LadyOfConquest:SaxonBride (41 page)

He caught her chin and lifted it. Towering above her, he seemed to have grown twice the size, but she tamped down fear and held his gaze.

“A Saxon through and through,” he said.

Holding her breath lest she offend by releasing it on his hand, she peeked at Maxen and regretted that he was so tense. Of her doing, she knew. He feared for her, and rightfully so.

For Maxen,
she told herself again and said, “
Oui,
I am Saxon, Your Majesty,
and
a loyal subject. One, I fear, who has much to learn of what is expected of her in this new England you have made.”
Desecrated,
was the better word—providing she did not care whether she lived or died.

William’s face remained austere, his gaze hard. But then his countenance cracked into a smile. “At leasts she respects one Norman,” he said and looked to Maxen. “You must please her mightily.”

The king laughed, and the others laughed with him—except Maxen, who managed a tolerant smile.

Shamed to her toes, Rhiannyn struggled to keep from yanking her chin out of the man’s grip.

At the end of his laughter, William, said, “You will come to respect me, Rhiannyn of Etcheverry. Perhaps even like me.”

How was she to respond? Fortunately, she did not have to, for with his next breath he ordered both women to rise.

Rhiannyn complied, and seeing Elan struggle to lift her bulk, reached to assist her. However, it was Maxen who pulled his sister to standing.

Trying to regain her dignity in spite of a belly so far gone with pregnancy it seemed she might topple, Elan smoothed her skirts and stepped around her brother.

“Father,” she addressed the older man who shared height with Maxen and the king.

“Daughter,” the man acknowledged her.

Rhiannyn almost laughed at how blind she was not to have noticed the resemblance between father and son. Both broad, both dark haired—though the sire’s hair was liberally awash with silver—and both of strong countenance. Remove twenty and more years from the father, and before her would stand a man who might be Maxen’s twin.

But there was nothing humorous about finding not only the conqueror in her home, but Maxen’s father.

“Bring on the food!” William ordered and turned toward the tables. Shortly, he was settled in the high seat upon the dais.

Though Rhiannyn knew that wherever the king went in his realm, his place was the highest, her resentment flared that he took what was Maxen’s. Just as William had taken what had been King Harold’s.

“I like this neck,” Maxen murmured and lightly trailed a finger to the hollow of her throat. “Pray, do not press the king so hard I will have to go to great lengths to save it.”

She looked up at where he had drawn close and nearly yielded to the longing to go into his arms.

Her black mood easing, she managed a smile.

“Good,” he said low, “but can you hold onto your smile while I present you to my sire?”

She glanced at the man and had but a moment to study him before he moved his gaze to her. There was no mistaking his dislike, nor the accusation in his eyes. Just as Elan had first regarded her as being responsible for Thomas’s death, so did the father who had put the belief in his daughter’s head. And he hated her for it.

Maxen surely felt that hatred, but he drew Rhiannyn forward. “Father, I present Rhiannyn of Etcheverry. Rhiannyn, my father, Baron Pendery.”

She executed a curtsy, but when she glanced up, his face was as hard as before.

“I am not pleased,” he said and shifted his regard to his son.

“Then it is good your pleasure is not sought, Father.” Maxen placed Rhiannyn’s hand on his arm, turned, and walked her toward where the king sat.

“Your father does not like me,” Rhiannyn whispered as they rounded the table.

“No longer does his approval matter. If he takes no liking to you, it changes naught of what is between us,
leof
.”

She nearly confessed how much she loved him. Holding it in, she took her place beside him on the bench.

The meal was an ordeal she likened to bare feet on nettles. The odd thing was, what made it such a strain was not what she expected.

Along with the drink William downed, so did he lower his reserve and come fully into good humor. During the two hours, she was often drawn to his wit and charm. Thus, resisting his pull was what made the meal so difficult. But at the end of it, while all was being cleared and the men gathered before their king to hear what he had thus far withheld, William donned the cap of business. No more waggery tumbled from his lips, no more jesting. He was their king, all before him subjects.

As Rhiannyn had feared might happen, she and Elan were sent from the hall. Rhiannyn, her sister-in-law following, was grateful when they gained the lord’s chamber unopposed. Although she was not allowed to be in the king’s presence when he spoke, she would be able to hear much of what was said and would know first-hand why he had journeyed to Etcheverry with a full army—though she was woefully certain she already knew the reason.

Though it would appear unseemly to Elan for her to stand by the screen eavesdropping, Rhiannyn positioned herself.

“I have word the weasel abides a day’s ride north of Etcheverry,” the king boomed.

“He speaks of Edwin?” Elan whispered just over her shoulder.

Surprised to find her near, Rhiannyn looked around. “I am certain of it.” Though others might name him the
wolf,
a king would not grant the man so menacing a title. Too, it surely made him feel superior to call Edwin a weasel.

“News was also delivered me that he readies for what he calls the final battle,” William continued, “and he intends to sneak an attack upon London in a fortnight.”

His vassals murmured.

“But ’tis I who will sneak an attack upon him,” William said. “On the morrow, we ride, and by the day after, his blood will wet the ground the same as Harold’s.”

A long pause, then, “Maxen Pendery, are you prepared to ride at my side?”

What choice had he? Rhiannyn wondered.

“I and my men, my liege.”

“Guy?” Elan gasped and snatched hold of Rhiannyn’s arm. “Surely he cannot mean Guy.”

As there was no comfort to be given, Rhiannyn whispered, “It is likely. He is Maxen’s first man, and there is no one held in higher regard.”

Elan sank, and if Rhiannyn had not caught hold of her, she would have landed amid the rushes. “Elan!” she called low.

The young woman’s lashes fluttered and the whites of her eyes showed.

Unable to support her upright, Rhiannyn lowered with her to the floor and pulled her head onto her lap. “Elan,” she rasped.

Her eyes opened. “Say ’tis not so,” she pleaded.

“I am sorry, but I cannot.”

Elan’s eyes brimmed. “I never loved before Guy. I cannot lose him.”

As Rhiannyn could not lose Maxen. “I know. But we must be strong. And believe.”

“How? This child makes me so weak, I hardly have the strength to pass the day.” Elan pressed a hand to her belly. “Ah, to be rid of it.”

Inwardly, Rhiannyn recoiled. “Do not speak so,” she said more harshly than intended. “It is not the babe’s fault for being.”

Elan stared at her, then slowly sat up. “You are right. It is my fault.”

Might she be ready to speak the truth? “Your fault?” Rhiannyn said. “Not Edwin’s?”

Emotions worked across the young woman’s face, but the last fit itself to her brow and eyes and mouth. “Of course it is his fault. But had I not been so foolish to ride out alone, he would not have laid hands upon me.”

Rhiannyn sighed, stood, and reached a hand to her.

Elan took it and staggered upright. “I know it is not what you wish to hear, Rhiannyn, but it is what befell me. Truly.”

Without further word, Rhiannyn returned her attention to the voices in the hall. They were not as loud, and when she peeked around the screen, she saw that where there had been a hundred men, little more than a dozen remained.

What had transpired while she had tended to Elan’s faint? Had anything of import been said?

She skipped her gaze from Maxen to the king, to Christophe who stood beside his father, then the others who had draw nearer William. Whatever words they exchanged did not carry far enough to be heard.

“What do they say?” Elan asked.

Rhiannyn drew back. “Naught I can understand. Certes, though, they are planning.”

Her belly going well before her, Elan crossed to the bed, set a steadying hand on the mattress, and gingerly lowered to the floor. “I will pray,” she said. “And you?”

A praying Elan? She who did not even bow her head during the blessing of meals? Had love done this to her?

Shaking off surprise, Rhiannyn crossed the room and went down beside her sister-in-law. “I shall pray with you.”

“We are close to being friends, you know,” Elan said and closed her eyes and began moving her lips to silent prayer.

Odd friends, Rhiannyn thought, but it was better than how it had been when first Elan had come.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

The Bloodlust Warrior of Hastings, who had raised his head when the king baited Rhiannyn, trailed Maxen as he walked alongside the man who might find himself named The Bloodlust King of England—unless the piety for which William was fairly known could be stirred to life.

Maxen did not have long to await an opportunity to speak in that direction. As they moved toward the wall-walk overlooking the land that was aglow with hundreds of campfires, the king said, “I would know the state of your soul, Pendery.”

Maxen was glad he was prepared for such talk, for one’s stride ought not falter in the presence of a man whose respect was of greater worth than feeding feelings of superiority. “What was black can never be made white,” he said.

“Then after two years at prayer, your soul remains troubled.”

“As should the souls of all who take the lives of others.”

After a long moment, the king said, “Indeed.”

“Still, I am lightened,” Maxen said. What he did not tell was that more than the years at prayer, the burden of Hastings had been eased by his return to the world of man—to the England his actions had helped form. What had begun to make him feel human again was making others feel human, valuing them such that their pain was as much his as their joy. And not just the pain and joy of Rhiannyn and Christophe, but all the lives of those for whom he was responsible, Norman and Saxon alike.

The two traversed the turn in the wall-walk, and between the notches in the wall, glimpsed the vast camp outside the castle whose fires aspired to make day of night.

William halted before an embrasure and gazed out at his army whose next task was to bring Harwolfson to ground. “Lightened,” he said as Maxen came alongside. “Not so much, I hope, that The Bloodlust Warrior of Hastings will not serve me well in the coming battle.”

Maxen shifted his jaw. “
I
shall serve you well, my liege, but I will not be again what I was at Hastings.”

William turned a heavy brow upon him, and the fire in his eyes was not merely a reflection of those leaping, crackling things warming his men below. “Will you not?”

Maxen held without flinch. There could be no question he was at the mercy of this all-powerful man, but there was one far more powerful than William—more potent than any. Blessedly, the conqueror also bowed his head to the Lord. And if he did so in this instance, it was possible Hastings would not repeat itself in the confrontation with Harwolfson.

“I mean you no disrespect, my liege,” Maxen said, “but I will not become again what offended God such that, regardless of His forgiveness, Hastings will ever be but a glance behind me.”

William slowly nodded. “Hastings is farther than a glance behind me, but it is there. Forsooth, were I not so certain of my claim upon England—certain the one who tried to steal it from me gave me no choice but to bloody that field—methinks it might also haunt me.” He narrowed his gaze. “Am I right in believing you now have someone to live for?”

The relief beginning to move through Maxen halted its advance. Here was the opening he had been determined to find in requesting a private audience. It was time to make things right with Rhiannyn. “It is true, Your Majesty.”

The man grinned. “The Saxon woman,” he said and clapped Maxen on the shoulder. “I have had many an occasion to feel the air of one who wishes to put a blade through me, and you, though richly rewarded by your liege, wished it this day.”

Then William had been aware of catching the eye of The Bloodlust Warrior of Hastings when he had spoken to Rhiannyn as if she were less than a leman.

“Obviously, she pleases you as much as you please her,” the king continued, “And not just in bed,
oui?
”

Maxen jammed his fingers into his palms. “
Oui.
”

“Thus, you do not like that I would use her to bargain with Harwolfson.”

Even better than he was known for piety, William was lauded for astuteness.

“I do not like it.” Acutely aware of his feet and hands and the dagger upon his belt that was the only weapon the king’s personal guard had allowed him for their meeting, and as acutely aware of the king’s, Maxen added, “That is among the reasons I wed Rhiannyn.”

The fires before the castle showed clearly the color rising up William’s neck, as well as the saliva upon which he spat, “Without your king’s permission—in defiance of me—you married your leman?”

As a warrior, there was great advantage to being of exceptional stature, and in this instance, as a vassal. Fortunately, Maxen had enough experience with William to know the man was sure enough of his own skill that, rather than being threatened by the steady gaze slightly above his own, he would see it as strength to be used to his advantage—once he descended from his wrath.

“Never was Rhiannyn my leman,” Maxen said. “As my wife, she has only ever shared my bed.”

Between his teeth, the king said, “Why was I not told of your marriage?”

“Our vows were spoken in private.”

William blinked and his color began to recede. “Clandestine—a fairly easy way to lure a resistant woman to bed, and all the easier to set her aside.”