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CHAPTER ONE

 

England of The Norman Conquest

October, 1068

 

“A thousand times I curse you!” the fallen knight shouted at the one who cradled his head in her lap, whose blue skirts were stained purple with his blood.

 

Trembling violently, he pulled the dagger from his chest, let it fall to the dirt road, and clawed a hand over the wound. “To eternity I curse you, Rhiannyn of Etcheverry. If you will not belong to a Pendery, you will belong to no man, your days and nights gaping pits of despair. Never again to know—”

 

He drew a gurgling breath, expelled it on blood that fell like crimson mist.

 

“Thomas,” Rhiannyn whispered.

 

He jerked his head. “Never again to know the love of a man, never to hold a child at your breast.”

 

Throat pained by unspoken sobs, she brushed the hair off his glistening brow. “Forgive me. Pray, forgive me.”

 

“The devil forgive you!” He raised his bloodied hand and dug his fingers into her neck.

 

Though death surely crouched at his side, she knew he could strangle the life from her. Still, she did not try to free herself. It would be no less than she deserved if all ended here, and she almost wished it would. Then the torment of these past years, which had seen so many dead, would also end. For her.

 

As she drew breath through her constricted throat, she longed to relive these past hours. She would not run from Thomas, and he would not be dying in her arms.

 

Warm tears slid down her cold face. “I did not want this.”

 

“Curse you!” He released her neck, dragged his bloodied hand down her bodice, and pressed his palm between her breasts as if seeking the beat of her heart. With a grating breath, he shifted his gaze to the gray sky and rasped, “Avenge me, Brother!” Then his body convulsed, lungs emptied, and arm dropped to his side.

 

A sob broke from Rhiannyn as she stared into sightless eyes that would never again darken with anger over her defiance. Nor would they smile.

 

She turned her face up. “Why?” she asked as the advancing storm rolled out its thunder. “Now more will die. Surely that cannot be Your will.”

 

Chill droplets fell, spotting her, mixing fresh water with salt tears—gentle at first, as if heaven wept with her, then fast and hard, as if with a grief more vast than her own.

 

She was drenched when the sound of approaching horses reached her. Uncaring whether those who came were friend or foe, she bent nearer over Thomas.

 

“I will belong to none,” she accepted the great emptiness to which he had banished her, an emptiness complete now that she had lost not only her family to the conquering Normans, but the family she might have made with another. “No children will I bear.”

 

Though the voices of those who came spoke Norman French and were raised in anger, relief swept her.

With the arrival of the Pendery knights, her own death was imminent, meaning she would not long be burdened with guilt.

 

Rhiannyn thought herself prepared for the fury, but she could not keep from crying out when hands wrenched her upright and dragged her back from Thomas.

 

“What have you done?” Sir Ancel snarled.

 

Rain pelting her face, she met the gaze of one who had been Thomas’s friend. “He is dead,” she spoke in his French. “I—”

 

The back of his hand snapped her head to the side with such force she would have flown backward had she not been supported by a man on either side.

 

It will be over soon, she silently counseled amid bursts of blinding white and pounding pain. He would come at her again, and within minutes, she would join Thomas upon this dirt road—for a short time. Whereas he would be taken away for a proper burial, she would share the fate of the numerous Saxons who had fallen to the Normans. No kindness in death.

 

Of a sudden, the men between whom she hung released her, and she dropped to her hands and knees amid the sludge of the road.

 

“Thomas!” Sir Ancel bellowed, and when she lifted her throbbing head and narrowly opened her eyes, she saw he approached the prone figure of his liege, around which the others gathered.

 

She slid her gaze to the bordering wood. It was a short distance, but though the instinct to survive urged her to run, reason told her she would not reach it unopposed. And her Norman captors knew it as well.

 

Peering past Thomas’s men, she saw one rider had not dismounted.

 

With stricken countenance, Thomas’s fourteen-year-old brother moved his gaze from her to the man Sir Ancel had pulled into his arms.

 

The youth’s name was Christophe. Lame from birth, he was a gentle soul destined to know books and healing rather than weapons and lording. Henceforth, he would hate her, but he would not avenge his brother’s death as bid. Of such violence he was not capable.

 

Though Rhiannyn longed to explain to him what had happened, she knew if she were believed, Thomas’s men would seek retribution. What they considered an eye for an eye would mean further carnage of her people. Thus, she would bear the blame for Thomas’s death. And since he had died because of her, it was a good version of the truth.

 

“Rise!” Sir Ancel commanded.

 

She startled to find he once more stood over her.

 

“Lady Rhiannyn!”

 

Lady because Thomas had named her one. Determined to wed her, though she had shamed him with her public refusal, he had bestowed the title upon her. After all, it would not do for a favorite of the Norman king to take a Saxon commoner to wife.

 

Imagining her blood would soon join with his, though not in the manner he had wished, she struggled upright to face the one who would do the deed.

 

Short-cropped hair plastered to his head, face contorted, Sir Ancel demanded, “Who did this to our lord?”

 

She lowered her eyes to more easily tell the lie. “I did it.”

 

He grabbed her shoulders. “No more of your Saxon lies. I want the truth!”

 

“I have told it!”

 

“Do you think me a fool? It was your lover who put the dagger through him.”

 

He spoke of Edwin, the second son of the Saxon thane who had ruled Etcheverry before the coming of the Normans. Edwin, whose bitterness kept the enmity alive between the conquering Normans and the vanquished Saxons. Edwin, who was not her lover, though he would have been her husband had the Normans not conquered this land to which they had no right.

 

Though she would never admit it, he had aided in her escape this morn, and it was he who had fought Thomas and been wounded by his opponent’s blade. But it was not Edwin who had landed the deathblow. After Thomas had sliced through Edwin’s sword arm, a dagger had been thrown from the wood.

 

Thomas’s cry, mingled with Edwin’s angry shout, returned to Rhiannyn as she stared through Sir Ancel. She saw herself take Thomas in her arms, saw the disbelief with which he regarded her as Edwin urged her to her feet, saw Edwin’s contempt as he berated her for refusing to leave with him, saw the injured arm Edwin pressed to his chest as he struggled to mount his horse. And then Thomas’s sightless eyes.

 

Blinking Sir Ancel to focus, she said, “Non, it was I who killed him.”

 

He sneered. “Where is your weapon?”

 

What had become of it? She lowered her chin and searched for a glint of silver. The dagger hid itself well, and she had to drop to her hands and knees and scrabble in the wet earth to find it.

 

She regained her feet and raised the weapon toward Sir Ancel. Though the blade had drawn the mud of the earth, the red spilled from Thomas’s veins was yet visible amid the recesses of the intricately carved hilt. “This is what I used.”

 

Disbelief continued to shine from the knight’s face and the faces of those behind him.

 

Did they not believe her capable of the atrocity—that she did not possess the stomach or strength required to kill a man?

 

She stepped forward. “God is my witness,” she said, promising herself she would repent later.

 

Sir Ancel knocked her hand aside, sending the dagger into the rain-beaten grass alongside the road.

 

“Lying Saxon. It was the coward, Harwolfson, who did it!”

 

As she clasped her pained wrist to her chest, Sir Guy retrieved the dagger. When he looked askance at her, she averted her gaze.

 

“It was Harwolfson!” Sir Ancel insisted.

 

She shook her head. “You are wrong. I hated Thomas.”

 

“Non!” Having dismounted, Christophe hobbled forward. “You did not hate my brother, and even had you, you could not have done this.”

 

“I am responsible,” she asserted, which was true whether it was she who had wielded the weapon or the unseen one in the wood.

 

“Fear not, Christophe.” Sir Ancel grabbed Rhiannyn’s wet hair and forced her head back. “Justice will be done.”

 

Quelling the impulse to struggle, she said, “Do it now.”

 

“That would be too merciful.”

 

Mind ripe with imaginings of what he would do to her, she began to fully feel the chill of clothes soaked through. Or did fear make her shudder? “Do with me as you will,” she said through chattering teeth.

 

“Be assured, I shall.” He thrust her from him.

 

She threw her hands up and felt her palms tear when they met the muddied road. Prostrate, she silently prayed, Dear God, be here, be merciful, be swift.

 

A hand gripped her arm and, with effort, pulled her to her feet.

 

It was Christophe. Wondering how it was possible to find no smudge of hatred amid the pain reflected on his face, her burning eyes brimmed.

 

He smiled sorrowfully. “Lady Rhiannyn—”

 

“Do not call her that, boy!” Sir Ancel snapped. “She is no longer a lady—indeed, never was.”

 

Christophe Pendery, who knew most believed he was undeserving of his surname, looked around. “She was to have been my brother’s bride.”

 

“Oui, and Thomas was a fool to think he could trust her.” The man jabbed a finger at where two knights arranged their lord’s body over a horse. “Your brother is dead.”

 

Christophe lowered his chin, closed his eyes, and fought emotions that sought to unman him before knights who would scorn him for showing a woman’s weakness.

 

He had to be strong. With Thomas gone, the estates fell to him, he who would never train for knighthood, whose destiny had been to one day serve as his brother’s steward. He did not want the responsibility, nor the struggle for power that would ensue. But what other course? Of the four sons born to Lydia Pendery, but two survived, himself and the eldest.

 

He opened his eyes. “Maxen,” he whispered. He to whom all would have belonged had he not pursued a different life. A far different life.

 

But would he come back out into the world? If so, would he stay?

 

 

CHAPTER TWO

 

His demons quieted, the lone figure rose from before the high altar and lifted his tonsured head to consider the holy relics—sole witnesses to his prayers.

 

“Answer me, Lord,” he said. And waited, as he did each time he prostrated himself in the chapel, but again he was denied deliverance from memories that had made him seek this place.

 

Disdained by God who was not yet ready to forgive him his atrocities, he strode from the chapel. He would try again on the morrow, and the morrow after, and one day there would be peace for his soul. God willing.

 

Paying little heed to the cool wind and its whispers of winter, he left his head uncovered and crossed to the cloister where his studies awaited.

 

It was Brother Aelfred who intercepted him. “A messenger from Etcheverry is here to speak with you,” he said from deep within his hood.

 

All of Maxen went still. For two years there had been silence, as he had directed upon entering the monastery. What was so important Thomas should break his vow to leave him be? Had ill befallen the house of Pendery?

 

“The man awaits you at the outer house,” Brother Aelfred prompted.

 

Maxen inclined his head and changed course. As he approached the building, he saw the one who stood to the right of it. Facing opposite, wind sifting short black hair and ruffling fine garments, the man appeared to be appraising a section of the monastery’s outer wall. But as if sensing he was no longer alone, he turned.

 

Maxen halted, causing his heavy clerical gown to eddy about his feet. “Guy.”

 

The knight who had fought beside him at Hastings grinned. “No other.” He strode forward and gripped his friend’s arm. “It is good to see you.”

 

Demons roused, Maxen demanded, “Why have you come?”

 

Guy blinked, released his arm, and donned an impassive expression. “Let us talk inside.”

 

“Something is amiss at Etcheverry?”

 

“It is. I would not have come otherwise.”

 

“Thomas sent you?”

 

“Non, Christophe.”

 

As Maxen was a dozen years older than the youngest Pendery, that would make his brother a mere fourteen years of age. Thus, it boded ill that it was he who had directed Guy to the monastery.

 

“What of Thomas?” Maxen asked.

 

A long silence, then, “I am sorry. Your brother is dead.”

 

Maxen’s chest constricted. Another brother destined for the dirt. Another taken too young.

 

Memories he had struggled to bury rising from their graves, he saw the sloping meadow of Senlac, the strewn, ravaged bodies. He heard the Norman battle cries of Dex aie! and God’s help!, the Saxon cries of Holy Cross! and Out! Out! He smelled the spilled blood and felt the heat of bodies pressing in upon him. And then…Nils.

 

He wrenched himself back to the present. Thomas was dead, the same as Nils. Of his three brothers, only Christophe remained. “How did he die?”

 

“A Saxon woman. She whom he wished to wed.”

 

“A woman?” Maxen barked.

 

As if uncertain as to how to deal with this man of God who, in that moment, must look anything but, Guy took a step back. “She claims she was the one, but Sir Ancel believes her rebel lover murdered Thomas.”

 

Maxen knew he should distance himself by accepting his brother’s death and returning to the chapel to pray for him, but he had to know. “For what did she betray Thomas?”

 

“Rhiannyn is the daughter of a villein who died at Hastings. She blames the Normans for the deaths of her father and two brothers in battle, and of her mother during a raid upon their village before the fighting.” Guy shook his head. “Thomas thought he could make her forget her loss by bringing her into the castle and grooming her to become his wife.”

 

Hands concealed in the long sleeves of this robe, Maxen closed them into fists in an attempt to squeeze the breath out of emotions he had not thought to experience again. “It was Thomas who lost,” he growled. “Everything.”

 

“So he did. Rhiannyn refused to wed him, and though he might have gained her consent by threatening her people, he was determined she would come to him willingly.”

 

“And she never did.”

 

Guy shook his head. “She slipped free of the castle a sennight past. Though the wood teems with Saxon rebels, Thomas rode after her without awaiting an escort. When we found him, he was dead--put through with a dagger.”

 

“And the woman?”

 

“Rhiannyn was there. She claimed she killed your brother, but it is unlikely she possesses the strength or skill to down a warrior.”

 

“She protects her rebel lover.”

 

“Edwin Harwolfson, to whom she was betrothed before William claimed England’s throne.”

 

“Who is he?”

 

“The second son of the thane who possessed the lands King William awarded Thomas. As the only survivor of his family, he claims rights over Etcheverry, refuses to acknowledge a Norman as his overlord, and leads the Saxon rebels who abound in the wood of Andredeswald.”

 

“He murdered my brother for revenge.”

 

“For which he is more than qualified. A worthy adversary.”

 

“Is the uprising restricted to Etcheverry?”

 

“No longer. It touches other Pendery lands, and many villages are dying as the young and strong leave to join the rebellion. There are not enough to work the land and tend—”

 

“Tell me more of Harwolfson.”

 

Guy drew a deep breath. “He was a royal housecarle to King Edward before his death. Next, he served the usurper, Harold.”

 

Surprise sprang through Maxen. A housecarle who had not died with his king? According to Saxon tradition, no housecarle should leave the battlefield alive if his lord was killed. There could be no worse disgrace.

 

“Harwolfson does not limit his foul deeds to Normans who pass through the wood,” Guy continued. “He leads attacks against Etcheverry Castle and its sister castle, Blackspur. The first year, he set fire to both so often Thomas began replacing wood with stone.”

 

Returning to what was yet unknown, Maxen asked, “How is it Harwolfson did not die at Hastings?”

 

“The Saxons say that while Harold expired a hundred feet away, an old witch pulled Harwolfson from beneath the dead and breathed life back into him. Afterward, she took him from the battlefield and healed up his wounds with magical words and herbs.”

 

“What do the Normans believe?”

 

Guy’s brow was momentarily disturbed, as if he was tempted to point out Maxen was also Norman. “They say Harwolfson is a coward and ran to the wood when his king fell.”

 

“What do you think?”

 

“Word abounds of his courage. And with my own eyes I have seen the wound he is said to have gained while fighting to protect his king. Though I dare not say it too loudly, methinks he did not take to flight.”

 

Maxen wondered if he had met the man. By invitation of the now deceased King Edward, who’d had a particular fondness for Normans, the Penderys had resided on English soil for nearly a quarter century. For this reason, the first language of the Pendery offspring was Anglo-Saxon, though they were equally fluent in Norman French. But following King Edward’s death, the Penderys had not supported Harold Godwinson’s claim to the throne. Instead, as commanded, they had taken up arms for their liege, Duke William of Normandy. So much bloodshed…

 

The images sharpening, as if yesterday he had thrust his sword into the blood-soaked soil of Senlac and walked away, Maxen silently raged. Curse Thomas for his obsession with the Saxon wench! Curse him for dying and leaving none but Christophe to take control of the Pendery lands!

 

“There is none but you,” Guy said.

 

Maxen jerked. “What speak you of?” Not that he did not know. He just did not wish to know.

 

“Christophe cannot do it, nor does he wish to. If what belongs to the Penderys is to remain theirs, you must come out.”

 

Leave his refuge that with prayer might someday free him of his demons? “I cannot. My vows are spoken. My life is here.”

 

“A petition has been dispatched to King William. If he agrees, which he would be a fool not to, you will be freed of your vows—at a price, of course.”

 

Further reminded of who he was and what he had done, Maxen struggled to contain emotions which might once more make of him an animal. When he had entered the monastery, he had determined he would never again know the outside world in which he had become merciless and bloodthirsty—as had been expected of him to prove his family’s allegiance to Duke William. More, he had given himself to the Church to ensure the world beyond these walls would never again suffer him.

 

“Christophe sent the petition?” he growled.

 

Guy swallowed loudly. “I did—with your brother’s blessing.”

 

Maxen stepped toward him. “You?”

 

“I had to, not just for our friendship, but because I could not bear to see all lost.”

 

“But Christophe—”

 

“I have told you. He is not fit to lord Etcheverry, nor Trionne once your father passes on. If you do not come out, it will be Sir Ancel Rogere who controls Pendery lands. At best, Christophe will be a figurehead.”

 

“Rogere?”

 

“Thomas’s friend, whom he intended to make lord of Blackspur Castle. Surely you remember him?”

 

He did. Thomas had become acquainted with the Norman prior to the Battle of Hastings. A landless noble, Rogere had sought his fortune fighting alongside Duke William in the quest for the English crown. However, it was told he had fallen early in battle, and a handful of coins had been his only reward.

 

“Continue,” Maxen ordered.

 

“It is he who sits at high table in Christophe’s stead. He who directs the household knights and to whom the steward answers. He who intends to seal his power by gaining your father’s permission to wed your sister.”

 

Maxen turned away. All was lost. Just as duty had bound him to defend his family’s holdings at Hastings, he must do so at Etcheverry, even at the cost of the soul he had struggled to save these two years. Suddenly so weary he longed to drop his head between his shoulders, he asked, “When do you expect the king’s reply?”

 

“He should have my petition in hand by the morrow. Thus, his answer will likely arrive within a sennight.”

 

Maxen knew William would not dally over the decision, nor did he question what the decision would be, for the king had conferred the barony on Thomas after Maxen had refused it to enter the monastery.

 

“Does Sir Ancel know what you do?” Maxen asked.

 

“He does not, my lord.”

 

My lord. So, neither did Guy doubt what William would decide.

 

Maxen’s anger flared, and though he forced it down, it simmered beneath his surface.

 

“I will ready myself.” He pivoted.

 

“Maxen?”

 

He looked over his shoulder.

 

Guy’s smile did not reach his eyes. “It is for the better.”

 

“For the house of Pendery. But for me?” He shook his head. “This is where I belong, Guy.” And she who had forced him from his sanctuary would pay for her faithlessness. “The woman,” he said, “tell me she yet lives.”

 

“She does. Sir Ancel would have put her to death, but it is the one thing upon which Christophe will not be moved.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Regrettably, he is as enamored of her as was Thomas.”

 

Foolish boy. Directly or not, she was responsible for their brother’s death. “She yet dwells within the castle?”

 

“She does, though no longer in the comfort Thomas provided her. Sir Ancel insisted she be held in a prison cell.”

 

Rightly so, Maxen mulled and realized the Maxen of old had edged out the Maxen he had struggled to become. Suddenly, the vows he had taken seemed hollow. All because of a treacherous woman.

 

So be it, he conceded. If I must give up the monastery, forget compassion, charity, and forgiveness. Forget every last one of the kindnesses I have sought and been taught. Forget all!

 

And God help the Saxon wench.