The Saxon. Margaret Moore

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      Endredi turned her back on the bed.

      “Please sit, my lady,” Helmi said, “and I will remove the ornaments from your hair.”

      “Leave me.”

      “But my lady!” the servant protested. “I should help you.”

      “I said, leave me.”

      Helmi shrugged and went to the far corner of the bower, where she had made a bed from a mattress filled with straw and some blankets.

      “I would prefer you to sleep elsewhere tonight,” Endredi said. She had no wish to have a servant’s presence on her wedding night. She was nervous enough without that.

      Helmi frowned deeply. “Where else? There are Saxons everywhere, like fleas on a dog!”

      “There are other Danes in the hall. Sleep there tonight.”

      Helmi looked about to protest, but wisely, she did not. When she had gone out carrying her bed, Endredi sighed softly and sank down onto a stool, putting her hands over her face.

      “Adelar, Adelar!” she moaned softly, finally allowing herself to express the hurt that had been fighting with her anger ever since she had seen him. She knew she should distrust him. All through the meal she had sought to convince herself that she could not have faith in him. He was not the boy she had known. He had changed.

      Why was he here, and now of all times? Why could she not find strength in the fact that he had had years to come back to her, and had not? Why could she not keep anger in her heart when she thought of his lies? Why did something different, something stronger, intrude until her bitterness and anger were gone like a speck of dust upon a summer’s breeze?

      Why did she remember not the moment she knew he had abandoned her to her fate, but instead the one and only kiss they had shared? It had been early night, just like this, in the dimness of her father’s house. They had been alone, two children on the edge of adulthood, sitting beside the fire, silent as usual. He had turned to her and spoken of—what? She had never been able to recall because of what had come after. He had talked and she had listened.

      Then, slowly, wondrously, the expression in his dark, intense eyes had changed. Without even being aware of it, their bodies had moved closer. And closer. Until their lips had touched.

      Even now, her heart raced at the thought of that gentle, tender kiss. She had changed into a woman then, with a woman’s heart and a woman’s dreams and a woman’s passion.

      And to think it had meant nothing at all to him.

      She lowered her hands. She must put away these memories, once and for always. She must be strong and remember that her loyalty, and her body, belonged to another man. Adelar had done nothing to stop that, either. Yes, he had changed, and she must guard against her own weakness.

      Resolving to be as good a wife to Bayard as she could, Endredi disrobed and climbed into the bed. She drew the curtains around it and waited, not afraid, but not with joyous anticipation.

      Finally the door opened and someone entered. Her hands started to shake and her chest seemed tight, which was foolish. She was no tender virgin.

      “Bayard?” she called out tentatively.

      “Yes,” came a low response.

      Endredi closed her eyes. Oh, Freya, goddess of love and beauty, abandoned by Od and always mourning, help me! Even Bayard’s voice is like Adelar’s. Help me to forget! Please, Mary, mother of Jesus, give me strength to do what I must.

      Then came the sounds of a man disrobing. Something metallic striking the stool. The dull thud of cloth on a chest.

      The curtains parted, and Endredi opened her eyes.

      Chapter Three

      Bayard stood beside the bed. He was naked, his bearded face in shadow. He looked down at Endredi, and she tried to force a tentative smile to her lips, but oh, how his eyes were like Adelar’s in this dim light!

      Bayard got into the bed with her, yet he did not touch her. “You are sure Adelar’s behavior did not offend you?” he asked softly. “Or Ranulf’s? If so, tell me, and I will speak to them.”

      “No. I am unknown here, and drink can make men say things they themselves regret later.”

      “You are wise, Endredi. I am pleased you forgive him,” he whispered. “Adelar is not only my cousin. He is my most trusted friend.”

      Was he deserving of such trust? she wondered. Did Bayard know what kind of man had sired his “trusted friend”? “These tales of Adelar’s family that Ranulf spoke of,” she began. “What did he mean?”

      Bayard lay on his side and regarded her thoughtfully. “It was said that his father had somehow arranged the Viking attack on his village. That is what the leader of the Vikings claimed when he came seeking his wife and daughter, whom Kendric had stolen away in revenge when he came to take Adelar home.”

      “Perhaps it was true.”

      “Kendric claimed otherwise. His own people believed him, and there was no proof of wrongdoing except for the word of a Viking.”

      “What do you believe?”

      “Adelar is here, is he not? I have no doubt about his loyalty to me. Besides, I judge a man on his own merit, not his father’s.”

      Endredi said nothing. She could not argue with Bayard’s wish to judge a man for his own actions. Indeed, she knew how it was to be looked down upon for the unsavory actions of a parent. How many in her village had hinted that Endredi might be like her mother, who had slept with any man who asked her?

      Bayard touched her cheek. “Are you afraid of me, Endredi?”

      “No.”

      “You tremble.” He moved closer to her.

      “It is a chill night, my lord.”

      She could feel the heat from his body and was acutely aware of their nakedness as his arms encircled her. “I would warm you, then,” he said. “And please, do not call me `my lord’ when we are here.”

      His hand touched her amulet. “What is this?” he asked, a hard note creeping into his voice. “Dagfinn assured me you were Christian.”

      “Truly I am, Bayard. It is a charm, nothing more.”

      “And what does this charm do?” he inquired, letting it fall. His fingers toyed with the chain, cool against her flesh.

      “It is a sign of Freya.”

      “A goddess?”

      “Yes.”

      “Goddess of what?”

      “She watches over women getting married, or having babies. We used to pray to her to give us healthy children. СКАЧАТЬ