LadyOfConquest:SaxonBride (38 page)

She advanced and halted before him. “Aye, I have sight, though you know well I possess more. I have the power—”

“Enough!” He would not be drawn further into her web, certain that to do so would be to consort with the devil’s own. Not for the first time, he wondered why he did not send her away. He longed to, but something kept him from doing so.

“She will bear you a son, Edwin,” Dora said in a conspiratorial tone.

He frowned. “Rhiannyn?”

She grunted with disgust. “’Tis the harlot I speak of—Elan Pendery.”

He was too taken aback to remind her she had also named Rhiannyn a harlot. Was it possible his tryst in the wood had made a babe? “A son,” he murmured and was disconcerted when the possibility of fathering a child tugged at a part of him he had thought trampled beneath hatred and revenge.

“Heed me well,” Dora said. “He cannot be allowed to live.”

“What?” Edwin barked. “You suggest I murder my own child?”

“It matters not by whose hand, only that ’tis done.”

“You go too far, old woman!” Edwin curled his fingers into fists. “Be gone ere I rid myself of you forever.”

Her pink eyes widened. “The child will be Norman!”

“
If
there is one, by my blood, he will be Saxon.”

“It takes but one drop of Norman blood to foul the entire child.”

Edwin found nothing enjoyable about killing another, but in that moment, the thought of snapping her ugly neck appealed to everything ill in him. “I will not tell you again.” He thrust a hand to her chest.

Dora stumbled back, nearly tangling her feet in her trailing mantle. “All I have done for you!” she cried. “I gave you back your life, not only at Hastings, but when Thomas Pendery—” She gurgled on the spit she sucked into her lungs.

All came together then, and Edwin knew he should not be surprised. “’Twas you who threw the dagger.”

She eyed him. “I killed him.”

He felt chill fingers skim his every limb. Mayhap she was, indeed, a witch, for how else could such a wizened body have the strength to toss a stick ten feet, let alone hurl a weapon twenty or more feet and make its mark?

“Why?” he asked.

Her tongue flicked between her teeth, wet her bottom lip. “He meant to kill you, and I could not allow it—not after all I gave to put life back into you.”

It was true that with the injury Thomas Pendery had dealt him, he would likely have died by the man’s sword. But now, as then, Edwin found no pleasure or pride in his enemy’s death.

“You are owing to me,” Dora said.

“I owe you naught! Most especially, I do not owe you the life of my son.”

“Such a little thing, Edwin. ’Tis all I ask.”

He reached for her.

“You have been warned!” she shrieked and hastened away.

When she was gone, he dropped his chin to his chest. He was weary—of everything that had anything to do with blood and battle, of running, pillaging, and wondering when the usurper would overtake him.

More than anything, he was weary of the evil the old woman breathed into his life.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

April, 1069

Winter melted into spring, and with the passing of Easter, word came of King William’s victory at York over the rebel forces that attacked the city and castle there. But of Edwin Harwolfson and his insurgents, it was said they were not present—thus, not among those who had fallen to the king.

Strangely, Edwin had been quiet these past months, and rumors abounded. It was said he amassed weapons not by thievery alone, but through forging; many of his men possessed horses to ride into battle; his followers numbered in excess of a thousand; their training was merciless and patterned after the Normans. But what was true and what was not could only be speculated upon. And worried over.

The king had yet to pull Maxen into his contest to keep England under his control, but the day approached, and each day until then was but temporary reprieve.

Although winter was past, there were still grumbling bellies, but no one at Etcheverry went unfed. The food was rationed for every man, woman, and child, an extra measure allowed for women who carried unborn babes, including Elan. But Maxen’s sister partook little of what was set before her, almost as if she hoped to starve the growing child out of her. However, it would not be easily cast aside, pressing forward into the world until all knew by sight of Elan’s pregnancy.

The young woman was an enigma, one Rhiannyn steered clear of as much as possible, and not just because she lied about Edwin.

Elan could be pleasant enough when it suited her, but for all her quick wit and childlike charm, she was better known for her bouts of moodiness and ability to be at once fetching and offensive. Thus, she alienated many—though not Sir Guy.

The knight was surprisingly tolerant of her moods, and a humor not apparent before showed itself when Elan needed coaxing out of a particularly low spirit. And if one looked closely, one might even glimpse adoration in his eyes.

As Elan grew rounder, her tirades worsened despite Sir Guy’s support. Something festered in her. Still, it was a surprise what passed in the hall on a cool spring day.

As the nooning meal neared its end, she thrust to her feet. “I hear you!” she cried. “All of you whispering behind your hands. And you!” She pointed at Meghan, who stood with pitcher poised above a tankard. “You dare speak ill of me! You who cast your favors about as generously as one casts herbs upon rushes.”

“A lie!” Meghan shrilled. Though she had been intimate with a knight here and there, she did not suffer Theta’s reputation, especially now that she and Hob—the Saxon felled by Sir Ancel’s arrow—were moving toward marriage.

“Lady Elan!” Sir Guy called, stepping from the hearth where he and a handful of knights had gathered.

“Ill fortune upon your heads!” she spat. “A pox on you all!”

“Elan!” Maxen commanded her to silence.

“Think you I require your respect? I do not!” She pressed a hand to her belly. “This babe is misbegotten, but so are many of you. What have I to be ashamed of when my son is of the Saxon who will bring you to your knees?”

Rhiannyn made it to her side before Maxen and Sir Guy and cautiously laid a hand to her arm. “You are tired,” she said low. “Come and rest on your brother’s bed.”

Elan jerked free. “And what of you?” she spat. “You who seem most proud to be my brother’s harlot—”

“Enough!” Maxen pulled her away from Rhiannyn.

“I am not finished!”

“My lord,” Sir Guy entreated, “if you would allow me, perhaps I can settle your lady sister.”

Elan rounded on him. “Think you I am a dog to be patted into submission and set aside? I want no more of your understanding!”

Hurt rose on the knight’s face. And was gone. “Fine,” he said. “Muck about in your self-pity all you like. I am done with you.”

As he strode toward the men he had left in coming to her aid, Elan stared after him with eyes wide and mouth agape.

“I have also had enough,” Maxen said and pulled her toward his chamber.

She wrenched free, and in a high, miserable voice, cried, “Sir Guy!”

He did not look back.

“To my chamber,” Maxen said, once more taking hold of her, “and from there, the convent.”

She strained away, but he pulled her after him.

Moved by the young woman’s despairing face as she struggled to keep her champion in sight, Rhiannyn hastened after Maxen. “My lord,” she said as she came alongside, “what harm in allowing Lady Elan to talk with Sir Guy?”

“Harm?” he said with unbroken stride. “What good? I ask. He speaks to her every whim, indulges her when a firm hand is more needed, and tries to understand what cannot be understood.”

“Mayhap—”

“Mayhap naught! I am sick of all this coddling. It ends this day.”

Rhiannyn jumped in front of him. “I beseech thee, let her speak with him. She…needs him.”

As he stared at her, she glimpsed softening about his features others might not notice. But it was a face she now knew well.

“Pray, Maxen, allow me,” Elan begged.

Sir Guy was before the doors when his lord called him back. With obvious resentment, he returned. “My lord?”

“My sister asks you to lend her an ear. Are you willing?”

“I am not.” His jaw shifted. “But for you, my liege, I shall listen.”

Maxen looked to his sister. “End this, Elan, else ready yourself for the convent.”

“We will speak outside,” Sir Guy said and led her toward the great doors.

Rhiannyn watched them go from sight, then turned her regard upon her husband. She was pleased his anger had receded to the point he wore a slight smile.

“Only for you,” he said. And it could not be more true, Maxen thought. If not for Rhiannyn, he would have unleashed the words building in him these past months, and which he had nearly shouted when his sister thought to name Rhiannyn a harlot. Without waiting for a full day’s light, he might even have sent Elan on to the convent. Only for Rhiannyn.

He stepped near, said low, “Might my wife join me in our chamber?”

He liked her slow smile. It invited kisses. Cupping her elbow, he led her around the screen, and when she slipped into his arms, he accepted her invitation. And more.

Afterward, when she lay with her head on his chest, hair spilled over him, his thoughts went where they were wont to go. As he had assured her, he had not made a babe on her all these months as evidenced by her regular menses. But with each passing day, more and more he loathed the waiting that prevented him from acknowledging her as his wife and seeing their child in her arms.

He was not certain he could have managed it as long as he had if his men, the castle folk, and her people had not quickly accepted she was no ordinary leman. Of course, some had been resistant to showing respect, but a blackened eye or bruised jaw greatly improved their dispositions. More, Rhiannyn made the waiting tolerable. Despite her initial misgivings, she had settled into the role, and he took it as a sign of trust. And she had good cause to trust him.

Regardless of what the king determined, no matter what loss might be suffered, he would not give her up. He wanted his Saxon bride for all the days to come, to make children upon her, and grow old with her. He wanted the waiting done.

“I thank you, Husband,” she whispered.

He gently pulled his fingers through the curls turned around them and settled his hand to the small of her back. “For my lady’s desire,” he murmured.

She lifted her face to his, scowled playfully. “I speak not of that, but of Elan and Guy.”

“Elan,” he groaned, wishing talk of her had been allowed to lie a bit longer. “What am I to do with her?”

“Methinks much depends on Sir Guy.”

“You think he can straighten her crookedness?”

“If anyone can.”

“Why do you care so much, Rhiannyn? Why, when she is mostly cool toward you and names you a harlot?”

She pushed up on an elbow and leaned forward, causing her hair to curtain their faces. “Because I know I am not one, as does my husband whose opinion matters most.”

He touched her lower lip. “Regardless, she hardly deserves such kindness.”

“I know she is difficult, but I feel for her.”

“Though you believe she lies about Harwolfson?”

“If Edwin did, indeed, father her child, she
does
lie.”

After these past months, Maxen was more inclined to believe his sister was a liar than Harwolfson a ravisher, but he kept it to himself. “Spring is upon us,” he said, reminding her he would likely face Harwolfson across a battlefield before long.

She tensed. “So it is.”

“There is something I need to ask you—about Harwolfson.”

“I shall do my best to answer.”

“What would it take to make peace with him?”

She caught her breath. “Even I have heard it is his death William seeks.”

“Aye, but methinks I may be able to convince the king otherwise, providing I can also convince Harwolfson.”

Rhiannyn sat up. “I thought you also sought his death.”

“After all I have told you of Hastings?” He rose to sitting. “If there is a chance to prevent further bloodshed, that is the course I shall seek.”

She nodded slowly. “But will William follow your course?”

If the king yet held him in high regard as he had following Hastings, it was possible. “Perhaps, but the first question to be answered is, what will it take to convince Harwolfson peace is the better way?”

Tears brightened Rhiannyn’s eyes. “I knew you were worthy of heart.”

Was he? Did his hope of peace with Harwolfson prove the savage of Hastings was worthy of being loved? That he was nearer to forgiving himself as she said he must? If he could prevent the battle between William and Harwolfson, might he be able to do so? More, might God finally forgive him his atrocities?

“What price Harwolfson’s peace?” he asked again.

“I do not know. I but pray it is not so far gone he has no price.”

“I understood he sought to reclaim Etcheverry.”

“Aye, his family’s lands, but I fear they no longer figure into his rebellion and it may take all of England to satisfy him.” She bit her lower lip. “Are you saying you would give him Etcheverry?”

“If it would end his uprising and the king agrees, I would relinquish the lands and castles to him.”

Not for the first time, he glimpsed something in Rhiannyn’s eyes that should not be possible. Love? Or but deeply felt gratitude?

Love, he told himself, needing to believe it. Rhiannyn loved him.

“I believe you will succeed and bring peace to England,” she said.

He shook his head. “Though Harwolfson’s following numbers great, there are others who seek to oust the Normans. Thus, even if he can be reconciled to King William, the fighting will lessen, but it will not end. Not yet.”

Rhiannyn’s smile fell, but returned moments later. “There can be no end without a beginning, and that is what you will have if you convince William and Edwin to set aside their differences.”

Maxen nodded. “There is something about Harwolfson I have long pondered. As a royal housecarle, he should have died alongside his king, yet he survived the death of his lord and returned to Etcheverry to mount his rebellion.”