LadyOfConquest:SaxonBride (31 page)

She squared her shoulders and waited for him to look up from the belt he secured about his waist. When he did, she said, “Sewing, rather than serving at table, is as a wife would do, Maxen, not a leman.”

“This day is not the same as yesterday. You
are
my wife, and though our two peoples do not know it, I will not suffer you to wait upon them.”

But he would suffer her to appear a harlot. He would suffer her to move among those whose eyes defiled her with their knowing. He would—

Enough!
she silently commanded her hurt.
I will make peace with this.

She must, for though she detested the corner into which she was pressed, she was more inclined to believe Maxen than not—that what had happened between them in the cell was true, that he had intended to announce their marriage, that neither did he want this, that he would make all right. But when?

“Rhiannyn?”

She opened eyes she had not realized she had closed and found him standing over her. Of what had they been speaking?

Placing herself, she said in a rush, “If I do not resume my duties, others will believe you favor me.”

He brushed his lips across hers. “So they will, but it is not unseemly for a man to be so taken with a woman that he affords her greater consideration and protection.”

Heat rose so thick to her face she felt near to perspiring, and before she could think better of her words, she said, “Such speaks well of a wife. What it speaks of a leman is that she brings much to the bed.”

He straightened, and though she expected him to meet anger with anger, he said, “Bear with me, Rhiannyn. If I cannot find a way through this, I will
make
a way through it.”

Those words and his seemingly sincere regret eased her hurt. “I want to believe you.”

“Do. Now I must speak with my brother.” He retrieved his boots, shoved his feet into them, and crossed to the screen. “You will remain here until I send for you?”

“I shall.”

He stared at her as if to determine whether or not to trust her, and once more hurt put words in her mouth. “If you doubt me, mayhap you ought to chain me again.”

His jaw tightened, and he strode around the screen.

“Ah, Rhiannyn,” she murmured, “this day you are more a woman than ever, yet you let the girl speak for you. Make your peace with this.”

She turned toward the bed. As it was much in need of straightening, she saw to it first and once more found King William’s missive in her possession. Before returning it to the chest, she again struggled through the Norman French and was glad Maxen had entrusted the missive to her. Though fear of pain caused doubt to persist, she was nearly convinced he had taken her to wife as sincerely as she had taken him to husband.

She closed the lid on the missive and busied herself with ordering the rest of the chamber. When she was done, she paced the room. How many times, she could not have said, but when she sank into the chair, her mind flew to the cell where Maxen had replaced memories of their first meeting with their second.

I take thee, Rhiannyn, to be my chosen one,
he had vowed.

Her nose tingled.

From this day forth, the first name upon my lips shall be thine.

Her eyes ached.

I shall honor and cherish you through life, respecting thee, thy ways, and thy people.

Her throat tightened.

I take thee, Rhiannyn of Etcheverry, in sacred marriage, in the sight of God, to be my wife.

Her sob went around the room, and she dropped her head back and beseeched, “Let him be true, Lord. Let every breath upon which we spoke vows be as proper in the sight of men as it is in Yours. Even if he can never feel for me as I begin to feel for him, let him not slip through my fingers. Strengthen my grip and his so we might hold to the one we became on the night past—”

Another sob.

“Let him find—or make—a way through the conqueror.”

There had been none of the usual difficulty in locating Christophe. He was outside the hall in the donjon’s shadow. The moment Maxen appeared, he hastened forward.

Though the youth clearly intended to deliver his accusations and arguments in sight of all, he quieted when Maxen asserted the necessity of conversing where none could overhear. Thus, they rode to the wood beyond the castle and dismounted alongside a stream rippling with sunlight.

While their horses took water, Maxen began to explain to his indignant brother all he cared to explain about his marriage.

But the Christophe he thought he knew quickly proved there was more beneath his reserve than believed. As if not slight of figure, lame of limb, and shy of tongue, he stepped near and, eyes afire, demanded, “Do you love Rhiannyn?”

That one word among the others made Maxen feel like he was the youth. Unsettled that four letters ordered such had the power to unman him, he scoffed, “Love?”

Christophe grunted. “Do you desire her as much above the waist as below?”

Though part of him was tempted to look near upon the extent of his feelings for her, it made him feel further unmanned. “I do not.”

Disappointment flickered in Christophe’s eyes, and with further accusation, he said, “Have you any idea of that emotion—if not by way of your experiences, then observation of those who are moved more by love than blood?”

Hastings. Rivers of red. Nils.

Maxen yanked himself from the place where he had become someone he had not known he was.

Etcheverry. Clear, sparkling streams. Christophe.

Relieved to return here, in spite of the condemnation of one who had once held him in high regard, he said, “One day, I will tell you about the blood. For now, all you need know is that though it can be washed from one’s hands, leaving no visible stain, it sinks through one’s pores and warps and hardens the soul such that even God is repelled.”

Christophe’s lids fluttered, and when next he spoke, his voice was more familiar. “Such that you can never love?”

Maxen stared. Could he? Were feelings that pure beyond him? Though this talk of love was distant from what he had intended to discuss, he answered honestly, “I do not know, Christophe.”

His brother’s eyebrows nearly met. “That does not inspire confidence in your intentions toward Rhiannyn. Thus, I will make it easier. Do you desire her in
any
measure above as you do below?”

It would have been easier to claim he felt nothing at all
above
, but this was his brother, not an enemy—unless he continued to treat Christophe as the child Rhiannyn had warned he should not when he had first returned her to Etcheverry.

Recalling her beseeching to show the youth respect and not beat down his voice, he said, “I would not have wed her did I not feel more for her than desire.”

Christophe’s shoulders relaxed. “Then you did not speak secret vows to get her in your bed and more easily discard her should you weary of her?”

“I did not. In the sight of God, we are wed evermore.”

Maxen almost regretted the relief shining from his brother’s face, for what had yet to be told would give ear to more accusation and argument.

He stepped around Christophe to the stream and lowered to his haunches. After drinking deep and clapping handfuls of water on his face and neck, he looked over his shoulder. “There is more, and it will make you think no better of me than when I carried Rhiannyn through the hall last eve. Worse, even.”

Christophe’s slight smile lowered. “Tell.”

Maxen stood and revealed the contents of the king’s missive. As expected, Christophe was outraged by William’s plan to use Rhiannyn to end the threat of Harwolfson.

“It is even better you have wed her, then,” he said.

“Indeed, and I would speak vows with her again, regardless of how imprudent it is.”

Christophe opened his mouth as if to question that, then he closed it and his eyes twitched with thought. “The king will not like it,” he said, and there was more the man about him than Maxen had ever seen. “You risk making an enemy of one whom others have caused to question our family’s loyalty, one who can take all from the Penderys with the lift of an eyebrow. A dangerous thing.”

Maxen was grateful he had drawn the conclusion on his own. “You understand that though I had intended to correct the belief Rhiannyn is my leman, it must wait.”

Christophe’s mouth pinched. “You have told her this?”

“I have, and as you surely know, she does not like it any better than you or I.”

“How long must she suffer the belief she is a harlot?”

Maxen tensed, for even in this he took offense at hearing the word applied to her. “Only as long as necessary, but I cannot say if it will be days, weeks, or months before our marriage is revealed.”

Christophe nodded slowly. “I shall try to trust you—believe Rhiannyn is safe in your care.”

It was something, and more than Maxen had known he wanted from his somewhat estranged brother. “Tell, Christophe, why do you care so much about her?”

The youth’s eyes went soft, and he jerked his chin to his chest.

Maxen gripped his shoulder. “Christophe?”

In a choked voice, he said, “I love her.”

Though Maxen had suspected as much, the admission jolted him, but before he could respond, Christophe’s wide-eyed gaze returned to his. “
Non,
not as she should be loved by you. She is the sister who does not treat me as a pet, the mother who does not hide me behind her skirts, the brother who does not look upon me with long-suffering tolerance.”

A tear fell to Christophe’s cheek. “Rhiannyn believes in me as no other has. Even if she stood me alongside my brothers, she would not find me wanting, might even think me worthier than one who wields a sword. To her, I am Christophe the friend and healer, not the imperfect, impaired Pendery.” He swallowed. “For that, I love her and will do all I can to ensure no harm is done her. And if I fail, I will die having tried.”

As Maxen stared into his brother’s earnest face, he heard the drag and push of his own breath and felt movement around his heart. Though different from what he experienced with Rhiannyn, it was there all the same. “I am with you,” he said. “If naught else, trust me in this.”

Christophe took a faltering step forward.

The warrior who had been trained into Maxen from an early age commanded him to draw back. But the one whose quest to avenge Thomas’s murder grew distant in the light of Rhiannyn, moved him forward. He released his brother’s shoulder, put his hand to the back of the youth’s head, and pulled him into an embrace.

Christophe’s stiff surprise melted, and they remained thus until he himself pulled back. “I am glad you are returned from Hastings.”

Maxen inclined his head. “The journey is not yet done, but it is good to be on the road home.”

Christophe turned and limped to where his mount nibbled at the patchy grass. Once both were astride, he said, “Methinks you do love her. You just do not know it yet.” Then he put heels to his mount and left his brother to ponder what he had told, reject it, and ponder it again.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

It was Sir Guy who came for Rhiannyn following the nooning meal.

She pushed away the platter of viands Lucilla had brought her and followed him into the hall where Maxen stood before the dais with two dozen knights flanking him. And before the hearth stood Christophe, watchful but not as wary as he often presented. Indeed, he seemed a bit taller, perhaps wider.

Though Rhiannyn was in little better spirits than when Maxen had left her hours earlier, curiosity over this strange gathering took the edge off her emotions and her mind off the knowing glances.

When she met Maxen’s gaze, he said, “Come stand beside me.”

As if the wife she could not own to being. Lest her hope be dashed that he had already found a way through King William, she pressed it down and, chin high, stepped alongside him. “My lord?”

“A moment.” He fixed his gaze on the entrance to the cellar.

It was a long moment, but five Saxons came into the light, each led by a man-at-arms.

Rhiannyn lost her breath. Was it time to carry out their death sentences? If it was what Maxen intended, surely he would not bring her countrymen before her. After all, though he had forced her to accompany him to the hanging that had not happened, her presence had been but a means of discovering whether or not she lied.

Feeling Aethel’s stare, made all the more palpable by the bond forged between them long ago—even if he now deemed it broken—she looked to him. His weeks below ground had paled him and grown his hair and beard wild, but his eyes were sharp with accusation.

The Saxons halted ten feet distant from their Norman captor, and as their clattering chains fell silent, Maxen considered them. “Aethel of Etcheverry,” he said in Anglo-Saxon, “what is your decision?”

The big man flexed his shoulders. “The same as when last we spoke, Norman.”

Rhiannyn’s heart trembled. If they would not stand with Maxen, they could not be allowed to take up arms against him.

Fearing his pronouncement, she closed her eyes.

But it was to her Maxen turned and said, “My gift to you.”

She raised her lids. “What do you mean?”

“They are yours, to do with however you wish.”

The few of his men who understood Anglo-Saxon began translating for the others, and the prisoners shed their shock and added their voices to the din.

Maxen put his mouth to her ear. “Your
morgengifu
, Rhiannyn Pendery.”

Morning gift, that which a Saxon bestowed upon his bride, and which was often a considerable amount of land or coin over which she was given control.

Tears blurred her vision. She had not expected a
morgengifu
from her Norman husband, and that he gave her one swelled her heart past the hurt there—more so since of all things he might bestow upon her, it was these men…her people…his enemy. And in that moment, she did not care if any thought this her reward for becoming his leman.

She glanced at Christophe, and on his face was something hopeful, surely akin to what she felt in her breast. “’Tis well received, Maxen,” she whispered. “I thank you.”