down and fill in what comes after. And if the stress and sorrow amid the joy of non-fiction life make them long for a scenic detour, an extended Happily Ever After will put babes in arms, faith in uncertain hearts, and years in the lives of those who beautifully grow old together. I have been there. I have done that. I aspire to give what I have been given. ~ Tamara Leigh

  Hopefully, I succeeded in some measure, and you enjoyed Rhiannyn and Maxen’s love story. If you would consider posting a review of Lady Of Conquest—even if only a sentence or two--I would appreciate it. Thank you for joining me in the age of castles, knights, ladies, destriers, deep, dark woods and--dare I mention it?--outdoor plumbing. Wishing you many more hours of inspiring, happily-ever-after reading.

  EXCERPT

  BARON OF GODSMERE

  Book One (The Feud)

  Available Now

  CHAPTER ONE

  York, England

  Early autumn, 1333

  Rage hurtled up Bayard Boursier’s throat, but before the emotion could cast itself across his tongue, the king leaned near and warned, “Make your sacrifice an honorable one, Boursier.”