LadyOfConquest:SaxonBride (42 page)

“That I will not do, Your Majesty. In the sight of God who witnessed our vows, she is and shall remain Rhiannyn Pendery, the woman who will bear my sons and daughters.”

This time when the king showed teeth, it was not in a smile. “What makes you think I will allow this, especially from one who cannot fight for me as he did at Hastings?”

“I will help you achieve your end with Harwolfson but, God willing, this time more honorably.”

As the king looked hard upon him, Maxen listened to the man’s every breath and, fully aware his life could be forfeit, sensed The Bloodlust Warrior rising behind him. It brushed against him, and as if finding its host receptive, pressed nearer in search of a place to perch.

But Maxen was not receptive. Given good cause—not merely a means of proving himself—he would defend himself and his family, but not with that one’s aid. It could raise its head and trail him all the days of its life, but for nothing would it move beneath his skin again.

Of a sudden, William grunted. “Curse all, Pendery! You could have made this easy for me.”

Maxen frowned. “My liege?”

“Had you set your mind to getting the woman with child, I could, most benevolently, grant you permission to take her to wife.”

Feeling the strain of laughter it would be a mistake to loose, Maxen mused that, as thought, his defiance would be more acceptable had his marriage to Rhiannyn been but a nobleman’s desire to legitimize his heir.

“I care deeply for her, my liege,” he said. “Thus, I would not have had it be truth she was but my leman, nor would I have our child suffer it being thought he was first misbegotten.”

William made a guttural sound that was not quite laughter. “My mother survived that truth—and well.”

So the tanner’s daughter had. “As did her son,” Maxen conceded.

The king’s lids narrowed, but not so his mouth. It smiled. “Her son, the duke…the conqueror…the king.” He fell silent as if to savor his titles, then once more lowered his lips over his teeth. “Very well, if you want the little Saxon, though she has yet to prove herself capable of providing an heir, I give her to you.”

Something loosened in Maxen, not the heart that had been fettered before Rhiannyn, but what might be joy. Seeing no reason to explain that his wife and he had determined to wait on children until their marriage could be revealed, he said, “I am indebted, Your Majesty.”

William’s eyebrows rose. “You are, so let us be clear as to what I require.”

Maxen was not surprised, nor that what had eased in him once more constricted.

“Two things,” the king said. “When I reveal on the morrow I secretly granted you leave to wed months past, you and your wife will confirm it.”

The better to retain control over others who might take it upon themselves to wed whomever and whenever they wished. “It shall be done, Your Majesty.”

William once more turned his face to the camp beyond the walls and moved his gaze over the hundreds of tents quartering soldiers who would kill and be killed for him. “And as a man who now has something to live for, when we face Harwolfson, you will serve me as when you had naught to live for.”

This time it was Maxen who ground his teeth. “As told, I will not be what I was at Hastings.”

“Providing you yet swing your sword, and the end is the same regardless of how much is written in Saxon blood, it will suffice.”

Maxen inclined his head. “I give you my word I will defend your cause, even at the cost of my life, if it be required of me.”

“
If?”
the king repeated, then asked, “What do you propose?”

“Much the same as you when you thought to use my wife against Harwolfson—to defeat him in the absence of a battle that, even in victory, will thin our Norman ranks.”

“Negotiation.”

“
Oui,
though in such a way it brings him and as many of his rebels as possible to your side, thus enlarging your army for battles yet to be fought.”

William jerked his head toward his army. “Of course I see the advantage, but there is also benefit in battle. Shed enough Saxon blood, and perhaps the rebels will be discouraged such that they lay down their arms and more willingly accept my rule.”

“So they might, but through negotiation, you spare the lives of Normans alongside Saxons, and if you convince one as formidable as Harwolfson to accept your yoke, it may discourage future rebellions.”

That caused a crack in William’s expression. Though his currency was more often blood, nearly three years of unrest did not portend well for his island kingdom. Thus, the sooner the people accepted him, the more likely he would keep his throne. And the answer could very well be a more peaceful means.

Amid the silence, Maxen prayed William would choose piety and wisdom over bloodlust and pride.

The king’s brow smoothed. “What do you believe would persuade Harwolfson to
accept my yoke,
as you say?”

The answer was on Maxen’s tongue. “Etcheverry, whose lands were his family’s long ere you awarded them to a Pendery.”

It seemed William’s answer was also on his tongue, for he gave no moment’s pause.
“Non.
It is too strategically located to allow one outside my trust to control it.”

Though Maxen knew Etcheverry’s importance well enough to regret relinquishing it, he had been prepared to do so and settle with Rhiannyn on lands that would be his as heir to Trionne.

“If Harwolfson can be convinced to lay down his arms,” he said, “it will not be without great cost, my liege. He will wish lands of his own—substantial enough to settle a great number of his followers on them.”

“Not Etcheverry. But if I am of a mood to grant him anything, perhaps Blackspur Castle.”

Maxen had not considered that, and with good reason. “Your Majesty, I have promised my man, Sir Guy, the position of castellan of Blackspur.”

“Have you?” William’s tone almost bored, he lifted his gaze to the night sky. “Your sister carries Harwolfson’s child.”

Maxen felt his jaws begin to lock. As Rhiannyn could no longer be a puppet, did the king think to use Elan?

“Your father tells she is to wed this Sir Guy.”

“An honorable knight who fought admirably for his king at Hastings, Your Majesty.”

“So he did, but tell—is the knight set upon your sister?”

“He is. Sir Guy and Lady Elan are much taken with each other.”

William nodded. “Since he has served me well, I shall allow him Lady Elan, a noblewoman of high rank. And that is reward enough.”

Maxen’s teeth ached. “My liege—”

“Should I determine it is in England’s best interest to negotiate with the Saxon dog, it is Blackspur I will offer. Of course, much depends on whether or not he makes a good show of force.”

Meaning if Harwolfson and his men were more easily returned to the earth, so they would be. Though it would be to Sir Guy’s loss if the army of rebels was as great as believed, Maxen prayed it was so the sooner to see peace upon England. There would be other castles raised upon Pendery lands. Guy—and Elan—must only be patient.

“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.”