LadyOfConquest:SaxonBride (23 page)

When she was once more alone, Rhiannyn removed the robe and stepped into the warm water. A gasp of pleasure fled her. Not since before she had escaped Etcheverry with Thomas in pursuit had she enjoyed a proper bath. She sank back and sighed as boiling water cooled by the many steps from the kitchens seeped its warmth into her, and only then realized how cold she had been.

After all of her was warmed, she washed her hair and began removing the dirt that gave her skin a gray cast. She scrubbed until she shone more pink than pale, until her flesh stung with raw awareness, and the water lost its clarity. Then she stepped from the tub, dried herself with a towel delivered with the bath water, and once more donned Maxen’s robe.

She waited, hoping he would send someone with clean garments so she could leave, but only a tray of food was delivered amid the rising din of those who came to the hall to feast.

And feast they did, while she picked at her viands and waited.

When she heard Maxen call for silence, she guessed two hours had passed since he had left her.

Fearing the announcement he was about to make concerned the questioning of the Saxons—that already their fate was decided and it was not a good one—she crept to the far side of the screen. Peering around it, she could see most of the hall.

When all quieted, Maxen rose from the high seat. “As I have this day returned from Blackspur Castle and found it to be in a state near ready for settlement,” he said, “it is time to announce the one I have chosen to install as its castellan.”

Most eyes turned to Sir Ancel, who sat a half dozen men down from Maxen. Wearing a smug smile, he raised his goblet toward his mouth.

“Sir Guy Torquay,” Maxen said, “stand.”

Stunned silence reflected Sir Guy’s bewilderment as he rose at the right hand of his lord.

“For serving me faithfully,” Maxen said, “your reward is Blackspur Castle. At its completion, I shall bestow it and its lands upon you to protect and lord in my name.”

Before Sir Guy could answer, Sir Ancel slammed his goblet to the table, stood, and reached for his dagger.

Rhiannyn’s heart leapt, but before she could call out a warning, Maxen said, “Think on it carefully, Ancel.”

The knight gripped the hilt, and across the distance, Rhiannyn saw his hand flex as if he measured risk against gain. Risk prevailed. Leaving the dagger sheathed, he opened his hand, spread his fingers wide to show they were empty, and said, “Blackspur is mine.”

“Blackspur is Pendery,” Maxen corrected. “And I am Pendery.”

“Thomas promised it to me.”

“Thomas is dead.”

Ancel’s hand moved to the dagger again, hovered, and lowered to his side. “You will not honor your dead brother’s wishes?”

“I will not.”

The knight gave a curt nod, stepped over the bench, and traversed the hall to the doors that stood open to the night.

Rhiannyn returned her gaze to the high table and caught the look Maxen exchanged with Sir Guy as he lifted his goblet in salute. There followed a murmur of agreement, and others raised their vessels to join their lord in receiving Sir Guy as castellan of Blackspur.

Rhiannyn crossed to the chest, once more made a seat of it, and clasped her hands between her knees. If Maxen had not been convinced it was Sir Ancel who had placed the dagger for her to slay him, surely he must believe now. But why did he do nothing? Did he believe the knight was made merely of threats? Or did he wait? And for what?

As night lengthened, the din in the hall lulled to the quiet of sleep, and still she remained alone and unable to leave. Even had she been willing to don her filthy garments, she could not, the women who had delivered her bath water having taken the bliaut and chemise with them.

Where was Maxen? Why did he not come?

She dropped her feet to the floor and paced the chamber several times before returning to the chest. She lowered to it and scooted back until she came up against the mattress. Exhaustion pulled at her, and after a time, she closed her lids for just a moment.

He would not awaken her, Maxen decided as he considered the angel who lay half on his bed, half on the chest holding his clothes, her hair golden even in the dim light.

He regretted not sooner returning or sending clothes so she could leave. However, his preparations to announce Sir Guy as castellan of Blackspur had pushed Rhiannyn not to the back of his mind—never that—but to the side of him where he had ever felt her presence though he tried to ignore it.

Doubtless, with nearly all abed, it would be believed she had, indeed, yielded to him. But there was naught for it.

He slid his arms beneath her and lifted her.

She stirred, pushed her face into his shoulder, and resumed her deep breathing as he carried her into the hall. He laid her on the bench he had discovered she had claimed for herself when, in the days before his journey to Blackspur Castle, he had arisen before dawn. Then he had not touched her—had only stood a time and looked upon her—but now he laid a hand to her cheek.

She murmured, turned onto her side, and curled in on herself. Since the robe was not as thick as the layers of clothing in which she usually slept, he bent to a snoring knight and took the blanket from atop him. The man grumbled but did not awaken.

As Maxen draped the ragged blanket over Rhiannyn, one who had come unannounced to his back murmured, “My lord?”

Maxen turned. Only Rhiannyn was capable of rendering his instincts and senses useless such that he had not heard Sir Guy’s approach. Had it been Sir Ancel, the knight would be gloating over Maxen’s body, the rushes turned red.

I must do something about him,
he told himself.
And soon.

“What is it?” he asked in a harsh whisper.

“May we speak in your chamber, my lord?”

“Can it not wait until the morn?”

“It can, and would have had I not seen you here.”

Maxen motioned him to follow.

As they crossed the hall, movement drew his gaze to the right, and torchlight revealed Christophe sat up on his pallet against the wall. There was a crooked smile about his mouth, and Maxen did not doubt he had seen his older brother enter his chamber and too soon return—that he approved of Rhiannyn being delivered to the hall and guessed the pact made with her had been, at least, postponed.

Dismissing him, Maxen continued forward. “All the Saxons have been questioned?” he asked once Guy and he gained his chamber.

“They have, and all tell the same. As Rhiannyn told, they denied Harwolfson for you.”

“Why?”

“In this it seems most were honest, my lord. They stayed your side for what you can provide. They are tired of fighting, tired of cold, and most tired of hunger.”

“A beginning,” Maxen muttered. “What of Rhiannyn’s role?”

The knight shook his head. “There is not one among them who does not say she also stood down. They tell she pleaded with Harwolfson to leave.”

Pleaded, though she had done nothing to alert the Normans of the enemy within. But it was too much to expect. After all, she was still a Saxon no matter who made himself her master.

Pushing a hand through the hair on his scalp that had grown long enough to allow the gesture, Maxen dropped into the chair. Could he believe the Saxons? Of course, the real question was whether he could believe Rhiannyn.

“What do you think, Guy?”

“Though the Saxons are not to be trusted, I now believe it more likely they did choose to stay.”

“And Rhiannyn?”

Guy shook his head. “I thought she had betrayed, but perhaps not.”

As Maxen wished to believe. “Theta?”

“She has much to gain by lying—at least, thinks she does.”

“Such as?”

“You, my lord.”

Maxen scoffed. “Is that so?”

Guy shrugged a shoulder. “You asked what I thought, and that is my answer now that more is known of what transpired.”

Maxen nodded. “On the morrow, return the Saxons to their work upon the wall.”

Guy did not appear surprised. “What of punishment? A reminder of what will be if they turn on you?”

There was merit in the suggestion, and would have appealed to the Maxen of Hastings. This Maxen, wound up as he was with Rhiannyn, spoke from another side of his mouth. “No further punishment.”

“And of their guard?”

“Double it.”

“As you will.” The knight turned away.

“Guy.”

“My lord?”

“We have not spoken of your reason for allowing Rhiannyn to work on the wall.”

He shifted his weight, though not self-consciously. “As she wished it, it seemed the easiest way to keep watch over her, and there looked to be little threat to her in the mixing of mortar.”

“That was your only reason—keeping watch over her?”

This time, the shifting of the man’s body showed unease. “I pitied her longing to regain her people’s acceptance.”

“Did she regain it?”

“I believe so, though methinks more because of the stand she took for them following Harwolfson’s flight.”

Whether or not Rhiannyn’s return to her people was of benefit to Maxen had yet to be determined, but he nodded his approval. “You have served me well.”

“As is my desire.”

“Is it also your desire to lord Blackspur?”

Guy strode the distance between them, went down on a knee before Maxen, and bowed his head. “I am pleased and honored you have chosen me. Upon my vow, you will not regret it.”

Maxen grasped his arm and raised him to standing. “We will speak more of it on the morrow.”

Guy’s face solemn, though behind it there surely clamored a multitude of emotions, he took his leave.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Rhiannyn was not where she had feared she would be when she had told Maxen she yielded. Nor was she on the chest where she had fallen asleep. She was not even in his chamber.

In the dull light of a new morn, she sat up, causing the blanket up around her shoulders to slip to her waist and reveal she still wore Maxen’s robe. It was as disconcerting as knowing he had carried her to the hall, laid her on the bench where many a night she had gained her sleep, and covered her with a blanket. Unfortunately, her deliverance from his chamber had been too late to save her from the belief she had become his leman.

She frowned. Had he intended that? This the reason he had been so long in returning to her?

Immediately, she chastised herself for worrying over what others thought of her when there was the greater concern of what was to become of her people. Was the questioning done? If so, what had Maxen decided?

She stood, drew the blanket around her shoulders, and carefully stepped over and around sleeping figures. Knowing they would soon rise, and seeing from random vacant pallets some already had, she hurried across the hall in the hope Maxen was in his chamber.

He was yet abed, she saw when she came around the screen. She faltered, but seeing he was fully clothed atop the coverlet, crossed to the foot of the bed.

He opened his eyes. “I had not expected yours would be the first face I saw this morn,” he said, voice deep with the sleep out of which she had pulled him. He sighed, sat up against the headboard, and motioned her forward. At her hesitation, he said, “As I did not claim your yielding on the night past, surely you can trust I will not force myself on you.”

Feeling foolish, she stepped near.

“Speak,” he prompted.

“What of my people?” It came out in a rush. “Are you satisfied with their answers?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Hardly.”

She caught her breath. “Then—”

“They are safe, Rhiannyn. Sir Guy has questioned them, and it seems to be as you claim.”

Her knees softened so suddenly she had to brace her feet apart to remain upright. “I thank you for sparing their lives—for believing them and not Theta.”

“For the moment, it is as I believe,” he qualified, “and only for as long as your Saxons give me no further cause to question their place at Etcheverry.”

“They will not. They are loyal to you.”

He swung his legs over the edge of the mattress and rose before her in the bit of dawn slipping through the window. “Then all will go well for them,” he said, gazing into the face she turned up to him.

She smiled as she had thought she might never again do, and a door within her swung open. In that moment, it was as if Maxen Pendery strode inside and crossed to the other side of her.

She felt a twinge of fear at letting in one she had thought her enemy, but before it could send roots down through her, he asked, “What of you, Rhiannyn? Are you also mine?”

His.

“Loyal to me?” he added.

Though in the dungeon, bound and blindfolded, she had insisted never would she accept him as her lord, she said, “As my people take you for their lord, I take you.”

He slowly nodded. “A good beginning.”

“Beginning?”

His gaze lowered to her mouth. “Would you permit me a taste of what I denied myself last eve?”

Though disquiet removed the last of her smile, his own mouth curved, softening his face. “A kiss only, Rhiannyn.”

As if it were no more than a touching of hands. But though she knew she ought to take her cue from memories of their past encounters, he asked little considering she would now be spoiled had he not released her from her yielding.

Silently vowing she would keep control of this encounter—one kiss, then parting—she moved nearer and rose to her toes. “You will have to bend your head to me,” she whispered.

He did, and their mouths met. That should have been all, but he was on this side of her now, and she longed for him to linger. She gripped his forearms, distantly acknowledged the blanket falling from her shoulders, and deepened the kiss.

It was heady, and she noted that always she had been more the recipient, giving only when given to, and best intentions went awry. Now, seeking beyond the limits a small voice told her she ought not trespass upon, she glided her hands over sinewed arms, across thick shoulders, curved one around his neck, and pushed the other into his hair.

Maxen set her back from him. “You would not wish it to go further, would you?” he said, the color of his eyes eclipsed by the dark of his pupils.