“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
