LadyOfConquest:SaxonBride (35 page)

He looked down his crimson-stained tunic and immediately released her. “Forgive me. ’Tis wrong for me to touch you when I am like this.”

“Then let us have done with it so you might all the sooner touch me again.” The moment she spoke the bold words, she regretted them. She who feared conceiving should not issue such an invitation. And yet, it gladdened her to see the upward tilt of his lips and to fit her hand into the one he held out to her.

Side by side, they exited the chapel, and as they passed a group of Saxons, several men and women offered him respectful nods.

Even if Aethel and the others believed Maxen had ordered the killing of one of their own, the Etcheverry Saxons knew the truth. And if any good came of the bloodletting beyond removing the threat of Sir Ancel, it would be that Maxen had secured the loyalty of Rhiannyn’s people by delivering justice to the Norman who had killed one of them without cause.

“Methinks you have won them over,” she said when they were past the Saxons.

Without reply, he led her up the causeway. When they reached the donjon steps, a voice called to him.

He turned Rhiannyn toward the youth whose lopsided gait carried him forward.

Eyes dancing with light, Christophe said, ”The Saxon lives. Though badly wounded, methinks he will heal.”

The relief rising on Maxen’s face made Rhiannyn’s heart ache all the more for him. “I thank you, Christophe,” he said.

His brother nodded and hurried away.

“And you say God is not with you,” Rhiannyn mused.

Maxen sighed. “Certes, He is with your Saxon.”

“
Our
Saxon.”

He appeared to think on it a moment, then led her up the steps.

A half hour later, fresh towels and basins of hot water having been delivered to their chamber and a stool set before the brazier whose coals Maxen had coaxed to life, Rhiannyn lifted her husband’s tunic and undertunic.

He captured her wrists. “You are certain?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Am I not your wife?”
Lord,
she silently sent to the heavens,
let me remain so.

“You are.”

“Then I shall do for my husband as he would do for me.”

When he released her, Rhiannyn drew the tunics off over his head. She knew there would be splotches of blood on his skin, but had not considered some of it would be his own and not all of it dried. Though his injuries seemed minor enough that Christophe’s needle and thread would not be required, they yet seeped.

She motioned him to the stool, and as he lowered to it, wet a towel. She started with his flecked face, swabbing away the battle that had granted Sir Ancel the grave. When she moved to his neck and shoulders, he closed his eyes, and the bones seemed to go out of him. Back bowing, forearms settling on his thighs, he let his head hang.

Rhiannyn returned to the wash basin, wrung out the pink-tinged evidence of the battle fought, and rewet the towel from the basin of clear, unsullied water. Back to front she worked, and upon finishing with his torso, replaced the towel with a clean one, wet it, and lowered to her knees before him.

Seeing Maxen’s lids remained closed and wondering if he dozed, she worked the towel over his arms. Upon reaching his wrists, she lifted one of his hands hanging slack between his thighs, turned it up, and rubbed the blood from the thick pads and deep creases. Shortly, his other hand came as clean as the first.

“There,” she whispered, “it is washed away.” On impulse, she pressed her lips to his palm as he had done hers a short while ago.

Maxen stopped breathing, and when she looked up, his eyes awaited hers. “Would that you had been there for me after Hastings,” he said. “Better, would that I had given one such as you cause to be there for me.”

She leaned in, and when he lifted his face toward hers, touched her mouth to his. “I am here this day,” she said, “as I will be here on the morrow and the morrow after.”

“I thank you.”

Struck by the realization they had been here before—or nearly so—she almost laughed. “Now you are the one on a stool, though it can hardly be said you are at my mercy.”

“Am I not?” he murmured.

Hoping his words meant he felt more for her than desire, she breathed in the moment. As she breathed it out, he pulled her to him and made far more of the meeting of their mouths than she had done. And the clean hands moving over her foretold that soon they would love again.

Trying not to question him or his motives or the future that his consideration of the king made so uncertain—to but feel as he had made her feel on their wedding night—she kissed him back.

Do not do this,
warned two years of fear and distrust.
Find a way to turn him aside. And yourself.

Her mind having joined forces with her body that too much liked his embrace, she silently argued it was too late to turn either of them aside.

Only until your menses,
cried the sliver of her that tried hard not to feel. Blessedly, its voice was shrill.

“Maxen,” she said when his mouth moved to her ear. “We must stop.”

He lifted his head. “Your body is not yet ready?” he asked in a voice so tight it seemed one more turn might break it.

She understood then why he had, without question, let her deny him on the night past. And it would have been easy to allow him to continue to believe as he did, but she wanted truth between them.

“It is ready, but I fear the timing.”

He frowned.

“Until our future is certain, I would not chance a babe.” Though his met eyebrows and lined brow eased with realization, she continued, “It will be difficult, perhaps even impossible, to gain acceptance and respect as your leman, but more so if I grow round with child. Worse, any babe I bear will be thought—and named—illegitimate, a belief that may persist even after our marriage is revealed. Thus, I would wait.”

“You are right,” he said and hooked an arm around her waist and lifted her onto his lap. “I am sorry I did not consider it.”

“Then you understand?”

“That it would be folly to get you with child now? I do.”

Once more, his easy acceptance surprised her. And bothered her, raking nails across the worry he might set her aside, a thing done with the least amount of resistance without a child to hold him to her.

“What is it, Rhiannyn?”

Seeing concern upon his face, she told herself she did him ill in thinking such thoughts. “We have but to wait on my menses. When it is certain we have not already made a child, it will be safe to take a medicine to prevent pregnancy.”

“What medicine?”

“A root. I asked Christophe about it, and he said it is mostly safe and effective—”

“Mostly?”

She had questioned that word as well. “A babe can take, though it is rare. Of more concern is that the medicine can harm an unborn child, which is why I would not take it until my monthly time is upon me.”

“Nay, Rhiannyn.” His voice turned harsh. “You will not take it at all.”

“But—”

“If it can harm an unborn babe, do you not think it can harm you as well?”

“It is believed to be safe for the woman.”

“That does not mean it is.”

His concern for her caused tears to prick her eyes.

In turn, those tears smoothed his face and softened his voice. “There are other ways to make it nearly impossible to conceive.”

There was only one other way she knew, and there was nothing
near
about it. “I do not think you speak of abstinence,” she said.

“I do not. With this other way, it is not likely we will make a child. But if we do, I vow it will bear my name the same as you, that I will be its father as you are its mother and my wife.”

At her hesitation, he prompted, “Trust me, Rhiannyn.”

Tentatively, she closed the small space between them. And softly, sweetly, hopefully, she accepted his embrace.

He had come to see the fallen Saxon, but more out of need than courtesy.

As Rhiannyn had gently—was it possible, lovingly?—washed away the blood, he had been freed of the vision of the Saxons setting off in search of Harwolfson, the one at the rear taking an arrow to the back. But it had returned when he had parted from his dozing wife.

Now he stood alongside the sleeping Saxon who lay on his belly with his face turned to the wall, back wrapped in bandages that evidenced they had earlier bled through. And he knew as he had known when the arrow dropped the man that he, Maxen Pendery, was responsible.

But had he truly done wrong in keeping Sir Ancel near? Whether this day or another, the same or worse would have happened had he sent the knight from Etcheverry. In Sir Ancel’s air and eyes and words had dwelt one not merely driven by revenge, nor one who, in a passion, lost control. There had been too much purpose about the man, villainy either bred or beaten into him. Now, he would never again harm another, and God willing, the Saxon would recover.

“He is called Hob,” said Christophe whose face had shone with delight when Maxen had appeared.

“Still you think he will recover?”

“Providing the arrow hit nothing vital, as I am fair certain it did not, and infection does not set in. If he still wishes it, I believe he will be able to depart Etcheverry within a month.”

He surely would wish it. After all, he had taken an arrow in the name of Maxen Pendery.

Maxen started to turn away, but Christophe said, “Would you have me examine your wounds?”

“I thank you, but Rhiannyn tended them.”

The youth smiled, said low, “You have chosen well.”

But had Rhiannyn chosen well? “This I know.” Once more, Maxen moved to leave.

“Hold!” Christophe stepped to the table alongside the Saxon and retrieved a small pot. “Have Rhiannyn rub this salve into your wounds so they do not go bad.”

Maxen took it. “I thank you.” He strode across the room, and at the door, looked around at his brother who had followed. “I need you to promise me something.”

“Aye?”

Maxen hated the wariness in Christophe’s voice. “Rhiannyn revealed her concern of conceiving a child whilst it is not known we are wed, and told of a medicine that makes it less likely a babe will take.”

The wariness spread to Christophe’s brow. “You wish me to prepare some?”

“I do not.”

“You would not also wait on children?” Now there was something hopeful about Christophe, as if Maxen’s desire to soon begin a family proved his intentions were as claimed.

Though inclined to brush aside his brother’s question and let him believe what he would, Maxen had too much felt and needed—perhaps more than Christophe—their brotherly embrace in the wood. For nothing would he undo what good was being done between them.

“I would not wait on children,” he began.

But perhaps The Bloodlust Warrior of Hastings should,
the thought once more inserted itself.

“As told,” he continued, “Rhiannyn is and shall ever be my wife. Ere she shared her concern, it occurred to me that though William would feel no compunction in bargaining away my leman, were Rhiannyn to become pregnant, it would strengthen my claim upon her. The king would not like it, but he would be more amenable to allowing one of his nobles to assert his right to the mother of a child he wished to name his own—and, thus, more easily forgive me for wedding her without permission.”

“Indeed,” Christophe said, and Maxen nearly laughed at the wonder on his face. Christophe saw the merit of it. But now…

“However,” Maxen said, “Rhiannyn’s concerns are real, and I would not have her or our child suffer for what would be thought and spoken against them while our marriage remains hidden.”

The wonder slipped away. “But you say you do not wish her to take the preparation.”

“As it can harm an unborn child, I do not trust it. Thus, I want your word that if she asks for it, you will deny her.”

“I would prefer to, Maxen, but unless you intend to abstain—”

“There are other ways, and likely as effective as your medication. Of this I have assured her.”

Christophe blushed. “Ah.”

“I have your word?”

He inclined his head.

Maxen gripped his shoulder. “I did not think I would ever be grateful you called me out of the Church, but I am. And I pray that if you wish it, you shall remain at Etcheverry with Rhiannyn and me.”

Throat convulsing, the youth bobbed his chin. “I thank you. Truly.”

Maxen was prepared to embrace him, but the Saxon groaned, and Christophe hurried to him.

For a time, Maxen watched his brother tend Hob, and when he stepped outside and smelled the coming winter, the cold did not worry him as much as it had.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

The parchment fell from Maxen’s hand. Before it hit the floor, it had rolled back on itself.

Sensing the gravity of the missive, Rhiannyn motioned for the scattered knights and servants to clear the hall. She did it with little thought, realizing only after they began withdrawing that they had responded as if she were the lady of the castle as she was not yet acknowledged to be. Though with Maxen’s prompting, she was growing into the role, it surprised her that his men had complied without hesitation. As if they fully accepted the orders of a leman.

“What is it?” she asked when Maxen and she were alone.

He gave her his gaze where she stood alongside him, but that was all.

With greater foreboding, she bent, retrieved the parchment, and read the Norman French that was all the more difficult to decipher due to the heavy scrawl.

Frustrated, she looked to Maxen. “Tell me.”

He sat back in his chair. “It speaks of Edwin Harwolfson.”

Fear gripped her. “King William summons you?”

“He does not,” he said, and she saw the color of wrath crawl up his neck.

“What, then?”

“Over a fortnight past, my sister, Elan, was caught outside the castle walls and set upon by a Saxon.”

“I am sorry,” she gasped. “Was she badly hurt?”

The color ran into Maxen’s face and hair. “She was ravished.”

Rhiannyn clamped her teeth onto her lower lip. Much she knew of ravishment from when the Normans had attacked her village, though she had been spared personal knowledge of it. Hence, hearing Maxen’s sister had suffered violation stirred the pain of her past.