LadyOfConquest:SaxonBride (29 page)

Thus, she must resolve to be content with what she had. And grateful, for it was much. Rhiannyn of Etcheverry was Maxen’s wife.

A Pendery,
she silently acknowledged the part of Thomas’s curse that if she would not belong to a Pendery, she would belong to no man. Surely this was not what he had meant, but for those who believed in such things, they would think the curse come true this night. Even so, what had happened between Maxen and her was no more a curse than white was black.

Even if I am never more to him than fricwebba,
she consoled, recalling when he had given her the name of one who weaves peace by wedding the enemy, one whose duty it was to bear children to blend the bloodlines of the two peoples.

Will I bear children?
she wondered and recalled the other part of Thomas’s curse—never would she hold a child at her breast, the pain of which would be second only to the possibility of never knowing the love of a man. The love of Maxen…

She recalled his words in Andredeswald when, in the guise of the monk he no longer was, he had said God did not serve man—that a person wishing ill upon another had no power over the one they cursed, and they were but words spoken in anger. Regardless, tears sprang to her eyes, and she closed her lids and pressed her teeth into her lower lip.

“Why do you cry?” Maxen’s voice rumbled from his chest.

She lifted her face toward his, and against her cheek felt the moisture she had spilled upon him.

“Regret?” he asked, and when he glided a thumb beneath one eye, then the other, she knew the bit of light played upon the tears fallen from her lashes.

“No regret,” she said. “Memories only.”

“Of your family?”

Of the family I might not make with you,
she silently corrected.
Of the love you may never return.

But as she could not tell him that, and the loss of her parents and brothers were ever near, she said, “I still feel adrift without them.”

“Speak to me of them.”

“Why?” she asked warily.

“Though I have heard of their deaths at the hands of Normans, I ought to know more about who and what shaped the woman I have taken to wife.”

Though it was not an unreasonable request, it made her uncomfortable.

“Unless you are not ready.”

After further hesitation, she once more settled her head on his chest. “The conquering haunts me. As, methinks, it haunts you.”

Maxen tensed. It was true. That past was rarely far from this present, especially Hastings—the screams of life yet lingering in those hunted by death, the smell of blood tenfold worse than the mass slaughter of pigs, the desperate mutterings to God who seemed to have turned away, the eyes of the dead wide with disbelief, and Nils…

Set upon by his own people.

“Forgive me,” Rhiannyn broke through memories that tempted him to more blood upon hands so thoroughly soaked no amount of prayer had made them white.

Tempted only,
he told himself and, finger by finger, unclenched the fist at his side and called his body back from the edge that made his muscles ache. “Perhaps one day I will tell you what haunts me, but this eve, let it be your telling.”

He felt her draw breath. “’Twas a one-room wattle and daub hut in which I was born and raised, and though all I had of my own was a pallet, it was enough. While my father and brothers worked the land under Edwin’s father, my mother and I kept the home and sewed for Lord and Lady Harwolfson. I quarreled often with my older brother, Claye, who was even more protective of me than my father, but Mother knew how to soothe hurt feelings, and Father how to turn anger into laughter. We were happy.”

She gave a little gasp. “I know it must sound dismal, but they were wonderful times. Often hard, but never short of love.”

Far different from Maxen’s upbringing. He had been raised in the comfort of a great hall, his training for knighthood of paramount importance to a father whose contact with his sons was nearly exclusive to that end. Her life did not sound dismal. In some ways, it was enviable.

“And Harwolfson?” he asked, his thoughts having earlier ceased their circling around the Saxon rebel when tears had followed her whispered
blessed
. “How did you come to be betrothed?”

“Though he was not the eldest son, his gain was to be great in wedding a noblewoman who was her father’s only child. Thus, he rode from King Edward’s court for the wedding, but when he arrived at Etcheverry, he learned his intended had been taken by fever. Until that day, I had known him only by sight, but shortly thereafter, we talked.”

“How is that?”

“He happened upon me while I gathered rushes at the river, and though I begged leave of him so he could be alone to mourn, he insisted I finish my task. After a time, he spoke of his betrothed. Though he had not met her, he was saddened by her loss, and more so when he told of the son he had hoped a year would bring him. He so wished to be a father.”

Idly, for Maxen did not believe Rhiannyn yet knew the power of her touch, she drew her fingers over his sternum, causing his heart to accelerate. “When I had bundled the rushes, I asked for my leave-taking, but he bid me sit beside him. Though unseemly, I could not refuse the lord’s son. Hours later and after much talk, it was as if we had known each other for years.” She laughed softly. “Great friends, I thought. Wife, he decided, and told me so. I did not believe him, but his father came to mine the following morn and the betrothal was made.”

Maxen told himself he had no cause to feel jealous. She had said she preferred to remain here with him than be betrothed to Harwolfson again. Too, there could be no doubt neither the Saxon rebel nor Thomas had known her as Maxen had this eve. Even so, he asked, “Did you wish to wed Harwolfson?”

“I did.” Her fingers upon his chest stilled. “He was a good man, Maxen. The Edwin of Andredeswald is not the one beside whom I sat at the river. But even as changed as he is, I believe the man I knew remains, albeit dug down deep beneath these years. Norman or Saxon, such loss—especially of loved ones—cannot be erased.”

Nils once more rose to mind. “It cannot.” Reminding himself of the reason he pressed her about Harwolfson, Maxen asked, “Did he love you?”

She was silent so long, he thought she might not answer, but she said, “Though I know not how to read love in a man, I do not believe he felt that for me.”

“You were not dear to him?”

“Methinks only insomuch as being pleasant to look upon, of good health to bear children, and of enough wit to converse well outside of bed, which is as my mother told me when I asked why our lord’s son wished to marry one far beneath him.”

Maxen reconsidered the king’s missive. Alongside Harwolfson, it had occupied his thoughts since he and Rhiannyn had consummated their marriage. From what he had gleaned of her relationship with the Saxon rebel while in Andredeswald, and from what she told, it seemed unlikely she would be a means of bringing the rebel to heel. Too, just as she had not fled with Harwolfson following Thomas’s death, and again when he had stolen inside the castle walls, the man did not seem of a mind to force her to leave with him. Thus, not dear to him.

“Why did you not wed immediately?” Maxen asked.

“We meant to, but hardly had our families agreed upon the betrothal than King Edward died and Edwin was called back to London. Then King Harold ascended the throne.”

Maxen needed no further explanation. Harold Godwinson’s reign had lasted less than ten months. Rife with conflict, it had culminated in his defeat at Hastings. “Your menfolk stood with Harold.”

“It was Edwin’s father with whom they stood, and he with Harold. Wynter—my younger brother—was barely fifteen summers old when he marched to Hastings…” Her voice trailed off.

For some minutes, Maxen allowed her to take refuge in silence, and it was with reluctance he pressed onward. “What of your mother and you?”

She stiffened. “We remained behind.”

He stroked her head. “What happened?”

Breath shuddering across his chest, she said, “Days before the great battle, the Normans rode on our village. We resisted, but there were so many, and we were mostly women, children, and men of too great an age to stop them. They ravished our womenfolk, pillaged our homes, and set nearly every building afire.”

“How did you escape?”

“When we could no longer hold them off, my mother and I hid in the stables, but they set fire to it as well. As we fled, the roof collapsed. It burned my skirts, but my mother…” She swallowed convulsively. “Though I tried to pull her from beneath the timbers, the fire burned too hot, then the Normans came for me. I fled to the trees, and all the way there I heard my mother’s screams.”

Rhiannyn was crying again, her tears wetting his skin.

“They did not capture you.”

She shook her head. “In that, God was with me. Day and night, I prayed for my father and brothers’ return, but they never came. Hastings stole them away.”

It struck Maxen he might have slain one or more of her menfolk, but before he could step into his own hell, Rhiannyn’s storm rolled out. Though she turned her face into his chest and shook with the effort to hold all inside, a sob escaped.

Maxen held her and murmured comforting words he had not believed himself capable of. When she finally lay slack in his arms, softly hiccoughing, he smoothed tear-dampened hair off her face and murmured, “What I can make right, I shall. I give you my word.”

Impulsive.

Staring into darkness, the woman pressed to his side holding to him in sleep, Maxen discarded the word.

Imprudent
fit better. Though aware of the danger in taking Rhiannyn to wife, he had not shown due care for the consequences of willfully defying a king. In his bid to replace memories of that place where first Rhiannyn and he met, he had offered a solution to their mutual attraction. A godly one to overcome her objections—and his own, though he would not have stood as firm as she.

Wedding her had been the right thing to do. Even now, unable to sleep for what his actions portended, he would do it again to ensure she was not taken from him, for it was not mere desire he felt for her. But here imprudence must end.

Had he immediately answered the king’s missive, informing him he had wed Rhiannyn and correcting the assumption she could be no more to him than a leman, William would not have liked it. However, allowances would more easily have been made for not seeking permission to take to wife the woman his brother had also wanted.

Thus, a way must be found to keep hold of Rhiannyn should the king persist in the belief she was dear enough to Harwolfson to be used against the rebel, something Maxen was certain William would not hesitate to do should the opportunity arise—even were it known she was now wed to another.

“I will find a way,” he promised himself, just as he had promised Rhiannyn that what could be made right would be made right.

Hours later, when stirrings in the hall scattered the silence and the somnolent dawn peeled back its lids to gaze upon Etcheverry, Maxen stared at Rhiannyn’s hand that had remained pressed to his chest throughout the night—as if she found the beat of his heart reassuring. Next, he peered into her trusting, upturned face.

So wrong about her, he lamented. In so many ways.

But of those things about her of which he was most certain, it was that she would not like what must be done to keep King William from descending upon Etcheverry and undoing what had been done. But, hopefully, the woman with whom Maxen had vowed to spend his life could be made to understand. And play the game for as long as necessary.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Rhiannyn awoke in a tangle—not of blankets, but of limbs not all her own. She did not move or open her eyes, but lingered over the warmth of her husband’s body at every place they touched, savored the slow rise and fall of his chest, counted the beats of his heart, and silently thanked the Lord the night past had been real.

“Wife,” she whispered and opened eyes that no longer ached from crying.

She had known it was morn from the light prying at her lids, but was surprised the day had reached so far beyond the dawn. Not only had she slept through the rising of those who made their beds in the hall, but so had Maxen who ever rose with or before all others.

She tilted her head back and considered his face. It was too troubled for one who slept, and she wondered how long he had lain awake after sleep had taken her.

Carefully, she extricated herself and lowered her feet to the floor. Her garments lay amid the rushes where they had fallen on the night past, and were more tangled with Maxen’s clothes than her limbs had been with his. Cheeks warming in remembrance of how they had touched, she scooped up the clothes, crossed to the chest, and laid them on the lid.

As she donned her chemise, she heard the approach of one whose footsteps were set apart from others’. Hurriedly, she crossed to the screen and peered around it.

Christophe faltered when he saw her, sloshing water from the basin he carried onto the towel draped over an arm. Continuing forward, he offered a smile amid concern.

Like the others, he assumed the worst. Thus, eager to assure him all was well and there being no others present in the hall, she hugged her arms around her chemise-clad body and stepped around the screen.

When he halted before her, she saw rose petals floated on the water in the basin. “For you,” he said.

His consideration pleasing and embarrassing in equal parts, she said low, “I thank you,” and dipped a finger in the water. “Oh, it is lovely warm.”

“I sent all from the hall earlier, having arranged for them to break their fast in the bailey outside the kitchen so you would not have to…”

Face them. Though what he had done was not necessary—or soon would not be—Rhiannyn felt a surge of love for this young man who had become her brother. Though he could not replace those lost to her, it was a balm to add to the family she had begun on the night past when she had taken Maxen as her husband.

“Are you well?” Christophe asked in a rush.

She smiled. “Quite well.”