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The Saxon. Margaret Moore
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“If he doesn’t give you children, you could always divorce him,” Helmi noted optimistically.
“No, I could not. Christians are not allowed to divorce for any reason. Besides, where would I go?”
“You could go home to your father.”
“My father has other children and other responsibilities. When I married Fenris, I became his family’s concern. Because of his death, I must do as Dagfinn wishes, since he is the head of the family as well as the chieftain, and he desires this alliance.”
Endredi sighed as she moved away and sat down on a stool. Her father had married a Saxon woman, and their union was a joy to both. Perhaps, just perhaps, she might find it so with Bayard.
She fingered her crucifix, trying to calm her growing dismay and bury her memories of the boy she had once cared for but who had left her to her fate, never trying to find out what had become of her. Despite what he had done—or not done—she had hoped, dreamed...until years had passed, and she had grown into a woman. Adelar had never returned. So Endredi had put him from her heart and from her hopes, and wed another.
Although Fenris was kind, he had inspired no passion within her, and she feared there was no passion left to inspire. When Dagfinn had told her what he planned for her, she had thought not of her own seemingly impossible happiness. This marriage might bring a measure of peace between Saxon and Dane, so she had agreed.
Helmi paused for a moment in her bustling near the large curtained bed, an object Endredi had been doing her best not to notice. “I think someone’s coming!” she cried. “Stand up, stand up!”
Endredi obeyed and despite her resolve to face this marriage resolutely, she had to clasp her hands together to keep them from trembling.
Dagfinn entered the bower and surveyed her slowly. “Good,” he muttered. He nodded toward the door. “Come to the hall.”
Endredi followed the big man out of the bower. In the yard before the hall several women and children were standing at a respectful distance and staring at her. They looked well-dressed and well-fed, a sign that Bayard took care of his people.
Some were curious, others openly hostile as they stood silently. Endredi raised her chin. She was the daughter of Einar Svendson, and no hint of fear or doubt must show on her face.
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