LadyOfConquest:SaxonBride (8 page)

She raised them, and winced as the flat of a blade touched the insides of her wrists. Her fetters fell away, and as she rubbed the blood into her hands, he severed the rope binding her ankles.

“Come.” He pulled her to her feet.

Head reeling, she staggered against him. “A moment, please,” she beseeched.

“Do you wish to live?” he demanded.

“Aye, but—”

“Then move your feet. Now!”

CHAPTER NINE

“We will rest here awhile,” Brother Justus said.

Rhiannyn walked to the stream that had beckoned hours earlier when they had first begun following it, and lowered to her knees. She dipped her hands in the water and splashed it over her face and neck. Gasping and blinking, she savored the cold trickling over her heated skin, then scooped more handfuls until the front of her perspiration-dampened tunic was soaked through.

Heart beating briskly from the pace the monk had forced upon her, she lifted the hem of her tunic to dry her face. And paused over her distorted reflection.

On the surface of the water was something of the young woman she had been, the layers of age and wear peeled away to reveal herself to her again. Granted, she appeared older than her ten and eight years, but much fresher than the thirty she had looked upon escaping her prison cell. And she was alive.

Shying away from remembrances of what had transpired hours earlier, she buried her face in the tunic and rubbed vigorously—as if doing so would banish those memories. But they were there when she lifted her head.

“Leave me be,” she whispered. It was not her pleading, but a movement on the water that caused the memories to slip away. Looking nearer upon it, she saw it was the reflection of the one who stood behind her.

Brother Justus’s mouth was a thin line, eyes dark with what seemed accusation.

The sensation that had bothered her when he had first come into the rebel camp—a feeling she knew him—beckoned her back in time and closed fingers around her throat.

She gasped and leapt to her feet.

“Something is amiss?” he asked, reaching to steady her.

She sidestepped.

“What is it?” His expression was one of concern, a poor fit for the man she had glimpsed in the water, a man who, with the shedding of his clerical gown, appeared to have shed the last of his holiness as well.

“Naught. I…” She lowered her gaze, and the peculiar sensation turned to shame when she saw her wet garment was molded to her chest.

Hoping Brother Justus had not noticed, she glanced up and discovered the carelessness with which she had cooled herself
had
captured his interest. He did not regard her with monk’s eyes, but with the eyes of a man not forbidden the fruit of women.

Rhiannyn clapped a hand to her chest and lifted the material from her skin. “I have not thanked you for saving my life. I owe you much.”

“Aye, you do.”

His slow, deliberate agreement summoned forth that which shame had sped to the back of her mind, and she began to shiver. This sensation was remembrance of when Maxen Pendery had stood before her blindfolded eyes at Etcheverry.

But could it be? She searched the monk’s face, looked higher to his dark hair. In no way did he resemble Thomas or Christophe. The hair coloring was different, his features too defined. And his voice—she detected none of the thick French accent, nor the strained, rasping quality with which that man had spoken. Too, Christophe had said his eldest brother was a warrior, and this man was undoubtedly trained in the ways of the Church.

But he had also killed as a warrior, surely something no man of God would do.

“I know you,” she said, and caught her breath at the realization she had spoken aloud.

Something appeared in his eyes that pried loose her desperate hold on doubt—the predator.

And I am the prey
, she realized. Maxen Pendery had carefully laid his deception by denying facility with the Anglo-Saxon language, feigning the thicker French accent of one who had not been raised in England, and allowing her to escape the castle so he could discover the location of Edwin’s camp. Then he had come to avenge his brother’s death. And he would likely have achieved that end had he not answered her cries for help.

Why had he not sacrificed her? More, what of Edwin and his followers whom she had placed in jeopardy? She had to warn them, even if they killed her for it.

She turned and ran, but within moments, he took her to ground.

Pinned beneath him, she swept her hands through the fallen leaves in search of something with which to defend herself and closed a hand around an embedded rock. Resisting Maxen Pendery’s efforts to turn her, she strained and clawed at her weapon. When it came free, she fell onto her back and swung the rock toward his head.

He captured her wrist, forced her arm above her head, and pressed his thumb hard at the base of hers until her hand cramped and fingers uncurled.

“Nay!” she cried and raised her free arm and struck him alongside the head.

He grunted, seized that wrist as well, and pinned it with the other.

With only her legs to defend her, she bought her knee up and into his side.

Though she had not targeted his injury, she knew what she had done when an oath rushed out on the air he expelled. But it did not move him off her.

“Enough!” he barked.

His monk’s pretense entirely abandoned, the savage visible in every line of his face, Rhiannyn stilled. “I do know you,” she said again, and added, “Maxen Pendery.”

His smile was wry. “Nay, you do not. But you shall.” Her wrists caught in one hand, he straddled her, felt down his side, and considered the blood on his palm.

Preferring a show of contempt over fear, Rhiannyn said, “Know this, Norman, as you have killed, so will you be killed.”

He returned his gaze to her, and she saw his pupils had spread wider, obliterating all color save a dark ring of iris more black than blue.

“You will die,” she recklessly pressed on, “the same as—”

“Thomas,” he snarled, “and Nils.”

It was not his lost brothers she had intended to name, but the great number of his countrymen who, despite their victory at Hastings, had pooled their blood with that of the Saxons.

Maxen felt every beat of his heart as memories returned him to Hastings. He saw himself pull his sword from a Saxon, lift an arm to wipe the blood from his eyes, turn to search out who would die next. And there was Nils—barely alive, though treated as if dead. Without honor, without glory, beyond deplorable.

He yanked himself back to this moment that was not entirely different from the place to which he had briefly gone. Blood was also spilled across this day, not just by those he had prevented from burying this woman alive, but him. And just as Thomas had survived Hastings only to die for her, he might himself.

“Heed me well, Rhiannyn of Etcheverry,” he said. “Your life is no longer your own. It belongs to me, to do with as I please. Give me no excuse to see the end of you, and you may live to become a wretched old woman. Give me good cause, and I will do what Dora could not.”

Her eyes flashed. “I am no man’s possession. You may imprison me, but never will I belong to you.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Already you do. Your tears are mine, the secret you hold near is mine.”

“Secret?”

“I will have Thomas’s murderer. And soon you will deliver him.”

She shook her head.

“Soon,” he repeated. “Now, we must resume our journey. Will you resist?”

“All the way.”

“Then you bring this upon yourself.” He untied the rope from his waist, lashed her wrists together, and wrapped the opposite end around his hand. “Your prison awaits,” he said as he rose.

She stared up at him. “You do not frighten me.”

“Aye, I do.” He jerked the rope, a warning he would drag her. “And that is good.”

Her defiant expression briefly softened into what seemed despair, then she got her legs beneath her.

“Better,” he said.

She raised her chin. “You think so? Do not be so sure, Maxen Pendery. Andredeswald still holds you, and it belongs to Edwin.”

He reeled her near. “
My lord,
to you, or have you forgotten?” It was the same as he had ordered her to title him in the dungeon.

“’Tis you who has forgotten,” she challenged, “but I will say it again.
Never
will I accept you as my lord.”

He smiled. “By the morrow, you will be addressing me properly.”

She opened her mouth as if to argue further, closed it, and looked at the blood spreading across his tunic. “Do you intend to reach the castle alive,
Maxen,
we had best not dally.”

In this, she was right.

Two things Rhiannyn knew for certain. The first, that the only benefit of trading Dora for Maxen Pendery was that she lived—for now. The second, that she was alone in a world she had not realized was so heavenly before the Normans had crossed the channel and conquered her people.

The curious commoners, the workers on the wall, the men-at-arms atop the gatehouse, and the knights summoned from the donjon all stared as their injured lord led his captive over the drawbridge.

Head high, she fixed her gaze on Pendery’s back, refusing all the pleasure of seeing her cower. It was no easy thing with fear bounding through her, but anger—even hatred—helped.

Remember your father and brothers, their lives brutally taken at Hastings,
she silently counseled as she passed beneath the gatehouse’s portal.
Forget not your mother’s death when the roof set afire by Normans collapsed upon her. Feel the terror of your flight into the wood when they sought to defile you. Imprint this moment on your mind—the humiliation to which Pendery subjects you, the chafing of your wrists, the hatred Normans and Saxons alike cast upon you. Remember, Rhiannyn, who is no longer of Etcheverry. Remember.

Inside the inner bailey, she was presented with another challenge. Sir Ancel, eyes glimmering with satisfaction, nearly withered her resolve. Well she remembered his handling while he had overseen her stay in the dungeon, how he had beaten her and named her the foulest of things female. And now he separated from the other knights to step into her path.

Forced to a halt, she resisted the strain of her lead and met his gaze.

“Saxon whore!” he proclaimed.

She sucked a breath.
Saxon whore. Norman whore
. Ever named, but neither was she. She was Saxon, and that was all, her virtue intact despite what any thought of her.

Though Maxen Pendery was blocked from her view, she felt his gaze though Sir Ancel. Undeterred, she leaned toward the knight and returned the insult. “
Nithing!”

Coward.
It was one of the few Anglo-Saxon words he knew well. It had been shouted at the Normans during the battle of Hastings, and Rhiannyn had spat it at him when he had visited her cell.

Knowing the edge to which she pushed him, she steeled herself for the blow. But though he drew his arm back, Pendery caught it, twisted it behind the knight, and barked, “Stand down!”

Words sputtered from Sir Ancel, and his face flushed, but he had no means of reprisal. “My lord,” he grudgingly acceded.

 
Pendery shoved him aside.

For once, punishment was given elsewhere, and it stunned Rhiannyn. What did it matter if another struck her? Might there be a spark of humanity in The Bloodlust Warrior of Hastings? Or did he simply reserve for himself the pleasure of her suffering?

“Ready yourselves,” Pendery ordered his knights. “We ride within the hour.”

Rhiannyn pressed her lips to keep from crying out. Though she had prayed his injury would prevent him from going after Edwin and his followers this day, giving them a chance to flee, it was not to be.

When he looked to her, she said, “I beg you, do not.”

His eyebrows rose. “Begging is good. But ineffective.”

No humanity. Not a spark.

Forgoing the rope, he gripped her arm and pulled her toward the far tower of the gatehouse.

She peered up the great stonework structure. Though its primary function was to guard the castle’s entrance, the towers on either side of the portal housed several small rooms intended for captives of higher status than those who were tossed in the cells beneath the donjon.

Surely he did not mean to imprison her here when the alternative better served his revenge?

“Maxen!”

Pendery turned Rhiannyn with him, and she watched Christophe’s ungainly approach.

What had not struck her before now did. Christophe had played an important role in his brother’s deception, aiding in her escape so Maxen Pendery could discover the location of Edwin’s camp. But had he done so knowingly? Or had he also been deceived?

Christophe’s expressive eyes begged her to believe he had not known of his brother’s plans, but it was not necessary. In her heart, she knew the answer. He had been deceived.

“What is it you wish, Christophe?” Pendery asked.

“You have been injured!” Concern tightened his face as he considered the blood staining his brother’s tunic. “Perhaps I—”

“You did not come to discuss my injury, did you?”

Christophe shifted his weight. “I did not, but…” He shook his head. “If you would allow it, I would speak with Lady Rhiannyn a moment. A-alone.”

“She is a prisoner, and no lady. Return to your books and squander no more time on her.”

“But—”

“I have spoken.”

Christophe’s shoulders sank, and he retreated.

Indignant over Pendery’s treatment of his brother, Rhiannyn said, “He is not a child and should not be treated as one.”

“Not a child? What, then? A man?”

“Soon—if you show him respect and not beat down his voice.”

As if deeming her unworthy of such a discussion, Pendery spun her around to enter the tower.

As the stairway was narrow, there was but one place for her—behind him. In her attempt to keep pace, she stumbled during their ascent, and it was his steely grip that kept her from falling on the steps.

Upon reaching the uppermost floor, he threw open the door and pushed her inside. “Your new home.”