Margaret Moore - The Saxon

She continued to walk proudly as she entered the huge wooden building, which was as richly decorated as Helmi had guessed.

There was another crowd of Danes and Saxon men inside. Here, Endredi lowered her eyes as a woman should in such company, lest she be thought immodest, but she glanced up when they paused before proceeding. Standing at the front of a group of Saxons was a tall, bearded, finely dressed man who moved with the natural arrogance of a nobleman. He had to be Bayard.

There was another, younger man at his elbow, with light brown hair, a cruel mouth and thin lips. He looked at her with an impertinent curiosity that annoyed her, despite her anxiety. A woman stood beside him, thin, too, and motionless, her face placid but her gaze darting everywhere.

On the other side of Bayard was a man who had to be a priest. He wore a huge wooden crucifix and a strange black tunic that reached all the way to the ground.

Dagfinn walked ahead of her. “Bayard, here is your bride,” he proclaimed.

Helmi moved behind her and gave her a gentle shove. “Go forward! Go forward!”

Endredi went toward her betrothed slowly, looking at Bayard steadily. He was handsome, dark and well-built. His tunic was a brilliant red, his belt studded with gold, his boots made of fine soft leather, and he wore a beautiful silver brooch with many jewels.

But there was an expression in his eyes.... Suspicion? Reluctance? Then it was gone, masked by a charming smile.

“You spoke the truth, Dagfinn,” Bayard said when she was close to him. “She is beautiful.”

Another man spoke, this time in the Danes’ tongue, obviously translating Bayard’s words. She recognized the voice instantly and quickly scanned the crowd, her heart beating as rapidly as the wings of a bird trapped in a net.

Adelar! Here! She knew him at once, although it had been years. The color of his hair, the shape of his features—even the way he stood was as familiar as her own body. Her mouth went dry, and for a moment she thought she was going to faint.

She had tried to forget Adelar and had convinced herself that she had, but she knew now it was a lie.

For a moment she saw recognition in Adelar’s eyes and something that thrilled her beyond words, something that made all the long years disappear. She could not marry Bayard now. She would refuse, no matter what Dagfinn said or did.

Then Adelar’s demeanor changed, as if a flame had been blown out, replaced by something hard and cold as iron. He looked away.

Oh, Freya! Was he his father’s son, after all? Kendric had been a base traitor, a man outwardly handsome, but inwardly as corrupt as a man could be. Had Adelar grown that way, too?

What other explanation could there be for his action? He was not going to acknowledge that he knew her, not even when she was about to be married to another. He was staring at the floor, not daring to meet her gaze, willing to abandon her again. Acting like a dishonorable coward.

Endredi tried to collect her scattered thoughts and marshal her confused emotions. She wanted to run. To hide like a wounded animal and let herself moan in agony. Or perhaps worst of all, she wanted to beg him to look at her again.

“I am honored,” Bayard said.

Adelar did not want her. Perhaps he never had. Perhaps she had only been swept away by his looks and his apparent need for her comfort.

Suddenly aware that they were waiting for her to speak, she said stiffly, “No, the honor is mine.”

Bayard held out his hand, and she put hers into it. She was a woman now, and the dreams of her childhood were dead.

* * *

The wedding feast was a long and very rich one. Dagfinn and the other Danes gobbled up the abundant food as if they had not eaten in days—so greedily, in fact, that Endredi was quite ashamed. It was obvious that the Saxons were not impressed by their guests’ lack of manners, either.

“That is my cousin, Adelar,” Bayard said to his bride as the Saxon warrior rose and left the table with only the curtest of nods toward his host when the gleeman began to sing, signaling the end of the feast but not of the celebrations. Others stood and moved about the hall, filling it with hushed voices and muted whispers, giving the lord and his bride the occasional curious glance.

Cousins, Endredi thought, watching Adelar go out the door. That explained the resemblance between them and why Adelar would be in attendance here.

The cousins had the same fearless brown eyes, dark hair and muscular build, Endredi realized. Indeed, even now, Bayard reminded her of Adelar so much that she found it difficult to look at her husband without a pang of bitterness.

But she would have to find a way. The gifts had been exchanged, promises made, the priest had even said a blessing. Only the consummation remained to make them truly husband and wife. One more duty to fulfill.

And to her, it was a duty. She could not understand why men seemed to find such a thing a tremendous pleasure. Nonetheless, she did want to have children. A baby would surely bring her joy and fill the loneliness in her heart.

“Adelar is one of my finest warriors and one of the few men I trust. You must forgive his seeming rudeness. It is just his way,” Bayard said with a look of concern.

“Is it?” she responded politely, but with growing dread. Bayard seemed all too ready to excuse Adelar’s impertinence. What else would he excuse his cousin?

If Adelar was so capable of deceiving her when he was but a lad, was he now deceiving Bayard, who obviously trusted him enough to have him in his counsel? She would find out and warn her husband if she suspected any treachery at all.

With even more dismay she realized that Ranulf, her husband’s nephew, was coming to sit in the space closest to her, away from his thin, sallow wife, who seemed not to notice.

“I trust, my lady, that you will not think we are all so lacking in our attentions to you, as my lord’s wife,” Ranulf said, attempting to sound polite but only succeeding in sounding the worse for too much ale.

She bowed her head toward Ranulf in slight acknowledgment.

Obviously taking Endredi’s response to be encouragement, he said, “Adelar is an uncouth fellow. But of course if one believes those tales about his family—”

Bayard said, “I am pleased he has decided to remain here.”

Ranulf returned to his wife.

Endredi fought to stay silent, although she was filled with curiosity. What did Ranulf know about Adelar’s family? Did others know what Kendric had done? What had happened to Adelar and his father in the years since she had seen them? She dearly wanted to find out, but until she understood the natures of these men, she had best speak cautiously. She had sensed an undercurrent of hostility ever since she had set foot in Bayard’s hall and had assumed it was the natural enmity between Saxon and Dane. Now, however, she realized all was not well within Bayard’s ranks. Bayard did not like Ranulf, Ranulf sought eagerly to please in a way that roused her suspicions, and Ranulf did not approve of Adelar although Bayard did.

She twisted her hands in her lap. She was completely alone here among these men.

“Adelar’s father is a wealthy thane, with lands and a burh further south,” Bayard explained.

Endredi nearly knocked her goblet from the table. Adelar’s father still possessed land after what he had done? What tales had Ranulf been speaking of, if not that Kendric himself had arranged for a Viking raiding party to attack his village, only too glad to see it destroyed? He had murdered his wife, too. It was not possible that his people could have forgiven such things—but once she would have said it was impossible that Adelar would ignore her, too. She would also have said it was impossible that Adelar could be like his father, but how else to explain his actions since she had arrived?