LadyOfConquest:SaxonBride (22 page)

“It cannot be,” Christophe said as soon as the men departed the hall.

Maxen closed his eyes and felt pain behind his anger. Time and again, he had thought on Rhiannyn these past days. Time and again, he had moved nearer a place he had told himself he would not go. Time and again, he had resisted stepping over that line—until upon awakening this morn when he had been the one to yield, though he had excused his decision to wed Rhiannyn as but a means of strengthening his hold on Etcheverry by joining their two peoples. But she had deceived him again, plotting with her Saxons to take Etcheverry.

Lord,
he silently called to the heavens,
why did she have to be at the center of this?

“Wait until you have spoken with her,” Christophe said.

Maxen set his jaw. “I warned you about being quick with your apologies. As Rhiannyn and her people have not fulfilled their end of the bargain, I need not fulfill mine. I am done with them all.”

Ignoring Christophe’s outburst, he strode from the hall. Within the half hour, he and his men rode out from Blackspur Castle.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

I am ready
, Rhiannyn told herself when Maxen returned the following day.

From the clamor outside, she and the others knew when he rode beneath the portcullis. Yet he did not immediately come to the outbuilding that had become their prison. For some, it might have seemed reprieve. For her, it made his return that much more terrible.

They were bound one to another at the ankles, but now that the silence of waiting was upon them, the chains were eerily silent.

Finally, footsteps.

Though Rhiannyn felt Meghan’s gaze, she did not look her way. She stared straight ahead, and when Maxen threw open the door and strode into the midst of those he believed had betrayed him, reminded herself she was ready.

She was not.

The moment his gaze picked her from beneath the layer of dust and mortar she had worn since the day before, a part of her folded. Never would she be ready for one such as Maxen Pendery, but neither did it mean she would throw up her hands in surrender.

Anger was visible all about him—the set of his shoulders, the hard line of his mouth, the flare of his nostrils, and those eyes.

With a generous measure of docility and a rattle of chain, she stood. “My lord, will you hear us?”

He walked forward, his gaze growing heavier with each footfall. “No more, Rhiannyn.” He halted before her. “I have had enough of your lies.”

A retort sprang to her lips, but she swallowed it and said, “They are not lies. What I would tell you, what you need to hear, is the truth.”

He put his face near hers. “I said
no more.
”

She moistened her lips. “But there is more. What you have been told is not true. These people rejected Edwin for their new master. Pray, do not punish them for gifting you their loyalty.”

Near to bursting with all the brooding he had done since learning of Rhiannyn’s treachery, Maxen stepped back and swept his gaze over the expectant faces of men and women whose only champion was a small, filthy, infuriating woman whom the weak part of him—the Maxen she liked—wanted to believe.

Could it be Theta who lied? It could, but as easily, it could be Rhiannyn.

“Only three joined with Edwin,” she further defied him, “two of them now dead. The others stood down. You must believe me.”

He returned his gaze to her. “You plotted with them, though why Sir Guy allowed you to work on the wall is beyond me.”

“You are wrong. Does it not tell you something that these people immediately surrendered? Ask Sir Guy.” She looked to where the knight stood at the door—and beside him, Christophe.

“Did they not go to the ground when you and the others came in?” she demanded. “Was there one among them who resisted?”

Before Sir Guy could answer, Maxen said, “Fearing for their lives, no doubt.”

“Nay, keeping their word to you.”

It further angered him how much he wanted to believe her, but still he held to the single, taut thread of control. “You will not convince me, Rhiannyn, so waste no more words.” What was done was done, and he must do what he should have in the beginning. He headed for the door.

“What do you intend?” she called.

“You know the answer,” he said over his shoulder.

Silence, then she cried, “I yield!”

He halted, turned. Though he knew to what she referred, he waited.

She lowered her gaze and, so softly he more imagined than heard it, repeated, “I yield.”

Then if he wished it, if he rejected the teachings of the Church she had reminded him he did not have the right to do, without benefit of marriage she would give herself to him. For her people, she would sacrifice the only thing she believed he desired of her.

As he stared at her, much too aware that beneath her begrimed, pitiful figure was a woman who moved him more than any other, he told himself to throw her yielding back at her and do what needed to be done to ensure Etcheverry’s future, to forget it might be Theta who lied and be done with these Saxons. But he could not.

He motioned to a man-at-arms. “Bring her to my chamber,” he said and stalked from the building.

Sir Guy followed, his silence more irritating than the scratch of claws on a door.

Past the stables, Maxen swung around. “I want every one of them questioned. Separately.”

Guy frowned. “I thought…Rhiannyn…”

“If punishment is due, it will be given, regardless of what she offers in exchange for her people.”

Relief lightened the man’s face. “Wise, my lord,” he said and turned back to the outbuilding.

Wise. Fortunately, not all of him was trapped in Rhiannyn’s web. He would discover for certain, or reasonably certain, if the Saxons had rebelled. If so, this time he would deliver punishment.

Rhiannyn stared ahead—beyond the guard who stepped around the Saxons to gain her side, past Christophe to a point of emptiness.

She was about to become what Lucilla had warned against—Maxen’s leman. Blessedly, she had not succumbed to him earlier, for she would have nothing with which to bargain. But what if a child was born of their union?

No children, Lord,
she silently beseeched.
I would be barren as Thomas wished it ere I deliver into this world a child branded by illegitimacy.

She looked out over the Saxons, nearly all of whom gazed at her with some degree of pity. They knew what she had surrendered, and those who had thought it already given to Maxen Pendery—having been most vocal in naming her a harlot—appeared contrite.

Rhiannyn offered Meghan a tight smile and looked to the guard at her feet. He was rough in the removal of the manacle, but she knew it only from watching him. She hardly felt the scrape of the iron on her skin as, over and again, she heard the shrill voice of one who had foretold this day.

’Tis another she will fornicate with,
old Dora had said.
Another she will fornicate with.

Agitation dragged the minutes into hours they were not. He was restless, not merely with waiting, but irritation at Christophe’s plea that he behave the godly man and leave Rhiannyn untouched—that he return her yielding to her and have faith in her word the Saxons were innocent.

Maxen had withheld his reproach and sent his brother away. However, it was the youth who had the last word, declaring Maxen’s future with Rhiannyn doomed if he took advantage of her attempt to save her people.

Future
. Though Maxen spurned the thought, Christophe’s words continued to press in upon him, and he groaned. The young man had declined a lordship of his own, certain he would make a weak master, but he was gifted with wisdom.

As Maxen further contemplated his brother, his mind wandered so far from the one he waited upon that he nearly startled when Rhiannyn came around the screen.

He considered the waif she presented—hair wild and unclean, face smudged and unsmiling, mortar-streaked clothes more destined for the burn pile than the wash.

“You may leave us,” he told the guard, and a moment later was alone with Rhiannyn—as he had longed to be since she had come out from beneath his mattress a sennight past with feathers in her hair.

He raised his ride-weary body from the chair, crossed to her, and lifted her chin. It was then he saw the remains of a bruise beneath her eye. Thinking he must have been too angry and the outbuilding too dim to have not noticed it before, he rasped, “Someone struck you?”

She lifted a hand toward her face, but quickly returned it to her side. “A disagreement only.”

“Who?” he barked.

Clearly, she contemplated another lie, but she said, “The Saxon woman, Meghan. I fought—and bettered—her. It is done.”

A woman. And Rhiannyn had prevailed. A strange swell of pride for her victory pushed through him, but he determinedly turned his thoughts to the pact they had made.

Staring into eyes that at first appeared vacant, but upon closer examination revealed a spark in their depth, he said, “The Saxons are being questioned.”

Confusion rose to her face, next suspicion. “Why when our arrangement precludes such?”

“I must know what they have to tell.”

She pulled her chin out of his hand. “And if you determine they are culpable?”

“It will be as it should have been. Those who betrayed will be punished.”

The spark in her eyes flamed, and he felt the weight of her loathing. But she raised no hand against him, nor gave further retort. Instead, she spun and headed from the chamber.

With one stride, he caught her. “Where are you going?”

She glared up at him, and he thought how lovely she was even amid filth and deception.

“It is beyond me why you wasted your time in bringing me here.”

“You have changed your mind?”

She gasped. “For what should I yield to you?”

“Your Saxons.”

Her laughter was scornful. “As they have gained naught, you are owed naught.”

“But they have gained.”

Confusion returned to her face. “You speak in riddles, Maxen Pendery. I yielded so my people would not suffer undue punishment, and you are not keeping your end of the bargain.”

“If the Saxons are shown to be guilty, their fate is the same as it would have been when I came to the outbuilding. If they are innocent, all will be as it was when I rode to Blackspur. I give them an ear, Rhiannyn, a chance to convince me of their loyalty a second time, a chance they had not ere you made a sacrifice of yourself.”

The flicker in her eyes evidenced she understood. “It is not what you agreed to,” she said.

“Do you recall, I did not say what I would give in return for your yielding.”

“You knew exactly for what I offered myself—absolution, not trial.”

“Only a fool imperils his life for naught but the pleasures of the body, Rhiannyn. But come, do you have so little faith in your people you fear their answers to my questions?”

She drew herself up to her full height, which was not much. “The Normans believe what they wish to believe, not the truth.”

Deciding he was done with an argument of which neither could convince the other, Maxen asked, “Do you accept these conditions?”

He saw refusal in her eyes, and she drew breath as if to speak it, but when she breathed out, it was on the words, “I accept.”

He lowered his head and touched his lips to hers. He was not surprised by resentment he could almost taste, but he regretted it. He longed for the woman with feathers in her hair and a hopeful smile on her lips, the woman who had said she liked him—Maxen Pendery who, for those blessed minutes, had been free of what he had become at Hastings.

And could be again.
If
he heeded Christophe. More, if he heeded what he knew to be right regardless of whether or not he wore the robes of a monk.

He raised his head, and as he silently battled the two sides of him, considered the upper bow of her mouth, its lower curve, her neat white teeth. Then he released her. “Forgive me.”

She frowned.

“The Saxons will be questioned, for I cannot blindly grant them absolution, but I decline your yielding.”

Her lids fluttered. “Why?”

Though tempted to leave it be, he said, “Since receiving news of the Saxon betrayal, I have been moved by anger, to which one entrusted with the fate of others should not succumb. Since the day you and I were last here, I have been further moved by desire, to which your friend, Lucilla, would have me fall victim that I might wed you. Thus, I decline. You will not share my bed.”

A soft breath fell from her, and the extra bit of height she had gained slid from her shoulders. “I thank you.”

“It is your champion, Christophe, you ought to thank.” He hated the resentment in his voice. “Now, I leave you to remove those filthy garments.”

She startled, and though he disliked how quickly he tried to put her at ease, he said, “I ordered a bath for you. But, as told, it is not for my benefit—other than to make you presentable enough to once more serve in my hall.”

As the distress eased from her face, he said, “You may use my robe for cover until the water arrives.” He nodded at the garment on his iron-banded chest, turned, and called for ale as he strode around the screen into the hall.

Too confused to indulge in the relief begging to be felt, Rhiannyn stared at where Maxen no longer stood. When several minutes had passed and he did not reappear, she crossed to the chest and fingered the fine material of his robe.

“I am reaching him, Lord,” she whispered. “Am I not?”

More minutes passed, during which she caught the sound of his voice as he conversed with others in the hall.

Finally, she untied her bliaut’s sash, removed her garments, and wrapped herself in a robe too large and too suggestive of the one who had last worn it.

The water for her bath arrived, and she sat on the edge of the chest as the Saxon serving women carried pail after pail to the waiting tub. They knew—or
had
known—the purpose of their task, as evidenced by the way their eyes darted at her. But though tempted to tell them that whatever tales they had heard, Maxen would not dishonor her by claiming her as his leman, she feared she would not be believed. After all, she was in his chamber, wore his robe, and would soon be in his tub.