by The Saxon
“I am quite recovered,” Bayard replied.
“You know, Bayard, my father would have never forgiven any of his other thanes for marrying a Dane without consulting him. But he thinks most highly of you. I, too, of course, would not want anything to befall you before we deal with that miscreant Aethelwold.”
“I knew he would approve.” Bayard glanced at Endredi, a grin hovering at the corner of his lips. “Is there any news of the traitor?” he asked, suddenly serious. Endredi forced herself to pay attention.
“None. Aethelwold is probably sitting sulking in some hall, getting drunk and bedding wenches, now that he’s left that nun behind.” Obviously Dunstan drew no parallel between his conduct and that of Aethelwold. Although a man of lascivious and insatiable appetites, Dunstan would never risk the censure of his men by kidnapping a nun, as Aethelwold had.
“May God have pity on his foul, damned soul,” Father Derrick intoned with no mercy in his voice.
“My father thinks, though, that Aethelwold and the Danes may yet surprise us.”
“How so?”
“If he leads the Danes against Mercia and leaves the Saxons alone, the Mercians will not be pleased. The alliance between us could be destroyed.”
“Does Cynath really believe he will do that?” Ranulf asked.
“He doubts that Aethelwold is clever enough to think of it, but he knows someone else might. The Danes are not stupid, if Aethelwold is.” Dunstan nudged Ranulf, seated beside him. “That wench grows more comely with every passing day,” he noted, nodding at Ylla, who walked slowly along the benches filling drinking horns.
Dunstan caught Endredi’s disapproving eye.
“I believe I shall have to resign myself to living like a priest,” he muttered by way of apology.
Father Derrick heard Dunstan’s remark and gave the man a severe look. “You speak as if that is something distasteful, Dunstan. I assure you, should you have the perseverance, you will find yourself closer to God.”
“Or mad,” Dunstan whispered with a broad grin at Bayard.
Endredi noticed Godwin hovering behind Bayard and Dunstan. She pushed her platter of food away and addressed him. “What is it, Godwin?”
Godwin grinned. “Excuse me for interrupting, my lords and ladies. I was about to begin a song and I hoped to find out what our noble guest might prefer. I can assure you, my lord Dunstan, that I am no ordinary gleeman.”
Dunstan belched and eyed the man skeptically.
“He speaks the truth,” Bayard said with a laugh. “Doesn’t he, Endredi?”
She nodded. “Indeed, my lord, he is most talented.”
Dunstan’s brow furrowed with thought. “I think...Beowulf.”
Bayard turned aside to Endredi and sighed heavily. She rose at once. “My lords, if you will excuse me,” she said, “I am rather weary. I shall retire for the evening. I bid you sleep well.”
Bayard rose, too, his expression concerned but his eyes smiling. “My dear, please allow me to escort you to the bower. You will excuse me, too, won’t you, Dunstan? I shall return... sometime.”
Bayard took Endredi by the arm and accompanied her outside. She looked at no one as they left. Not Ranulf. Not Ordella. Not Adelar.
Once out of the hall, she took a deep breath of the cooler air.
“I thank you for providing me with an opportunity to escape,” her husband said as they entered their bower. Helmi waited inside, and he nodded toward the door. “You may leave us.”
When she was gone, he reached for a goblet of ale Helmi had prepared. “The notion of sitting beside that lout Dunstan through that whole poem is enough to make one truly sick.”
When she did not answer at once, he looked at her quizzically. “Are you ill, Endredi? You look very pale.”
“I am well.” She knew she had hesitated long enough and began to disrobe. “I am happy you are fit again, Bayard.”
He watched her for a long moment, until she was clad only in her linen shift, and she went toward him. She took the goblet from his hand and set it on the table. “Take me,” she whispered, wrapping her arms about his neck.
She had to do this. She had to give herself to this man she did not desire. She must...
He returned her kiss tenderly.
Adulteress! The ugly word burst into her brain, yet still she kissed him.
Liar! She fought to ignore the protests of her heart. She had to do this. Had to...
Bayard held her so gently.
He deserves better than you! Oh, dear God, gentle Freya, what had she become?
Bayard suddenly drew back. “Endredi, what is it?” he demanded quietly. “You are crying.”
She put her hands over her face as her shoulders began to shake with her sobs. “Oh, Bayard! Do not even look at me!”
He removed her hands from her face. “What is it, Endredi?” he asked, the words as much a command as an entreaty. “Tell me!”
She choked back a sob and twisted away from him. “Forgive me, Bayard. I am with child!”
He gasped and took hold of her shoulders, forcing her to face him. “Are you certain?”
She nodded, speechless with misery, waiting for him to denounce her.
Instead, Bayard smiled. “This is wonderful news, Endredi! You have given me such joy. A child—think of it! A child.” He hugged her fiercely. “I must go to the hall and announce this great news!”
“Bayard!” she cried with so much urgency that he stopped smiling at once. How could she continue to deceive him when he was so good and kind? She could not repay him with a base falsehood. “Bayard, you must know the truth,” she began, determined to do what was right. “The child—”
“Makes me the happiest man in the kingdom.”
“Bayard, please let me explain. Every night you lingered in the hall—”
“You grew drowsy. When I joined you, many times you were half asleep.”
Endredi stared at him, confused by his responses. There was a smile still on his face, but his eyes—in his eyes she saw a flicker not of anger or even confusion, but contrition.
Why should Bayard look contrite?
Adelar appeared on the threshold. “Forgive this intrusion, Bayard. The sentries wish to know—”
He paused, looking at the two of them with sudden uncertainty.
“Enter, Adelar, and hear my good news,” Bayard said jovially. He put his arm around his cousin and drew him inside. “Endredi is with child.”
A look passed between the two men, standing so close, so alike. Both pleased, yet not pleased.
Endredi’s hands covered her stomach instinctively, protectively. It was as if they were enjoined in some kind of conspiracy, Bayard not suspicious, Adelar not guilty....
Stunned as a possible explanation washed over her, she staggered backward toward a stool and sat down heavily, staring at them. They both looked at her then, the two. The man who wanted a child above all things. The man who had made the child. Her husband. Her lover.
Conspirators.
“I want the truth,” she announced, determined to know it. Determined to hear it from their own lips.
“I do not understand you,” Bayard said.
But Adelar did. She saw it in his eyes, which looked guilty now. “Endredi,” he murmured.
“I will not speak with you yet, Adelar. I want to hear from my husband.”
“Again, I do not understand you,” Bayard replied.
“That Adelar has been my lover has been no secret to you, has it? You knew about Adelar and me all along, didn’t you? You willingly looked the other way. I want to know why.”
“Endredi, you must be more ill than I guessed. This accusation makes no sense—”
“How much of a fool do you take me for, Bayard?” she demanded, anger welling inside her. “Tell him, Adelar. Tell him I knew from the first that it was not my husband in my bed.”
Bayard’s face grew pale, and he turned to face Adelar. “She knew it was you all the time?” he asked softly, di
sbelief mingling with contrition in his voice.
“Yes,” Adelar admitted. “Yes, she did.”
Endredi rose majestically. “I willingly committed adultery.”
Bayard looked away, but when he spoke, he glanced at Adelar. “Why did you not tell me?”
“I thought there was no reason.”
“It was to save what pride I had left, was it not?”
“Pride? Who dares to speak of pride here?” Endredi cried. “We are all shameful creatures. You, Bayard, for your approval. Me, for taking a lover because I...because I wanted him and I thought he wanted me.”
“I only did what Bayard asked because I wanted you so much, Endredi,” Adelar said firmly. “I couldn’t be with you any other way. I would have done anything to be with you.”
“Endredi, hear me,” Bayard said, his voice soft and sorrowful. “If there is blame in this, it is mine. All this was my plan, my scheme.”
“Bayard asked? There was a plan?” she queried with surprise and disbelief. “Why?”
“I cannot father a child,” Bayard replied quietly.
“You asked Adelar to get me with child? But you are not impotent.”
“Nor can I make children, and so I sought to change the fate God had given me by asking Adelar to...help me.”
“And you agreed to act the stallion’s part?” she said scornfully to Adelar, hating him for agreeing and herself for giving in to his honeyed words. “What if Adelar had refused? Who would you have asked then?”
“Endredi, please, no one,” Bayard answered. “It had to be Adelar, because he looks so like me, no one would question the child’s parentage.” Bayard’s voice grew stronger. “Please understand. I need a child, Endredi, for I will not leave what I have built to Ranulf, and so I did what I thought must be done. I am sorry for deceiving you.”
“I understand that I am simply a vessel for your plans and desires. Did you think of me—me, Endredi—at all? Did you give no thought to my fears, my worries, my shame?”
“I regret the lies,” Bayard said immediately. “I regret the pain I have caused. I do care for you, Endredi, as a wise and good friend.” He paused and looked at Adelar. “I will not lie and say I enjoyed what I planned, but Adelar cares for you more than I ever could. And I am pleased about the babe. I had hoped you need never know the truth of this.”
Endredi rose and went toward Adelar. “I understand why Bayard did what he did, although I do not condone it, and that I cared for you beyond the bounds of law and honor. But what of you, my fine Saxon warrior? Why did you do this? Out of compassion for Bayard?”
Adelar gazed at her with dark-eyed intensity. “Endredi, I meant every word I said to you about wanting and needing you. You must believe me,” he said fervently, taking her hands tightly in his own. “I have wanted you since we were children together. I have never desired any woman as much as you.”
Before Endredi could speak, Bayard said, “You knew her then? Why did you say nothing of this before?”
“When would have been the right time?” Adelar responded with a touch of anger, twisting to face him. “I was not sure it was the same Endredi until your wedding day. Even then, it had been years. She was a widow—I thought she no longer cared for me.”
“Indeed, it would have been better if I did not,” Endredi said bitterly, moving away.
“Why did you resist my suggestion, then?” Bayard asked.
“Because it seemed dishonorable. Because it was.”
“You lost that scruple soon enough,” Bayard observed coldly.
“Do not chide me now. It was your suggestion, and all to do Ranulf out of some money and power.”
“What can you really know of my reasons, Adelar?” Bayard demanded. “You will never take command, so you will never know the joy and the pain of it. You will never see your work nearly completed and then know that some fool may destroy it! And how can you speak of scruples to me, you who would bed any woman who looked willing enough!”
“Are you some holy man, to tell me to leave women alone? At least I do not offer my wife to another like a brood mare!”
“Stop!” Endredi cried. “Stop!” She looked at the two men, her anger diminished by anguish and sorrow. “We are all guilty here. Of many things. But the time for recriminations is past.” She tried to sound strong. “All that matters is my child. None of this must ever be known.”
“My child,” Adelar declared.
“Yes, your child,” Bayard admitted reluctantly. “You are right, Endredi.”
“That is why you must go,” Endredi said to Adelar, fighting to ignore the pain in her heart as she looked at him. “Leave this place. Leave us.”
“Endredi,” he pleaded. “I had no wish to hurt you. You must see that.”
Bayard went to his wife and stood beside her, facing him. “I believe she is right in this, as well, Adelar. It would be better if you were to leave, at least until the child is born.”
Adelar glared at his cousin. “What am I now, Bayard? A churl piece to be used and discarded? You need me yet. What of your illness?” His eyes narrowed. “Or was that a lie?”
“No, it was no lie. I am dying.”
“What?” Endredi cried, turning to Bayard and grabbing his shoulders, staring into his face. “You said the illness was not serious. You have had it all your life. You cannot be dying.”
Bayard tried to smile, but his eyes—oh, the agony in his eyes! “The illness is mortal, my wife. Another lie I must beg forgiveness for. I do not know how long I have. That is why I asked Adelar to do what he did. I must have a son before I die.”
“Bayard, Bayard!” she whispered, shaking her head. “You should have told me of this! I can help!”
“No, you cannot.”
Adelar watched them, the husband and his wife. Oh, dear God, he had no place here, after all. For the child’s sake, he should go, for he would not be able to stay away from her. So far, they were safe from suspicion, but he dare not risk the exposure of their secret.
Bayard had other warriors, many of them fine, loyal men. Surely there would be one who could replace a cousin. One to be relied upon to share the burden of command.
“I will go as you ask,” he said reluctantly. “Today. But know that this is the last thing I will do for you, Bayard.”
“You have my thanks, Adelar,” his cousin replied, “but you cannot go just yet. What will Ranulf say if you leave so suddenly?”
Adelar went toward him slowly. “I do not care what Ranulf will say. You have a golden tongue, Bayard. You will think of some explanation. Just as my father would.”
He looked once more at Endredi, at her pale face surrounded by her red-gold hair that glowed in the firelight. That he would never touch again. That he would never even see again. “You and I both feared that I would be like Kendric, yet I think you have married the one who resembles him most, after all.”
“Do not go until I make the announcement to the others in my hall,” Bayard said, stepping away from his wife. “I beg of you, Adelar.”
“Begging does not become you, Bayard. For the child’s sake, I will wait until the day after the Sabbath.”
Bayard nodded his approval. “Endredi,” he said. “You must come to the hall, too.”
She looked at the two of them, her anger gone. There was only a deep and painful sadness, for despite what they had done, she could not find it in her heart to hate them. “As you wish, Bayard.”
Chapter Fourteen
Godwin set down his harp when Bayard rose from the settle. Endredi, looking pale and somewhat ill, watched her husband as he held up his hand for silence.
“I have great news, which I wish to share with you all,” Bayard declared.
Godwin frowned slightly.
“My wife is with child!”
The hall erupted into a cacophony of cheers and good wishes. Godwin smiled, but inwardly he was trying to calculate what this might mean in the future.
Then Ranulf stepped into the center of
the hall. “My lords!” he shouted, drawing everyone’s attention. “This child may not be Bayard’s!”
Gasps of surprise were replaced by shocked whispers. Startled as much as anyone, Godwin half rose in his seat, staring at Ranulf. The fool! This was not the time. He was supposed to be well away. Nor was it wise to make this accusation when Bayard was so obviously pleased about the child.
The people looked at Endredi. The woman turned pale as a washed lamb’s fleece, but she did not faint.
While Endredi held everyone’s attention, Godwin stood up and sidled toward the door.
Bayard slowly approached Ranulf, who had not moved. “What was that you said, Nephew?” he asked calmly, yet his gaze made the younger man tremble, which was not helped by the sight of an enraged Adelar rising from his place at the table like an avenging angel.
Ranulf glanced nervously at his wife, whose attention did not leave Bayard. She was not pleased by Ranulf’s outburst, either, to judge by her grim lips, but what was she doing, looking at Bayard that way?
“I—I...” Ranulf stuttered, looking around wildly until he spotted Godwin. “Gleeman!” he called out. “Stop the gleeman!”
Godwin knew he dare not flee. To do so would only arouse suspicion. The Mercian silently cursed himself for ever taking Ranulf into his confidence.
Then Godwin realized that Cynath’s son was watching like the simplest peasant at a gleeman’s easiest trick. He seemed willing to believe Ranulf’s hasty words. Perhaps there were others wavering, too.
“This is none of a lowly gleeman’s business,” Godwin said, sounding astonished.
“It was Godwin who first accused Adelar and Endredi,” Ranulf cried.
Godwin stared wide-eyed at Ranulf, who obviously expected him to act as witness. He immediately decided to remain silent as Bayard motioned him forward. He would not speak until he was more certain of Bayard’s feelings in the matter, as it appeared Ordella was doing. Adelar was watching him closely, but he did not look in the Saxon’s direction.
“What exactly did Godwin accuse them of?” Bayard inquired coldly.
Ranulf, alone in the center of the hall, looked like a frightened child.
