by Tamara Leigh
The thump of Aethel’s gait lulling Rhiannyn into a state of rest, she distantly heard the discourse between the men and felt the rare burst of sunlight through thickening shadows. Occasionally, she peered through narrowed lids and beheld Aethel’s wiry gray beard and sparsely leaved branches above his head. But like the vaporous haze swirling above the floor of the wood, much was a blur.
It was Edwin’s voice that roused her. Turning her head, she saw her betrothed was flanked by numerous men and women.
Though his face was shadowed by unkempt black hair falling past his shoulders and a beard in need of clipping, the dark anger expressed there most detracted from his looks. Mouth compressed, hawkish nose flared, green eyes narrowed, he appeared hard and dispassionate.
She had feared he would be this way, but had hoped that with the passing of weeks he would come to understand why she had refused to flee with him. Not because she had not wanted to, but because leaving Thomas to face death alone would have been cruel.
“Rhiannyn,” he said.
She swallowed against a dry throat. “Edwin.”
He shifted his gaze to Aethel. “How did you come upon her?”
“She nearly came upon us. Says she escaped the Normans.”
“Set her down.”
“She is not well. My rock struck her—”
“She will stand, else lie where she falls!”
Aethel lowered her. “Steady, now,” he bid as her feet touched the ground.
She braced her legs apart, and when his hand fell away, remained upright. Feeling the rake of Edwin’s gaze, she lifted her head and noted the frayed sling supporting the arm Thomas had wounded.
“How did you know where to find me?” he demanded.
“A good guess,” she said, wishing her voice were stronger. “’Tis where I would have come.” Where, as children, she and others had ventured to enjoy the warm pools of water springing from deep within the earth.
Edwin clamped a hand around her forearm. “Do you betray me again? Have you brought the Normans with you?”
“You know I would not.”
“Do I?”
She could not avert her tears. “I would never harm you, nor my people.”
He sneered. “I know not whether you speak of Normans or Saxons.”
Though tempted to slap him, she said, “The Normans stole me away, but I am still one of you.”
“That you will have to prove.”
“I intend to.”
The steel in his gaze did not soften. “What changes are wrought at Etcheverry since Thomas Pendery’s death?”
“Another of his brothers has claimed the demesne. His name is Maxen, and he is dangerous.”
Edwin’s eyes lit. “The rumor is true.”
She was surprised by his seeming lack of concern. If he had received word of Maxen Pendery, surely his reputation had also been told.
“What know you of him?” Edwin asked.
“He vows he will not rest until Thomas’s murderer is found. He says—”
“You have spoken with him.”
She moistened her lips. “He came to me ere my escape.”
“Why?”
“To learn your whereabouts.”
“He believes I killed his brother.”
“Aye, though I told him I did it.”
Harsh laughter burst from Edwin. “Ever the martyr, Rhiannyn.”
“But I feared he would—”
“Did he believe you?”
She shook her head.
“Then your fears are founded.”
“Not if we leave Andredeswald. We could go north—”
“Run?” Edwin looked about him. “Hear that, men? The lady thinks us cowards.”
Rhiannyn stepped forward and gripped his arm. “Do not speak thus, Edwin. ’Tis peace I seek. If you continue to fight, more will die—on both sides.”
“I can think of no better cause than driving the Normans from our lands and avenging the deaths of our men, women, and children.”
He did not speak of Hastings, but of the village in which he had been returned to life. Much of it had been burnt to the ground and most of his people murdered—all because they would not yield their food supplies to the contingent Duke William sent out prior to the confrontation between himself and England’s King Harold.
“This Maxen is said to have killed many at Hastings,” Rhiannyn pressed on. “He—”
“And I did not kill many?” Edwin growled. “Hastings was about death, Rhiannyn. Everyone killed, some even their own.”
“Listen to me! Maxen Pendery is The Bloodlust Warrior of Hastings. He did not just kill, he slaughtered. This has to end!”
Edwin pried her hand from his arm. “’Twill end when the Normans are dead.” He pushed her toward Aethel and started to turn away. Pausing, he asked, “How did you escape?”
She pressed her shoulders back. “Christophe released me from my prison cell.”
Edwin frowned. “You did not consider it could be a ruse?”
“He would not do that.”
“Spineless whelp!” His upper lip curled. “But mayhap that child’s heart of his will be the Penderys’ undoing.” He nodded as if to himself and strode opposite.
Rhiannyn would have liked to go back into Aethel’s arms, but she bore the stares of those she had grown up amongst—Saxons who refused to crop their hair or shave their faces in the Norman style. Some looked upon her with accusation, others with suspicion, and yet others regarded her with uncertainty. All because she had shown heart for a dying man.
Was Thomas’s murderer among them? Had Edwin discovered the one responsible?
Dora broke the silence, muttering as she pushed her way among the others with surprising speed for one whose body was so bent. She halted before Rhiannyn and squinted up from beneath the hood which draped her white hair and protected her pink eyes from light. “You are returned to us.”
“She is injured,” Aethel said.
“Looks fine to me. Nothing a scrub and good meal cannot make right.”
“She took a knock at the back of her neck—”
Dora waved Aethel to silence. “I do not remember Rhiannyn ever having trouble speaking for herself. Let her tell me.”
Rhiannyn had every intention of denying her ailments, proving she was of good stock and fortitude, but her swaying body did not agree.
“I am fine,” she gasped when Aethel’s arms came around her.
“’Course you are,” he said. “Just keeping you close.”
Dora stepped nearer, with cool, bony hands touched Rhiannyn’s neck, felt up the sides of her face, and pressed her brow. She leapt backward. “A curse is upon you! I feel it to my bones.”
Thomas’s curse, that if she would not belong to a Pendery, she would belong to no man.
Rhiannyn told herself it was foolish to give the curse any credence, but how could the old woman know?
Quieting the others’ murmurings with the flap of a hand, Dora prompted, “’Tis true, aye?”
Though Rhiannyn reminded herself she did not believe in curses, justifying her acceptance of Thomas’s by telling herself it was his due, a part of her was still turned that way. And it frightened her. “I am not cursed,” she said.
Eyes sparkling amid the shadow of her hood, Dora said, “You lie like a Norman,” then jutted her chin at Aethel. “Bring her. If I am to lift the curse, there is much to be done ere night falls.”
CHAPTER SIX
“Weak!” Edwin denounced.
Perspiration running into her eyes and salting her lips, Rhiannyn spun around. Arm strained by the sword with which she had been practicing, she stared at Edwin.
A blade propped on his shoulder, the sling that had supported his injured arm recently abandoned, he swept her with a look of distaste.
“Weak?” she said, struggling to maintain the composure that had held her in good stead this past fortnight of trials and troubles, suspicion and ostracism.
“Aye, like a wom
an.”
“I am a woman.”
He raised his eyebrows. “What I should have said is you are weak like a woman bred of Normans.”
It was best not to engage in such talk, but she said, “Again, I remind you I am Saxon.”
“As you are fond of stating, though you have yet to prove it.”
Rhiannyn released the sword to the ground and threw her hands up, revealing blisters. “This past sennight, I have swung a sword half again as heavy as your own, and yet you say I have not proven loyalty to my people?”
Though she knew he had set her to learning the sword as punishment, in the camp were several women who trained in the use of weaponry. It was not because there were not enough men. Rather, it was thought trained women would be useful against unsuspecting Normans.
Edwin grabbed one of her hands and examined the palm. “Nay, you have not proven loyalty.” He released her, retrieved her sword, and extended it. “Take it, and nevermore let me see it cast upon the ground.”
Inwardly, she groaned. Made for training, the sword was more unwieldy than those used in combat, its purpose being to accustom a man to the weapon and develop his muscles. Thus, going into battle, a soldier’s sword would feel relatively light and easily maneuverable. When Rhiannyn had asked Aethel the reason she alone practiced with this one, he had said with apology that no others were out of favor with Edwin.
She sighed, squared her shoulders, and took the sword.
Edwin motioned her to the pel, a wooden post protruding from the ground that displayed the marks she had made this day in her attempt to master the swing of the blade.
She stepped forward and struck it hard. Though the impact jolted her head to toe, she struck again. The second blow fell short of the first by inches, and the next by several more. Still, she ignored Edwin’s mutterings and persisted in proving him wrong.
She was beginning to fear she would collapse in a sweat-stained heap when urgent shouts were heard. She swung around and watched as four riders burst upon the glade, all but one recognizable as a follower of Edwin.
On a horse whose better days were scarcely within memory, the stranger was out of place. Wearing a shabby russet-colored mantle, under which the skirts of a robe could be seen, the large man sat his horse with unease. More than his garments and his awkward carriage, his tonsured head with its fringe of hair set him apart from Edwin’s rebels. The Saxons had brought a monk into their midst.
Rhiannyn propped the sword against the pel and followed Edwin across the glade to where the men had dismounted.
“Found him wandering the wood,” a stout Saxon said. “Told us the Normans are after him.”
“Aye, and meant to kill him,” another added.
Though it was not unusual for Saxons fleeing Norman oppression to seek refuge in Andredeswald and join the rebellion, swelling its ranks to more than ninety strong, Edwin would be skeptical. Placing himself before the monk, he asked, “You are Saxon?”
The monk inclined his head.
“By what name are you called, Brother?”
“Justus.” The man’s voice was resonant, without hint of foreign accent that might put lie to his claim. “Brother Justus of St. Augustine.”
A peculiar sensation pricked Rhiannyn—a feeling she had encountered this monk before. She swept her gaze up his great height, across his broad shoulders, and onto his rugged yet attractive face. A long nose, with a slight bend that testified to its having been broken in the past, yielded to prominent cheekbones. Lower, lightly stubbled planes revealed a hard jaw, and in his chin was a cleft so deep its shadow appeared to be a dark smudge on his skin.
Working her way back up, she picked out blue eyes fringed by lashes the same dark brown as the hair growing out of its severe tonsure cut. Aye, a handsome man, but she had not met him. She would remember one of such size and countenance, especially a monk.
“You say the Normans make after you?” Edwin asked.
“Aye.”
“For what purpose?”
Brother Justus gave a sorrowful shake of the head. “The clergy arriving from Normandy think naught of impugning the reputation of the saints, of scattering the relics of centuries past, of…” He turned his hands up. “In my anger, I challenged them, and have been marked a heretic.”
“You flee them.”
The monk nodded and clasped his hands before him. Large, powerful hands, as if fashioned for weapons rather than prayer. Might they be more familiar with a hilt than a psalter?
“It is my shame I run from them,” he said, “but it was that or death.”
“Why Andredeswald?”
“In the open, ’tis not difficult to spot a man of God. I thought to take refuge a short time in the wood, but wandered astray and could not find the way out.”
“Which is how we came upon him,” the stout Saxon said.
Edwin looked to the men who had brought the monk. “Was he followed?”
“We waited to see if ’twas so,” one answered, “but there are no signs of others. Still, I left Uric and Daniel behind to keep watch.”
Edwin returned his attention to Brother Justus. “As you can see, we are outcasts ourselves—Saxons who wish our lands free of the heathens who have stolen them.”
The monk moved his benevolent gaze over the faces before him. However, when his blue eyes met Rhiannyn’s, they turned fiery. But then he blinked and, gaze once more mild, looked higher to her hair straggling from its thick braid.
Only when he returned his attention to Edwin did she realize she held her breath.
“Continue,” Brother Justus said.
Edwin widened his stance. “As we are without spiritual guidance, mayhap you would join us.”
“And minister to these good people?”
“Good?” Edwin scoffed. “Perhaps once, but now our days are filled with every manner of sin.” He smiled. “Aye, minister to them, hear their confessions and absolve them of their misdeeds, but do not try to make them good—not yet.”
The monk’s brow furrowed as if he deliberated the offer.
“There is but one answer,” Edwin said.
Brother Justus arched an eyebrow. “What is that?”
“Acceptance.”
“And if I do not accept?”
Edwin smiled broadly. “As I said, there is but one answer.”
He did not trust the monk and would not allow him to leave, Rhiannyn realized.
“Then I must needs accept,” Brother Justus said.
Edwin stepped forward and clapped him on the shoulder. “Welcome to Andredeswald.” He pivoted and strode toward Aethel who stood to Rhiannyn’s left.
“What is your name?” Brother Justus called to him.
Edwin looked around.
The monk shrugged. “I must call you something.”
“I am Edwin.”
The man inclined his head, and when he lowered his gaze, Rhiannyn’s misgivings swelled.
Edwin continued forward and drew Aethel aside. “Watch him closely,” he said low.
Relieved to find his good judgment held, Rhiannyn turned toward the camp and her mind to imaginings of the pallet that awaited her weary body.
“Rhiannyn!” Edwin called. “You are not finished with the sword.”
She halted, struggled against the impulse to name him things most foul for trying to reduce her to tears, and came back around. “Lead on.”
Maxen, now Brother Justus to the Saxons, watched Rhiannyn cross the glade behind Edwin Harwolfson. At first sight, he had been uncertain she was the same woman who had spent weeks in a prison cell, her resemblance to that creature fairly distant.
But it was she, and more lovely than he had imagined she would be beneath the dirt, grime, and bruises. Hair that had barely whispered of gold gleamed, the cream of her skin was accented by the flush of roses in her cheeks, and a shape that had promised much beneath her tattered bliaut had more than fulfilled that promise in the belted tunic and hose she wore to practice the sword. She was easil
y capable of luring men to their deaths, and given the chance, she would do so again. He had felt her resolve and seen it in her stiffening spine when Harwolfson had called her back to task. A small woman with the strength of many.
But he would break her.
Harwolfson was now instructing her where they stood before a pel, sweeping his arm from on high to low as if he wielded a sword, then stepping back and motioning her forward.
As she assumed the proper stance, angling her sword in readiness for a mock attack, Maxen wondered if the Saxon rebel had lain with her. But then Rhiannyn dealt the wooden post an admirable blow, speeding his thoughts elsewhere.
Perhaps she had spoken true. Perhaps she had murdered Thomas. He pondered it a long moment before once more determining it was another.
He swept his gaze over those who had returned to training. Their swings strong, aims sure, they promised a well-matched battle when next they set themselves to take back what they claimed was theirs.
It is theirs, a voice reminded.
Was theirs, he countered.
Regardless, he must not forget his reason for coming into Harwolfson’s grim world. It had been a restless two weeks since he had allowed Rhiannyn to escape. That day, he had followed her here, thanking God none of the sentries had spotted him. Knowing if he appeared too soon after her arrival it would cast greater suspicion on him, he had returned to Etcheverry. As Rhiannyn had revealed the way to the camp, it would have been expedient to immediately bring his men against it and stamp out Harwolfson’s rebellion, but that would not necessarily deliver Thomas’s murderer to him—not directly.
Though Maxen had listened in on Rhiannyn’s conversation with Christophe and heard her tell it was not Harwolfson who had killed Thomas, he had not believed it until he had himself seen the injury to the man’s sword arm. As she had said, it would have been impossible for him to throw the dagger after receiving such a serious wound. But then, which of these men had bled out Thomas's life?
The fire in him growing, Maxen saw the approach of the one Harwolfson had surely ordered to keep watch over the monk and lowered his gaze so the hulking man would not see what was surely in his eyes.
