by Brenda Joyce
Rolfe carried her inside and up the stairs. His instinct was to carry her into his bedchamber, but reason returned, and he swept her into the solar and upon the bed that had been Alice’s before the lady had become his wife. Ever so gently, he laid her down, upon her stomach.
Alice was on his heels. “What are you doing?” she cried, pink-faced. “She must be put in the stocks, then the dungeons! You have already been too lenient—”
Rolf whirled, enraged. “Your conduct is ungracious.”
Alice froze.
“Get to our chamber and think on what befits the lady of this manor.”
Alice’s eyes went wide. “You would confine me to our chamber?”
“Go now,” Rolfe roared. “Until I request your presence!”
Taking a deep breath, Alice turned and stalked out.
Rolfe closed his eyes briefly, assailed with the image of his wife as Ceidre writhed in pain beneath the whip. Alice had enjoyed her sister’s punishment, and the recollection was hideous. Then he moved, dropping to one knee. His hands ached to touch her, but Ceidre lifted her head to look at him, pain in her gaze—and hatred. “Get away from me,” she hissed.
At the very least, Rolfe wanted to tuck back errant strands of hair away from her face. Her tone, and her hate, stopped him; his arms fell to his sides. He rose. “You will be tended to,” he said, his tone hoarse even to his own ears. “And you are confined to this room.” He wanted her close by, and comfortable, until she healed. And he would not question his own motives.
“What?” Ceidre was sarcastic, drippingly so. Then her voice broke. “You do not listen to your good wife, my sister? You do not toss me into the dungeons? Do you now, belatedly, show mercy?” To her horror, a fat tear escaped to roll slowly down her cheek.
Rolfe hated himself too, so he could understand now how she felt. He watched the path of the tear, wishing he had the courage to reach out and erase it— he who had never lacked courage before. His gaze moved to her back, swollen with welts, and the three long abrasions where, finally, the whip had broken her skin. She would be scarred. Because of him.
Her name was on his lips, and he could not prevent its escaping, low and harsh, urgent and agonized. “Ceidre …”
She seared him with contempt and turned her face to the wall.
Rolfe studied her. There was nothing else for him to do but to leave, yet he was loath to. She was so pitiful now in her wounded state, yet so magnificent in her courage. He turned away.
Only when he had closed the door behind him did Ceidre begin to weep.
“There, there,” her grandmother soothed. “I know it hurts, just hold still.”
Ceidre tried to do as she was told while her granny cleaned her abrasions to prevent an infection. Every little touch stung, and her back burned and throbbed unbearably. More tears seeped from her eyes, tears of pain and self-pity.
“You are a strong one, lass,” Granny said in her low murmur. She was as old as the hills, a big-bosomed, plump woman with white hair and Ceidre’s own dark purple eyes. “You will be healed in no time.”
“You do not chastise me?”
“I know you, Ceidre, you did what you thought was right. A soul can do no more.”
“I must help my brothers, I must.”
“Shh, do not get in a dither.”
Ceidre laid her head back down while the old woman packed a poultice on her wounds. “I hate him, truly,” she murmured. “He has no heart, none at all.”
“No?” her grandmother asked. “That must be why he ran to you and cut you down and carried you, in his own two arms, with all of Aelfgar watching, into his home.”
Ceidre flushed. “Mayhap ’twas guilt, but that would truly be a surprise.” Yet she could see his eyes, as he had looked at her before the flogging, with their dark, strained depths, turbulent, roiling. And she could hear his voice, hoarse and pleading, as he called her name—but pleading for what?
“He did his duty, as you did yours,” Granny said.
“’Tis a fine coil, this is, with him wed to Alice but with eyes only for you. And now this.”
“He is merely randy, like a goat,” Ceidre spit out.
“He takes any passing wench that amuses him. I amuse him most now, yet I am his wife’s sister and he is decent enough to leave me be. But that whets his overly large appetite.”
“Ahh,” mused her grandmother. “’Twas for lust that he carried you to your sickbed.”
Ceidre was angry, and she snorted. The door opened precisely then, and Ceidre knew, instinctively, that it was the topic of their conversation. She met his steady regard with a hot glare.
“How is she?” Rolfe asked, stepping to the bedside.
“She will be fine, ’tis her peasant stock that makes her strong.”
Rolfe did not smile. Ceidre turned her head away but was aware of him gazing at her naked back. Her torn dress had been completely removed. From the hips down she was covered with a thin blanket, and she felt very vulnerable lying bare as she was.
“Will she scar?” Rolfe asked grimly.
“Yes, but not too badly if the salve is applied frequently. With time, who knows? Perhaps the marks will fade so as to nigh be discernible.”
“With time,” Rolfe echoed, staring.
“There is nothing more for me to do,” Granny said, rising heavily.
Rolfe took one last look at Ceidre, her head averted, then stepped with the old woman to the door. “Thank you,” he said.
Granny looked at him with a smile. “’Tis not for you to thank me, my lord.”
Rolfe looked at her. “Thank you,” he affirmed, and followed her out.
Alice heard him coming.
She was pacing like a caged cat, ire in her every stride, in the tight lines of her face. She froze at the sound of Rolfe’s strong steps upon the stairs, then struggled to attain a pleasant façade. It was not easy to do.
It was late, past supper. He had not summoned her for their evening meal, and instead a serf had brought her food and drink as she remained confined in their chamber. All of Aelfgar knew, she was sure, that she was being punished—and it was because of that witch, Ceidre.
Humiliation and fury vied equally, but strongest of all was hate. She hated her husband, and she hated his whore even more.
But she must get a grip on her emotions. He had not touched her since that first morning, when she had awoken beneath him to find him attempting to fornicate with her. She wished now that he had succeeded, that the consummation of their marriage had taken place. But it hadn’t. Tonight, however, there was no reason he would not fulfill his duties.
Rolfe entered, barely sparing her a glance. Alice had already changed for sleep. She paused by the hearth in a robe, her eyes huge and riveted upon him. Like a doe, she was poised, waiting to gauge his mood, his actions. He sighed and began stripping off his tunic.
“You look tired, my lord. Please, let me,” Alice said, coming to him.
He nodded, no thanks forthcoming, and allowed her to lift off the tunic, then the undergarment. Alice tried not to touch his skin, but failed, and she shuddered. He did not notice.
He bent to release his garters, and Alice hurried to do so for him. He let her, and as she removed them, he stepped out of his chausses and hose. Alice made a show of folding his things neatly, so as not to have to look at his blatant nudity. The man had no modesty, no shame. She remembered how it had felt, his male organ, poking at her, and she felt her tension rising. She fought with herself and managed to maintain a semblance of calm.
He was already in the bed, one arm outflung, eyes closed. Alice approached, blinking. He did not look like a lusty groom, he looked like an exhausted man about to sleep. She slid in beside him and, once under the coverlet, removed her robe. He did not move. An awful realization arose—he was going to sleep! He was not going to touch her!
A part of her rejoiced. Yet her smarter self, her ambitious self, was cool and calm and knew this could not pass. Alice shifted her bod
y so that her knee touched his. There was no response.
She was not a seductress like her sister. How was she going to get his attention? And why, why was he behaving like a monk? He knew his duty! Alice touched his arm. “My lord?”
He wasn’t asleep, for his eyes opened immediately, and he gazed at her lucidly.
Alice’s mouth trembled. “I am so sorry,” she whispered, her lashes fluttering down, “I did not mean to displease you. Can you not forgive me?”
“’Tis forgotten,” he said with a grunt. “Now, go to sleep.” He rolled over, facing away from her.
She wanted to take this good fortune and escape his attentions, but she could not. “My lord? Might I have a word with you?”
Rolfe turned back over, sitting up. “What is it you wish, Alice?” His tone was short and rude.
Her temper flared. “You do not wish to consummate this marriage?”
His eyes narrowed. “No, I do not.”
She blinked, shocked, not having expected this answer. For a moment she was at a loss. “You do not want to consummate this marriage?” she repeated.
“No.”
Alice shrank back against the wall. “I do not understand. I am your wife.”
Rolfe’s eyes were blue flames, and in a violent action, he jerked out of the bed, pacing away from her. When he turned, she saw that he was very angry. He could not possibly be harboring such rage at her!
“Then I will explain,” Rolfe said harshly. “Your behavior today sickens me. I have no desire to touch you. None—as you can see.” He gestured crudely at himself.
She went white, then red. A long silence prevailed. Finally Alice broke it, stunned. “You do not wish to be wed to me?”
“You are my wife,” Rolfe said. “We are wed.”
“Not truly. Not in the eyes of God.”
His stare was cold. “Perhaps, when the mood takes me, I will rectify that. But not today. Not tonight.”
Alice covered her trembling chest with her hand. She could not believe this. He might consummate the marriage one day, if the “mood” took him. And yet what was she to do? Shout her humiliation to the world? No, she would never be able to hold her head up again, if everyone knew he had not taken her as was his duty—when all knew he lusted openly after her sister. He must know she would say nothing. Tears came to her eyes. “You do not want sons? I can give you many heirs, my lord. I am young and I am healthy.”
Rolfe smiled, without mirth. “I have sons—half a dozen scattered from Normandy to Anjou. I have two more bastards in Sussex. Believe me, madame, I do not lack for heirs.”
“So ’twill be a marriage in name only,” Alice said bitterly—and then she was struck with a thought. She hated the very idea of his touching her, and she always had, yet because she wanted to be his wife, and it was her duty, she had wanted this consummation. But now she was his wife, and if no one knew the truth, then she could be his wife without suffering his touch….
“When the foul memory of your malicious pleasure in your sister’s pain recedes, I will most certainly exercise my rights,” Rolfe was saying. “But ’twill not be this eve, so you may rest easy, your maidenhead is yet spared. Good night, Lady Alice,” he ended firmly, striding back to the bed.
How she detested him.
How very lucky she was.
And of course, she would have to make sure all of Aelfgar assumed their marriage was truly consummated. But that would be a simple task, indeed.
Despite exhaustion, his sleep was not deep, and it was troubled.
Tomorrow he had planned to take Morcar to the king. A messenger had been sent upon the Saxon’s capture to inform William of the good news. Rolfe tossed restlessly, imagining the king’s reaction when he learned of Morcar’s escape. His wrath would be terrible. He would want to know all the details. And of course, some sort of punishment would be forthcoming—to himself, Rolfe, the commander in charge.
Rolfe did not question his urges, he only knew he must protect Ceidre. He would not reveal her identity to William. She had been punished. She was a serf. He would state that a serf, a woman, had carried out the act of treason and had been punished. But it was not so simple. Because it was only partially the truth— because it was equally a lie.
Ceidre was no simple serf but Morcar’s half sister. This was important information, which the king would want to know. If William ever found out it had been withheld, he would be furious. Rolfe’s omission of the fact was betrayal.
He was betraying his king—to protect her.
Surely he was bewitched in the most literal sense of the word.
He could not do it. He could not betray his king. He was William’s first and foremost commander, and as such, he knew his duty, he understood honor and loyalty. He had spent the past ten years serving his liege, and serving him well. To betray his king was to betray himself. Yet how could he rest loyal to William and protect Ceidre as well?
To reveal her real identity was to risk a graver punishment for her than what she had suffered, perhaps even death.
He was torn. This dilemma occupied him thoroughly, grimly, and he sensed disaster lurking not far from the present. For if he continued to protect her, a traitor, where would it finally end? How to draw the line between her acts of treason—and his own?
His own punishment, be what it might, did not even enter into his thoughts.
His wife lay sleeping beside him. He had sensed her relief when she had come to terms with his intention not to consummate the marriage. Rolfe almost snorted in disgust. At himself. A month ago he would have consummated this marriage whether his wife repelled him or not. But now he was not just repulsed every time he thought of her triumph in Ceidre’s pain; he was enraged. He was allowing his unfed lust to rule him. It must stop.
He had made a vow that he would not touch Ceidre, and he reaffirmed it now. And if he could not touch her, he must put an end to his sexual hunger for her, as it could not be appeased. But how? Surely it was easier said than done.
Damn the woman, he thought, not for the first time. Didn’t she realize her head was in the balance, haughty little chin and all? Didn’t she realize that she was interfering in royal affairs, and that if William chose to hang her, there was nothing he could do to save her pretty little neck? Or—and he had a sudden moment of brilliant comprehension—did she sense her power over him, and believe he himself would betray his own king to save her, thus allowing her to act recklessly, stupidly? If she was going to commit treason, the least she could have done was not let the whole damned world know she was the traitor!
And, for the first time in his life, as Rolfe lay in the dark, he felt fear. It curdled in his guts. It was rank, it tasted like bile. Never in his life had he questioned the natural order, never in his life had he cared about a woman’s feelings, if she was hurt, or pleasured, and never in his life had his own loyalty to his king been in doubt. He was the king’s man. If this fact of his existence ceased to be, then just who the hell was he?
You are Rolfe de Warenne, he told himself firmly, Rolfe the Relentless, eaorl of Aelfgar—and you are King William’s most trusted commander. He still could not sleep.
Or maybe he had drifted off. At first, he thought it was his wife who had awakened him with a pitiful, mewling noise. But his senses were keen, and he was as wide awake as before, listening—and Alice lay sleeping soundly. The cry, pitiful, a child frightened or hurt, sounded again. An instant later Rolfe knew it was no child but a woman, the witch of his dreams. He was out of the bed before the realization had firmly anchored itself.
She cried out again, with a sob.
Rolfe was at the door, his body tense, his thoughts filled with dire predictions—she was in pain, fevered, because of him. At the door he stopped short, remembering himself. Ceidre was moaning. He could see into her chamber, and she was thrashing about in the midst of a dream. He was sure she was assailed by the same image that was haunting him—that of her flogging.
He turned and rudely shook Ali
ce, “Wake up,” he said.
“Alice, wake up.” Alice blinked. “My lord—what is it?”
“Go to your sister.”
She sat up. “What?”
“Go to your sister. Awaken her from her dream, see if she is in pain. Now.”
Alice’s features became pinched in a mask of anger, but she calmly stepped to the floor, pulling her robe closed around her. Rolfe followed her after lighting a lamp, but he paused on the threshold of the chamber, refusing to go any farther. Alice shook Ceidre as rudely as he had shaken her. “Gently,” Rolfe said.
“She is hurt.”
Alice bit her lip but eased her motions. “Ceidre, wake up. Wake up this instant.”
Ceidre heard Alice, laughing, as she tensed for another lash. It hurt unbearably, she could not stand it, she was going to cry out, scream, be weak before the Norman—and she did. She knew she was weeping. It hurt so much. She kept seeing him, proud and beautiful and golden, and her heart was a traitor, begging him to come to her, soothe her, take her away. No, someone in her dream shrieked. He is the enemy, he is the one hurting you! She refused to listen. In her bizarre nightmare, he was her savior. She knew the ending of the story already, which was strange, she knew he would come to her, hold her, take her away, stop the pain. And she needed him to hurry, to do it now. “Rolfe, please,” she cried. “Rolfe, please.”
“Wake up, Ceidre,” Alice snapped.
Rolfe froze after the first cry. He had never heard his name on her lips before. His body, already as taut as a coiled spring, became tauter. And then she cried his name again. He moved like a striking panther; one instant at the door, the next at her bed. He told himself it was the dark, the night, his own exhaustion, that was making him put his hands gently, so gently, on her shoulders. He ignored Alice’s gasp. She leapt to her feet as he sank down on the bed at Ceidre’s hip. “Wake up,” he said huskily. “Ceidre.”
His hand moved to the nape of her neck, into tendrils of hair that had escaped the coiled braid. She was whimpering and sobbing. He wasn’t sure if she was asleep now or awake, but she shifted onto her side to curl against him as he slipped one strong arm beneath her to hold her close to his chest. “Wake up,” he murmured, his breath touching her brow. The endearment “sweetheart” was on the tip of his tongue. The urge to brush his lips against her brow, and then to taste her tears with his tongue, was clamoring for fulfillment. Even so, he was acutely aware of his wife standing a few steps from him, livid. Damn Alice.