Free LadyOfConquest:SaxonBride by Tamara Leigh Page B

he had occupied at the monastery had provided more privacy. Granted, the lord’s chamber at Etcheverry was of greater size than the cell, but all that separated it from the rest of the hall was a wooden, many-paneled screen held together by articulating leather hinges. What happened behind the screen could be hidden from eyes, not ears.
    Telling himself he must remember this since his knights had last served Sir Ancel and, thus, might remain loyal to the man, Maxen stepped around the screen. Once inside the chamber, he lifted the coarse Saxon tunic he had donned after the struggle with the witch’s men and began peeling away the crude bandages. However, the bloody flow having been stemmed, the material stuck fast to the wound.
    He dropped the tunic and stepped around the screen to call for water and fresh bandages, but Christophe had anticipated the need. His sideways hitch prominent, he approached alongside a woman servant who carried a basin of water and long strips of linen that fluttered to the rhythm of her swaying hips.
    A Saxon woman whose face knew more expression than a glower, Maxen mused as he received her inviting smile. It was a welcome change after Rhiannyn, but not enough to make him want to take her to bed.
    Although two years of celibacy made his body ready to know a woman, he was not. But eventually he would, for if he must live the sinful life of man, there seemed no reason he should not live all of it. The same as before Hastings, though this time with memories between.
    “Sit,” Christophe said. “Theta and I will tend you.”
    Maxen raised an eyebrow. “I did not know you had taken an interest in healing.”
    “There was a need, and I filled it.” Christophe dropped the bag he carried onto the bed.
    “What mean you?”
    “With the continual warring between Saxons and Normans, there must be someone to care for the sick and fallen.”
    “There are others trained for that work.”
    Christophe met his gaze. “There was one, but he is dead.”
    “How?”
    “Murdered.” He turned his attention to the contents of his bag.
    “Continue,” Maxen ordered, annoyed at being forced to rise to his little brother’s bait. “What do you wish me to know?”
    Christophe came back around. “He was a Saxon, his name Josa, and he was a good man. Much of what I know of healing I learned from him.”
    “And?”
    “He had the misfortune of continued loyalty to his own. In an attack upon the castle when it was first being raised, several Saxons fell. After all quieted, and Josa had finished tending Thomas’s injured men, he slipped outside the walls to see if any among his people lived. There was one, and Josa was attempting to aid him when Sir Ancel struck him down with a blow to the head. Murdered.”
    Though Maxen longed to harden himself against the injustice, he asked, “What of Sir Ancel?”
    “You wish to know if he was punished?”
    “ Oui. ”
    “Thomas was angered, but he did nothing to prevent Ancel from doing the same in the future.”
    “Then you blame Thomas.”
    Christophe drew a deep breath. “I am not saying our brother was bad. I am saying he was not good—and certainly not blameless for all the ill that has befallen the Penderys.”
    Maxen dragged the tunic off over his head. “I have listened,” he said, “and I am finished.” He lowered to the chest at the foot of the curtained bed to await his brother’s ministrations.
    “You are a cold man,” Christophe said and began removing the dirty bandages.
    Though tempted to send him away, Maxen quelled the impulse. If the wound was to be cleansed of any infection that had set in, he needed his younger brother. If he died later, so be it, but not before he had done what he had come to do.
    The wound was cleansed, stitched closed, and smeared with a salve so pungent Theta grimaced as she re-bandaged it.
    “Rhiannyn is well?” Christophe said, eyes luminous with concern that made Maxen want to shake him.
    “As you saw, she