by Brenda Joyce
She shrank back.
“I will not hurt you,” he said harshly. “I hate you!”
He got slowly to his feet. “I will not hurt you.”
Tears rose, hot and bitter. “You will not?” She laughed, with a little hysteria. “You beat me and try to rape me and tell me you will not hurt me?”
His jaw hardened. “I did not beat you, I did not rape you. You provoke me, Ceidre.”
“Blame me! Blame me when it are you who are at fault!”
His blue eyes blackened.
Ceidre choked on a sob and cursed herself for her vicious tongue. She slowly got to her feet, her back pressed hard into the bark of the tree. He watched her. She watched him.
“If you were not Alice’s sister,” he said, piercing her, “were you any common wench, I would take you as I willed. You would be my mistress until I could exorcise you from my soul and from my blood. I am only a man, Ceidre, and you try me beyond belief.”
“’Tis not my fault!”
“Oh, ’tis your fault,” he said, silkily now. “Your beauty defies earthly description. And you, you defy me at every turn, arousing my most extreme humors. Do you not think my manhood does not arouse itself as well, in the tempest you create?”
“Should I watch you burn the homes of my kin and say nothing?”
Remembrance brought darkness to his blue eyes. “And in front of my men! I warn you again, Ceidre— do not provoke me. If you do, you will find yourself flat on your back!”
“You would rape your bride’s sister!”
“When you are spread beneath me, do you think I know who you are? You are only Ceidre, a beautiful bronze-haired, purple-eyed witch.”
She knew he did not mean the word, yet she flushed. Or was her coloring due to something else, perhaps his graphic imagery? Feeling a potent desperation, she clung to the topic of import. “What will happen to the villagers?”
“We are rebuilding,” he said. “The village is being moved, Ceidre, and ’tis not a fancy whim. I am a commander, and I have seen more wars than you can imagine. The village will be better defended beneath the walls of the bailey. This suits everyone, not just myself. ’Twould even suit your brother, were he here.”
Had she been wrong? Impetuous?
“Come, Ceidre,” he said, his tone strangely grim. “I will take you back.”
“Do not ask me to come with you,” she hissed. “I will walk.”
Now his face was expressionless, his blue gaze shuttered. “Come. I will not leave you here.”
“Why not?” she cried.
“Because I will not,”
he said, hard. They stared at each other.
And she knew she could not win. She felt the sudden wave of tears rising, and defeat was bitter. She stumbled forward. He had held out his hand to assist her in mounting, and now bewilderment and a strange softness crossed his expression. He dropped his hand. She met his gaze, and before he could guard it, she saw the confusion and what looked like pity—or compassion. But surely she was hallucinating!
“If you wish to walk you may,” he said abruptly.
Immediately she stopped in her tracks and folded her arms tightly. His face closed, tightened. He nodded, turned the gray, and trotted away. Ceidre watched him go. She stared after him, for a very long time.
The message was relayed to her before the noonday meal, by Teddy. Ceidre wanted to leap with joy. Morcar had come home, and he was waiting for her in the woods not far from the orchard.
He was just in time—for the Norman was to wed Alice on the morrow.
She had to appear at dinner, for not to do so might arouse the Norman’s suspicions. Also, he might think that she was sulking—or hiding. In fact, she was angry over his treatment of her, although equally relieved he had not taken her as he almost had. She would have to tread carefully around him in the future. She had not realized when she aroused his ire she also aroused his desire; she would be certain to do neither from now on.
The meal was interminable, but Ceidre did not fidget. She refused to look at Rolfe, seated with his bride, although she knew he watched her often. When he and his men returned to the field, Ceidre escaped to the orchards, basket in hand, careful not to be followed. The Norman, she saw, was so involved in his task that he did not even remark her going.
Morcar’s tall frame became visible in the glade by the stream as she approached, crying out with joy. He beamed, blue eyes sparkling, and swept her into his hard, familiar embrace.
“Are you all right?” she asked, holding his face in her hands, when he had released her.
“Me?” He laughed, removing her hands and clasping them. His smile faded. “Ceidre—how have you fared?”
“I am fine.”
“You have not been harmed by these pigs?”
She felt color creeping into her face. “No.”
His grip tightened, his handsome features darkening. “What happened? Have you been touched?”
She was flaming, and she knew Morcar’s quick, hot temper. “It’s all right,” she cried. “Truly it is! ’Twas before he knew who I was—but he found out in time and did not harm me.”
“Who?”
“The Norman.”
“Rolfe de Warenne? The Relentless?” At her nod he scowled. “Explain, quickly.”
“There is nothing to explain. I was at Kesop, to heal a sow. He thought me a peasant. His men had just slain a band of Saxons, and he chased me down on his horse. But his men called out my identity before he could—before he could do as he would. In truth—” Suddenly she smiled. “He thought me Alice, and thus I was saved from his embrace.”
Morcar swore, foully. “I wish I had been there,” he cried, blue eyes flashing as he paced. “I would have killed him for the mere impudence of his desire!”
“’Tis finished now, Morcar,” she lied. “How is Ed?”
“Near healed. We will not let this pass, Ceidre,” he said, hard. “We nurture our wounds now, and when we are strong, we will chase the Normans to the sea and beyond.”
“There was a royal messenger here four days past. I could not find out what was said. The next day, at dawn, the Norman and a score of men rode out. They returned two days later. I know not where they went.”
“William the Bastard had a scrape in the north with the Scots.” Morcar shrugged. “We know he sent for Rolfe to turn them back. He is highly trusted and very able.” He scowled then fiercely. “Too able!”
Ceidre touched his sleeve. “You did not come alone?”
“I left two men beyond yon ridge, Ceidre. I have no wish to encounter the Norman now. What is this news of Alice wedding with him?”
“Tomorrow, Morcar, ’twill be done.”
“Alice is willing?”
“Yes.” At his frown, Ceidre found herself defending her sister. “Try to understand, Morcar. She is afraid to grow old, a spinster. And he is very handsome.” She realized what she had said, and her eyes widened. She pictured his Adonis-like visage, his powerful body, and knew she had not lied.
“I wish there were a way to prevent this marriage. If only Alice would refuse, become sick upon her wedding day!”
“You would have to abduct her to stop her from marrying him,” Ceidre said.
“I would,” Morcar said with a growl, “if I had the men and thought I could do so without risking a single life. But I know ’twould be suicide.”
“Do not,” Ceidre said. “Mayhap her shrewish ways will keep him soft in her bed, and they will not be married in truth under God’s eyes.” Ceidre frowned, for it was most unlikely such a man would rest soft near any woman!
“Ceidre, you may have an idea,” Morcar exclaimed. “Could you not give him a potion to make him deathly ill?”
“You want me to kill him?” She gasped, appalled.
“Of course not,” he said. “I am no murderer—nor are you. I mean,” he said impatiently, “a potion to make him sick so that the wedding is postponed.”
“Morcar—do you intend
for me to keep him sick from now until the day you and Edwin are victorious?”
“Damn,” he said. “That would probably kill him, would it not?”
“Most certainly, and ’tis not right, not godly. I cannot. I have never harmed anyone.”
He cupped her face tenderly, his tone urgent. “Ceidre, a potion then to make him impotent? If the marriage is not consummated when we retake Aelfgar it can be annulled, and he has less legitimacy as lord here, now and when ’tis done. A simple potion, Ceidre?”
“Oh, Morcar,” she said reluctantly, yet … What harm could it do? The man had more potency than a stud stallion, surely it could not harm him? Just something simple, to take away his desire…. To take away his desire for Alice.
Morcar saw her capitulation, and he laughed, sweeping her into his arms. “I love you, Ceidre,” he said. “You have more loyalty in your little finger than Alice has in her entire heart.”
Still unsure, yet strangely elated too, at the thought of keeping the Norman away from her sister, Ceidre hugged Morcar fiercely back, burying her face in his chest.
Rolfe had eyed Ceidre as she carried the basket, heading toward the orchards, every so often glancing over her shoulder. She was up to something, but what? Although immersed in the final stages of the destruction of the village, he kept one eye on her—and watched her disappear into the forest. He had a suspicious feeling, and he did not like her wandering alone. She was too enticing a wench for any passing stranger or brigand. Rolfe spurred his destrier after her.
From a distance, he watched her rendezvous with a tall, dark man. It was a reunion, this he could see, and see well. He was stunned as she leapt into her lover’s arms, stunned, and furious. But the embrace was short, fortunately, for Rolfe would have killed the man then and there. Instead they spoke quickly, seriously, urgently. His anger seeped and seethed and he edged his mount as close as he dared without their hearing him—but neither could he hear them, as he desperately wanted to. And then the man laughed and swept her up into his embrace again, and this time Ceidre clung, burying her face in the folds of his mantle. The man rocked her.
Rolfe drew his sword and, with a war cry, galloped into the glade.
Ceidre screamed as Morcar threw her aside, drawing his sword to meet his attacker. He was of fast reflex, but could barely get his sword up before Rolfe swung his own weapon, blade crashing against blade. Yet Morcar did not release his sword. He was knocked by the force of Rolfe’s charge to the ground, but nimble as a cat, he jumped to his feet and was poised to fight.
Rolfe reined in and leapt to the ground, weapon held high. His eyes went wide. “Morcar!”
Morcar smiled grimly. “I shall enjoy this, Norman,” he said. “I have dreamed of this day!”
“Stop!” Ceidre screamed, frantic, knowing that two such powerful men could not both survive this encounter—one would die. “Stop, please, God, stop!”
“Come to me, Saxon,” Rolfe said softly.
Morcar thrust; Rolfe parried. The two men’s blades clashed again and again, echoing in the forest, as they lunged and feinted, thrust and withdrew. Rolfe’s tip sliced open the sleeve of Morcar’s tunic, and his forearm, trailing blood. Morcar opened a gash above Rolfe’s right eye. Again and again they danced around each other, their blades ringing. Rolfe scored again, upon Morcar’s thigh. Morcar responded with a vicious thrust that forced Rolfe backward, until the Norman feinted, pretended to fall, and then reversed the process, relentlessly driving his foe backward.
The minutes stretched away. The glade was silent except for the sound of their harsh, heavy breathing. Sweat drenched both men, causing their tunics to stick damply to their frames. Blood trickled into Rolfe’s eye, but he did not wipe at it. Their movements became slower, like a dream, heavy with the sustained effort. Morcar swung his blade, Rolfe’s turned it back. At least fifteen very long minutes had passed, and it was apparent that the two men were evenly matched.
Ceidre watched, mesmerized, terrified. She could not go for help—’twould be the end of Morcar. Her brother had to win—so he could escape. And then the Norman’s strength proved superior.
Morcar tripped on a root. As he lost his balance, the Norman lunged for his heart. Ceidre screamed, loudly, shrilly. Morcar, one knee on the ground, froze, as Rolfe’s blade pressed against his breast. But the Norman did not break his flesh.
“Why do you hesitate, Norman?” Morcar gasped. He was still holding his sword, but at an angle impossible to lift to defend himself. “I am not afraid of death.”
“Drop your blade, Saxon,” Rolfe said, panting. “Drop it now, or you will be at her pearly gates.”
“No, don’t,” Ceidre cried, running to him. “Please, my lord, do not run him through.”
Rolfe ignored her. “Drop it now, if you wish to live. If not, I will send you on your way.”
Morcar stared boldly back at Rolfe, fearless and unflinching.
“Please drop it,” Ceidre cried. “Please, Morcar, please!”
Morcar dropped the sword.
Rolfe, without removing his own blade from his enemy’s heart, kicked it away. Then, exerting pressure, he forced Morcar onto both knees. “In the name of King William,” he said, “you are my prisoner.”
Ceidre was standing almost directly behind Rolfe. She did not think. She picked up the heaviest stone she could find and raised it, to send it crashing down upon his head.
Rolfe whirled and grabbed her wrist, almost breaking it. The stone tumbled from her grasp, and he sent her sprawling to the earth. Morcar was on his feet, but before he could pick up his sword, Rolfe’s blade jabbed his abdomen. The two men stared. And at that precise moment, Guy and five knights came charging into the woods, alerted by Ceidre’s screams.
Rolfe smiled coldly, his eyes never leaving Morcar’s. “Place him in the dungeons, Guy,” he said. And without looking at Ceidre, he added, “I will deal with you later.”
Ceidre was escorted by Guy back to the manor and into the hall. He did not leave her side. Alice, amusing herself with her two lapdogs, looked up, startled. Guy turned to Ceidre. “Await him here.”
Ceidre looked away, desperation cloying. Morcar was at this very moment being thrown into the dungeons below the manor—and he was hurt. He must be cared for, and he must, somehow, escape.
Alice, her hand in one terrier’s long white fur, said shrilly, “What passes? Why does my lord wish you to await him here?”
“Morcar has returned, Alice,” Ceidre said. “And the Norman has taken him prisoner.”
Alice gasped. “And Edwin?”
Ceidre shot Guy a dark look. “At this very moment, Edwin rides with a hundred men to chase the Norman into the sea!”
Rolfe’s spurs clinked as he entered and strode to her. His face was rigid, his eyes blazed. “Tell me more, mistress,” he said softly.
Ceidre whirled, taken by surprise. “You heard well enough!”
“Is it true?” Alice cried, standing, hands clasped tightly.
Ceidre turned to her. “You sicken me! You are afraid our brothers’ return will ruin your wedding! Have you no thought for anyone other than yourself?”
“Whom shall I think of, Ceidre? You? You who play the whore with my groom? You think I do not know? You wish to stop this marriage for yourself! Not for Edwin’s sake!”
“Enough,” Rolfe said with a growl. “Lady Alice, leave us. And you, Guy.”
Alice went pink with anger, then, snapping her fingers at her dogs, she stalked away. Guy exited more gracefully. Ceidre, her heart picking up a quick, frantic beat, wondered what the Norman would do now.
His look was ice. “My scouts have seen nothing of a hundred Saxons, Ceidre. The truth!”
Ceidre swallowed a lump of fear. “They are in hiding, I know not where.”
He said nothing, just stared. Ceidre’s hands were shaking. She tried to hide them in the skirt of her gown.
“You should be afraid,” Rolfe said grimly. “Very, very afraid.”
She s
hould beg his mercy, even if it meant getting down upon her knees. But she would not—she could not. So she watched him, her eyes huge and purple and frightened.
“I fear greatly,” Rolfe finally said, “that your presence here shall always be that of a serpent in the garden.”
She did not respond, she could not respond.
“You understood,” Rolfe said heavily, “as well as the next, the punishment for treason.”
Her heart leapt up to choke her. He would have her whipped? Or hanged? She wet her lips. Somehow she managed to speak, her voice trembling. “Yes.”
Rolf turned away to pace. He was like a caged lion, barely contained. The silence and the anticipation stretched endlessly, torturing her. He finally turned, piercing her with his gaze. “’Tis not treason to stumble upon one’s brother by chance in the woods.”
Relief, vast, vast relief, swept her.
“Ceidre.”
“Yes, my lord?”
“You have surely bewitched me, but I warn you, do not test my clemency again. If you commit treason, you will suffer the same as anyone. Do you understand?”
She could hear her own heartbeat. She swallowed. She said the word yes, but it was so low as to be inaudible.
“Do you understand?” he repeated harshly. A vein throbbed in his temple.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Then get you from my sight, before I come to my senses.”
Ceidre clutched her hands to her bosom. “My lord?”
His eyes were blue fury. “Ceidre …”
“Please—may I attend my brother?”
“No! Now get!”
Ceidre turned, took a step, then with a breath ran from the hall. Once outside in the fresh air, she leaned against a trough, shaking. She had come so very close to a severe punishment, but had somehow—and she thanked God, St. Edward in shrine at Westminster, and St. Cuthbert—evaded it. Yet there was still the awful reality to face: Morcar was the Norman’s prisoner.
And it was up to her to do something about it.
Immediately Ceidre began to plan Morcar’s escape.