by Tamara Leigh
He leaned in. “Is it true you are cousin to the famed Hereward?”
She stared, not because he knew of that relation surely learned from the messenger, but what sounded admiration in describing Hereward as famed rather than outlawed.
“Forgive me, Lady,” he said. “That was ill-mannered.”
“Not at all.” She nodded. “Hereward is my cousin.”
“Doubtless, much tale there, but I shall restrain curiosity so you may gain your rest.” He looked to where his sister-in-law had been and, blinking as if surprised to find she had slipped away, peered over his shoulder.
Vilda followed his gaze to where the lady and her husband conversed and saw the latter’s face that had eased upon his reunion with his wife was taut again.
The Baron of Etcheverry straightened from bending near. “You were right to do so,” he said. “We shall send him again, Fricwebba.”
That was all Vilda heard of their exchange, but as she reflected on the Saxon word for peacekeeper he had fondly named his wife that could be offensive if that was all she was—a means of keeping peace between her people and his—it became apparent Guy had heard more.
“Do not!” he called, striding back the way he had come. “Leave it be, Maxen.”
Lady Rhiannyn said something to her husband, then to Guy as he halted before them.
When Guy and Maxen moved toward the great doors, Vilda looked back at Christophe. “Of what do they speak?”
Distress pinched his face. “We were to have guests on the morrow, but when Rhiannyn learned her husband returned this day, she sent word they should delay their visit. Unfortunately, the messenger’s horse was lamed en route and the man arrived just ahead of you to gain another mount.”
“Then we have displaced your guests,” Vilda said with apology.
“It…well…” When his sister-in-law reappeared, he said with relief, “Lady Alvilda is concerned with displacing my sis—er, those who were to arrive on the morrow.”
He was not soon enough in correcting his error, and now Vilda understood what transpired. Unless Maxen and he had more than one sister, Guy’s former betrothed was expected here. And Guy was not opposed to seeing her again.
“I think it best you explain it, Rhiannyn,” Christophe said.
“I shall. You go to your herbary?”
“Aye, much work to be done.” Color crept into his face. “So much I would be grateful for help.”
Her mouth curved. “If Grace has completed her duties, I shall send her to you.”
“I thank you.” He looked to Vilda. “Until next we meet, Lady.”
Once more, Lady Rhiannyn took her guest’s arm and moved her toward the stairs. “Our Christophe is in love,” she said. “The same as you and I, the woman is Saxon and has suffered at the hands of Normans.” Side by side, they began their ascent. “Though Grace fights what she feels for my brother-in-law, methinks that battle lost. As soon as she accepts it, Maxen will see them wed ere his sire can prevent another son from wedding one he deems of no advantage to the family.” She looked sidelong at Vilda. “The only thing the elder Baron Pendery likes about me is that where I failed to give Maxen a son with the birth of our first child, I succeeded with the second.”
Distracted from her churning, Vilda asked, “How old are your children?”
“Soon Leofe will be two and Bruin eight months. When you are rested, I shall introduce you.”
“I would like that,” Vilda said as they started down the passageway.
“They will be glad their sire has returned,” the lady said, “as am I more than I can say. Much I feared for my husband when that…” She cleared her throat. “…when William commanded him to service.”
There being comfort in knowing this Saxon wed to a Norman had no more liking for the usurper than she, Vilda almost smiled.
The lady halted before a door and pushed it inward. “Here your chamber.”
Vilda stepped inside. Though it was not large, it was lovely and welcoming. Had she not come to Etcheverry, would the expected guests have slept here? “Is it Lady Elan and her husband who were to arrive on the morrow?” she asked.
A sigh. “I thought you might know of her. Aye, they were to visit, and still they may if Guy insists this is the time to firmly close that door.”
“You think ’tis not?”
Lady Rhiannyn glanced at the bed. “From what little was told by the messenger, I saw this chamber made ready to receive a bride and groom yet to become one in body.” She held up a hand as assurance she sought neither confirmation nor denial. “I care for my sister-in-law who has matured since she wed Edwin Harwolfson, though still she can be a sudden wind that topples all that is not tied down.” She bit her lip. “But more, I care for my husband’s good friend. He was hurt when Elan broke their betrothal, but I saw good in it. And now… I do not know you, Alvilda, but I believe he has a greater chance of happiness with you than he would have had with Elan.”
Vilda clasped her hands at her waist. “He is honorable, and I shall aspire to make him happy, but you should know that because I wished to remain in England, part of the bargain that averted another clash between the resistance and Normans was that he wed me. My cousin insisted.”
The lady thought on that. “You are dear to Hereward?”
“As he is to me.”
“Then as it seems unlikely he would bind you to an enemy for whom you have no deep regard, I guess you have feelings for Sir Guy of which your cousin is aware?”
Feeling seen, she decided against denial. “Pray, do not laugh, Lady, but I am sure it is love.”
The woman smiled. “One can only laugh at such if it is with joy at love being returned. And perhaps it will be if ’tis not already.”
If already, not in great measure, she was certain. But it was possible it would become more, was it not?
“Worry not, Lady Alvilda. Good will come of this marriage, just as good came of your cousin’s negotiations that prevented another battle. Each time spillage of blood is averted, nearer Saxons and Normans draw to peace.”
Theta rising to mind, Vilda opened her mouth, closed it.
It did not escape the lady. “I am wrong? Blood was spilled?”
“Only of one. I believe you know her—Theta.”
She drew a sharp breath. “I do, but do I still?”
“She is dead.”
That which crossed the woman’s face did not appear relief, but neither grief. “She was my tormentor ere Maxen and I loved. Tell—how did she die?”
“She betrayed my cousin to William’s man, Taillebois. When Hereward and his men surrounded them, in the hope of preserving her life, she denounced her lover. For it, Taillebois cut her throat.”
“I imagined one day she would come to such an end,” the woman said and sighed. “I will leave you to your rest, interrupting it only to see clean garments delivered should you wish to join us for the evening meal.”
Which would not be Rhiannyn’s garments, Vilda thought, the lady being too fine-boned—unless she sent a gown fashioned for one of her pregnancies. “I thank you.”
The lady inclined her head and turned, but there was one thing Vilda wished to know that might only be broached in privacy. “The Bloodlust Warrior?”
She came back around. “Aye?”
“I know your husband is called that, and though it rouses fear, I have seen naught to evidence he is worthy of a name that would make him unworthy of Guy’s friendship.”
Rhiannyn smiled softly. “I am glad that though once more he was called to serve his liege, he stayed true to his faith, himself, our people, and me. As for those ballads…” She nodded. “He tells they are his due for what he did at Hastings, and for which he entered the Church and would have remained there had he not been called out.”
Vilda startled.
“Aye, a long story that began with the death of his brother who first held Etcheverry,” the lady said. “As Christophe did not wish the responsibilities of the heir, the
Church was paid well to release Maxen from his vows. And so I have him, and he has me.”
Eyes bright, she swallowed. “Sometimes I think that, beyond devotion to our savior, there can be no greater love than what I feel for my husband. But mayhap that is only because we had so much distance to travel from where we began as enemies.” She put her head to the side. “Though marriage between our two peoples is no rare thing, Normans finding much reward in gaining the lands of Saxon heiresses, I think better than most you may understand what I feel for Maxen.”
“How so?”
“In that vows spoken with us did not make our Norman husbands rich.”
“You forget, Lady, though neither did I bring lands to my marriage, there was much gain—the lives of those who went separate ways rather than slaughter one another.”
“Still you love Guy. As he is no grasping Norman, you can be assured what he feels for you now and later is pure.” Of a sudden, she frowned, then gave a little laugh. “Listen to me—spilling my truths and advice as if we are the best of friends. Hopefully, it is a portent of things to come. Now I will leave you to your rest.”
When the door closed and her footfalls faded, Vilda lowered to the bed. “I hope it as well,” she whispered, then turned on her side and closed her eyes.
The messenger had been sent to Blackspur.
When Guy had attended to the hushed voices of Maxen and Rhiannyn after catching Elan’s name and made sense of what was spoken, he had protested the change of plans. Ashamedly, it was not out of consideration for what his presence here disrupted, but that the renewal of his acquaintance with Maxen had decided him against continuing to forego their friendship as he had done to save Elan, her husband, and himself discomfort.
Having determined to return to his family’s demesne in Derbyshire and position himself to accept land offered by his cousin once it became available, Guy had no intention of settling near Etcheverry. However, in that moment it had seemed best to use the opportunity of Elan and Edwin’s visit to be done with the awkwardness, ensuring the family made with Vilda would be as welcome here as Maxen and his family would be at the castle Guy would raise upon Boltstone.
But as his friend had reasoned, though he was prepared to face his former betrothed and her husband, it was not for him alone to decide on the timing. Thus, Elan and Edwin would learn he was here with his bride and, assured of their welcome, themselves determine if it was best to smooth what was rough on the morrow or another day.
Of course, there was another who should have been consulted about the timing, and she would have been had not the maid sent abovestairs reported Vilda was asleep and could not be roused—just as later Rhiannyn had been unable to rouse her for the evening meal, throughout which Guy had considered what he had confessed to Maxen of his feelings that must be better expressed to Vilda.
When he had climbed the stairs, he had thought he was prepared. Now, standing alongside the bed in the light of the candle he brought inside, staring at the woman he had wed for reasons beyond preventing bloodshed, he wondered if he should wait until she awakened on her own.
Never before had she looked so peaceful. Her brow was smooth, color was in cheeks beneath shadows cast by thick lashes, softly parted lips were more full than remembered, and freshly washed hair had dried in waves all around her face and the shoulders of an embroidered white chemise that surely belonged to Rhiannyn.
He smiled. Considering that woman’s good heart that he had believed selfish years past, likely the garment had been given rather than loaned to Vilda.
Though Guy knew it was best to awaken her so she had more time to prepare should Elan and her husband appear on the morrow, he wavered. Amid indecision, he removed his belt and boots and lowered into a chair he drew nearer what was to be their nuptial bed.
My wife, he thought with wonder, and not for the first time. When he had lain beside her on the chapel floor, he had been struck by how agreeable it was. Not fully understanding himself then, all he could do was assure her he was not sorry they had spoken vows.
But when she awakened—whether of her doing or his—he would seek to settle her soul as done his throughout the journey to Etcheverry. Then if the time was right, their vows would be sealed.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Vilda was not one to waste time on the belief she could sleep away her worries, but it would be a lie to say it was only fatigue that held her abed each time she awakened to daylight, dusk, and dark—and this time candlelight that caused the ceiling to glow and shadows to dance up the walls.
Still I am alone, she thought and, tightly closing the fingers of her left hand into her palm so she not lose Guy’s ring, turned onto her side. What she glimpsed before completely lowering her lids made her spring them wide.
Hands draped over the arms of the chair in which he sat was her husband, and though his head was back as if he peered down his nose at her, he slept. As the chair lacked padding, it could not be comfortable sleeping, but was it preferable to joining her in bed?
She did not want to believe it since he had said he was not sorry they wed, but perhaps all changed now that Lady Elan was much nearer in thought—and would be nearer if she appeared on the morrow.
Vilda started to turn opposite, but coming alongside ache was something else. Jealousy? It was, and if it was warranted, surely she could be forgiven since Guy was now bound to her for life—rather, once there was consummation.
Dare I? she wondered, then sat up and turned back the coverlet. The chemise Rhiannyn had sent her was fine and fit well for being a loose undergarment. When Vilda had donned it, she had blushed over the light weave that permitted a glimpse of the body beneath, and though once more her skin warmed, she slid her legs over the side of the mattress and stepped between her husband’s feet.
She reached to him, drew back.
You are bold, she told herself. Be bold in this as well, Alvilda who is now of Torquay. She reached again, stilled, and dropped her arm to her side. “Guy?” she beseeched.
His eyes opened. “Vilda?”
“Still you do not regret wedding me?”
“I do not,” he said with a slight smile she wanted to believe was encouragement.
Be bold, she reminded and, certain candlelight pressing through the thin chemise would reveal her curves if he lowered his gaze, stepped nearer. “We have had our kisses, and they were very fine, but now…” She moistened her lips and thought it a good thing his eyes flicked there. “I wish you to make…make…”
He caught up the hand she curled into a fist to keep the ring on her finger. “Love, Vilda? Is that what you would have me make with you?”
Though she knew that word was so often spoken alongside carnal knowledge it did not ensure participation of the heart, she had hesitated to use it. “Aye, now that we are wed, I think you ought to make love to me.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Think? A moment ago, ’twas a wish.”
In this circumstance, it was not easy to be both bold and prideful, the latter demanding a lie. Embracing the bold and the honest, she said, “Still ’tis a wish.”
At last, he moved his gaze downward.
Heat suffusing her, she was glad that though her curves were outlined, he could not see the bright of her skin.
His eyes returned to hers. “Why do you wish me to make love to you?”
To prove you are mine, she thought. To begin pushing her out so one day I may stand in your affections where once she stood.
Turning her hand up in his, she opened it to reveal the ring on the finger that was said to be the road to the heart. “You are my husband, I am your wife, and that cannot be truer until there is consummation.”
“Only for that you wish to make love?”
Embracing the bold again, she said, “For more than that, as well you know.”
“I do, but ere we seal our vows, first we must speak.”
“Of?”
Continuing to hold her hand, he caused her to startle when he slid his othe
r arm around her waist and drew her onto his lap.
Peering across her shoulder into a face so near she had only to turn into him to set her mouth on his, she breathed, “Guy?”
He turned her into him. He set his mouth on hers. It was brief, but if the tension about his body was to be believed, here was restrained desire. Settling back in the chair, he said, “Having had much to think on since Hereward secured your future—”
“At your expense,” she said with apology.
He sighed. “Forgive me for resentment, but you ought to know it was born of stung pride and soon replaced by gratitude like that felt when one finds something precious they feared forever lost.”
She caught her breath. Was he saying…? Did he mean…?
He touched the ring on her finger. “You said for more than consummation you would be one with me—for love.”
“Aye, and I long for it to be the same for you.”
His lips curved. “When it seemed we would part evermore, you prayed for me a good life—that I find love so greatly returned I have no further regrets about Elan and be grateful the loss of her allowed me to gain far more.”
Hopeful, she nodded.
“Ere you spoke that, my regret over losing her to Harwolfson was long resolved. I knew she was where she ought to be and it was better for all.” He slid his fingers through hers. “What was not entirely resolved ere I met you was what I felt for her. Though I had begun to think what remained of those feelings would not heal, I was glad for the salve of time, even if that was all it proved.”
“Was it only salve?”
“Only salve,” he disappointed.
When she lowered her chin, he released her hand and urged her face back to his. “Time did not heal the last of those feelings. What healed was loving again and loving better. As you wished for me, I gained more in losing her.”
She stared. “You speak of this sturdy virgin widow?”
“You, Wife.”
Vilda nearly yielded to this beautiful unfolding that urged her to seek what lay beyond his embrace, but there was one more thing. “Lady Rhiannyn believes the reason you would not have Elan and her husband cancel their visit is so you may sooner close that door.”
