LadyOfConquest:SaxonBride (16 page)

Maxen released her, crossed the chamber, and extinguished the torch. Then his dark figure moved to the bed and he lowered to it.

Alone, but not alone, she peered into the darkness and waited for morn.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Where Rhiannyn stood on the wall-walk that spanned the top edge of the outer wall, the Saxons assembled below looked like a peasant’s patch cloth mantle. There was no uniformity to them, no organization, and no hope against the scores of soldiers prepared to carry out Maxen Pendery’s punishment. By nightfall, they would all be dead, their only victory escaping Norman rule.

Tearless, though her eyes burned with her refusal to be otherwise, she shifted her gaze to the gallows, and away. It was cruel of Maxen to force her to witness the execution of her people—to stand in full sight of them at this highest point in the bailey where none could miss her, and alongside the new lord of Etcheverry himself. Now, in the most terrible way, she had proof of how wrong she was about him. He was too broken to be reachable. And, she feared, soon she would be as well.

She was so caught up in her emotions, she did not realize Maxen leaned near until he said in her ear, “You are a foolishly brave woman, Rhiannyn.”

She turned her face to him, acknowledged he still looked unwell. “And you are a devil.”

He straightened. “That is the least of the things I have been called.”

As she had nothing to lose, she said, “Very well, something stronger—The Bloodlust Warrior of Etcheverry.” Pretending pride in her choice, she nodded. “Far more appropriate.”

If the daggers in his eyes could have leapt from them, they would have killed her where she stood.

Drawing a deep breath, he clasped his hands behind his back and returned his attention to the Saxons. “Bloodlust Warrior,” he murmured. “Not in this instance. This is different.”

Was it? His choice of words ignited a spark of hope, but she extinguished it. Maxen surely meant he was more justified in what he was about to do, than in what he had done at Hastings. And perhaps he was in the eyes of man, but he forgot the eyes of God were also upon him. Once, perhaps, he could be forgiven for the blood upon his blade, but surely not twice.

When all quieted, the Saxons having fully turned their attention to where Maxen and Rhiannyn stood, Maxen called in the Anglo-Saxon language, “For two years, many are the Normans you have killed, and yet the battle of Hastings has been done for as long, England defeated, and King William crowned its ruler. You have left your families, your homes, and your crops, all for something that can never be—for Edwin Harwolfson, a man who has selfishly spent your lives to achieve his own end.

A murmur of dissent rose, but it died with Maxen’s next words. “I offer you something different.”

Aethel stepped forward, raised a fist. “What be that, Norman devil? Dangling at the end of a rope?”

“It is your choice whether or not death figures into it,” Maxen answered.

Rhiannyn’s knees nearly buckled. Had she heard right? She could not have—unless he played with words.

“Do you go the way of Harwolfson, your fate is sealed. Do you pledge fealty to me, rebuild your homes, and put plough to the land, I will give you back your lives.”

As disbelief rippled through the Saxons, Rhiannyn silently beckoned Maxen’s gaze so she might see if what was there matched his words.

Keeping his profile to her, he said, “But first, those who accept me as their lord must prove themselves. There are walls to be raised.” He swept a hand to the vulnerable, unfinished stone rampart enclosing the outer bailey. “And buildings to erect ere winter.”

Rhiannyn swayed, remembering to breathe only when her lungs began to ache.

“Those who stay the side of Harwolfson,” Maxen continued, “remain where you are. Those wishing to live under the House of Pendery, gather left.” At their hesitation, he commanded, “Make your choice. Now.”

More hesitation and glances at the nooses dangling from the gallows, then a handful of Saxons, heads down, separated from the others. Some of the men tried to block them, but they pushed past and formed their small group.

More,
Rhiannyn silently beseeched.
Lord, show them the way.

A dozen more, and all the women, stepped left. Then more followed until only five remained loyal to Edwin, Aethel among them.

Maxen motioned for the men-at-arms to remove those who chose to stand with their absent leader and turned to Rhiannyn.

“I do not understand,” she said, trying to glimpse his soul in his eyes. “Why have you done this?”

“Be assured, it has naught to do with you,” he said and walked around her.

Of course it had nothing to do with her, but what? Had he done it for Christophe? “And the others?” she called. “What of them?”

He halted, but did not turn back. “They have made their choice,” he said, anger evident in his stiff posture, cutting voice, and hands curled into fists. “They are Harwolfson’s men and will be treated accordingly.” He resumed his stride.

Though Rhiannyn told herself to be grateful most of the Saxons would live, she was pained by the five who would die. But when? Why had Maxen not put them to the gallows straightaway as he had led her to believe he meant to do with all the Saxons?

She recalled this morn when she had awakened to the feel of his hand on her ankle as he removed the iron and chain. He had told her she was to accompany him to witness the reckoning herself, and during the long walk had said nothing of his true intentions, allowing her to believe the worst.

Anger swept aside relief. How dare he subject her to such pain! How dare he make pretense of a slaughter he’d had no intention of carrying out!

Though the voice trailing her thoughts insisted she not question him but be thankful for what he had
not
done, she snatched up her skirts, traversed the wall-walk, and descended to the bailey. Behind, she heard a Saxon woman call her a vile name, but she did not falter in her bid to gain the causeway leading up to the motte. There was much she had to say to Maxen Pendery.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Upon entering the hall, Rhiannyn located Maxen where he stood behind a trestle table, head bent, arms outstretched, palms flat on the table. Before him were a great number of his knights, and beside him sat the steward who was ardently explaining something.

Forgetting her station, forgetting propriety, forgetting all that would have served her well to remember, she advanced on Maxen. When she was halfway across the hall, he straightened and narrowed his lids at her—doubtless, calculating what she intended. And what that was, she did not know until she ascended the dais.

She grasped the cloth covering the table and yanked, catapulting goblets, tankards, and the books the steward guarded with his every breath. Harmless missiles, except the one that struck Sir Ancel in the temple and staggered him back.

Despite the knight’s expletives, when all settled, Rhiannyn remained untouched. Holding the cloth, eyes fastened on Maxen’s blue gaze, she said, “You are the lowliest of curs.”

He splayed his hands on the bare tabletop and leaned forward again. “You think?”

So cool, as if unmoved by what she had done. But he was not unmoved. His eyes and the bunching of muscles beneath his tunic mirrored her own anger, and she was so fascinated with the control he exercised that the realization of the mistake she had made was slow to dawn. But when it did, she did not heed it.

She dropped the cloth, stepped nearer, and swung her palm across the table.

He caught it, denying her the stinging contact she sought. “I cannot allow you to do that—again,” he growled and glanced from her bandaged hand to her flushed face.

Aye, twice before she had struck him. Once out of anger, once to awaken him, and now again in anger—of which he was more than deserving.

“I have not asked for permission,” she tossed back.

He arched an eyebrow, then ordered his men and the steward to take their leave.

Muffled laughter and crude comments accompanied the men from the hall.

“This is not what I expected,” Maxen said when he and Rhiannyn were alone.

“What did you expect? I would fall to my knees? Embrace you? Worship you?” She jerked her hand to free it, but he held firm.

“I had thought you would at least be grateful.”

“Grateful! You let me believe you intended to hang the Saxons, but all along planned otherwise.”

“Would you prefer I had taken their lives?”

“Of course not! But neither did you need to be so cruel to allow me to think you meant to slay them all.”

Maxen considered her. It would be easy to quell her anger—and his—or at least lessen it by explaining what appeared to be cruelty had really been his final test of her story that she did not know who had murdered Thomas. Now he believed her, for she had not broken when faced with the nooses waiting to embrace the necks of her people.

But let her think him cruel. After all, was he not? Too, it would afford him more control over her, something needed with one such as she.

“You were told,” he said, “in my time, not yours.”

Fire leapt higher in her eyes. Odd, he thought, but there was something appealing about her daring. Something that went beyond a desire to know her intimately.

“Though I tried to hate Thomas for who he was and what he had done,” she said, “I could not. But you… I do not even have to try.”

Maxen was truly amused. “You do not hate me, Rhiannyn. You told me so yourself.”

“I lied!”

“Then at least I can console myself with one thing.” He leaned nearer across the table, liking the way his breath stirred the hair upon her brow. “That which you refused Thomas.”

She frowned.

“You desire me. Hate me… Very well, but you are not averse to my touch.”

She gasped. “You suffer from the same delusions your brother did.”

“I recall a kiss you did not object to days ago. You denied yourself the surrender, but you enjoyed it as much as I.”

Color that could not be mistaken for anger flamed her cheeks, evidencing she well remembered his wine-filled kiss. “You dream,” she said.

“Should I prove it to you?”

“Try, oh mighty Norman!”

Maxen knew they were words spoken in anger, not an invitation, but he released her hand, gripped her beneath the arms, and lifted her slight figure across the table. Amid her protests, he set her on the table’s edge before him.

She jerked her chin up. “What are you doing?”

“Seeking the truth,” he said and cupped a hand to the back of her head and lowered his own. Had she evaded him, he would have stopped, but she caught her breath—
his
breath—when he touched his mouth to hers. He slanted his head, pressed his lips to hers, and she allowed it still. He deepened the kiss, and she brought her hands up to his chest, but not to push him away. To hold onto him.

As time reeled out, he took as he could not remember ever taking, drank as he had never drunk, and tasted as he had not once tasted. And true to his seeking, Rhiannyn flowered in his hands and beneath his mouth, revealing her passion alongside her Saxon anger and pride. Not for Harwolfson. Not for Thomas. For
him
.

He did not understand why he wanted that, only that he did. Thus, when the monk yet beneath his skin warned against falling prey to what his brethren had called a
Daughter of Eve,
he reminded the monk he was no longer of the Church—that he was willing, as was this woman.

You think that makes it right?
challenged his much too recent past.

He breathed in Rhiannyn, deepened the kiss, slid his hand from her nape to the small of her back, drew her off the table and against him.

All of her bright and awhirl, Rhiannyn did not want to think. She wanted only to sink into these sensations and forget losses that made her feel things she wished to never again so much as touch the hem of her gown.
This
she wanted to feel. Maxen Pendery.

“Too long,” he groaned.

Those words—barely heard—had the power to remind her of who she was. A captive. And who he was. Her captor. She was a spoil of war, not even of such value as his brother had placed upon her. Maxen might not forcibly take her virtue, but he would use her sinful willingness to ease his desire as Saxon women before her had satisfied the lust of Normans.

All that had been bright and awhirl going dark and still, she silently beseeched,
Dear Lord, forgive me. I do not understand what possessed me to act the harlot Theta accused me of being. But perhaps I am the same as she.

“Rhiannyn?” Maxen said.

She opened her eyes, and when she saw his face above hers, realized he had ended their kiss.

“What is it?” he asked.

Almost faint with shame, she said, “I cannot do this.”

His lips curved. “It is but a kiss.”

She jerked her head side to side. “It is more.” Indeed, it went all the way through her, and though she had little experience with men, Maxen’s kiss was unlike Edwin’s and Thomas’s. Thus, perhaps it went all the way through him as well.

He brushed his mouth across hers. “Not yet,” he said, “but it could be more.”

She tried to pull away, but came up against the table. “I will not fall into your bed.”

His eyebrows rose. “Shall I seek that truth as well? Tempt you as Eve tempted Adam?”

If he did, would her body once more betray her? Would she fall?

She swallowed hard. “Pray, do not.”

As his eyes held hers that had begun to sting with tears, his struggle was momentarily visible.

Hoping to push him over the line he seemed to teeter upon, she said, “Though you are no longer of the Church, it does not give you leave to reject teachings you yourself preached to my people. So, nay, I would not have you tempt either of us.” She drew a deep breath and waited to see which of him would win—the man who had become the monk, or the one who had earned the title of The Bloodlust Warrior of Hastings.

The man she had vowed she would find beneath the warrior released her and looked down between them. “If you speak true in not wishing to tempt either of us,” he said gruffly, “you had best loosen your hold.”