by Brenda Joyce
“My lord?”
He grunted, draining a cup of wine. “Have you given any thought to the subject we discussed?”
He tossed a bone at the dogs. They descended upon it, snarling and fighting among themselves. “Which subject?”
“Marrying my sister,” Alice said in her tiniest, most tentative voice.
The thought worsened his mood. “No.” He closed the subject with his tone. In truth, he hadn’t thought about it, not once. But now, now the idea taunted him. It was distasteful, repugnant. It was a solution.
He would not do it, and that was that. The decision made, he felt better, relieved. He would exorcise his lust for her in the usual way, with the maid, with any wench he happened to want. But marry her to another he would not do. Besides, she was dangerous, she needed to be kept close by, under his watchful eye. This last satisfied him with its logic.
He rose abruptly. “Send Ceidre to me,” he told Alice.
Her eyes widened. “You have something to discuss with her?”
He thought of her brothers and smiled grimly. “Aye.” He walked over to the hearth and stared into its flames.
He felt her approach. Her presence was tangible, sweet. Exciting. His body was alive, wired. His breath was more rapid, even shallow. He was perspiring. From the heat of the fire, he told himself, and laughed. His cock had already reared itself up. He turned to face her.
He gasped.
For a moment he thought it was not her, but some haggard older relation. And then he realized it was her.
She colored at his horror, looking away. Her hands, thin and almost translucent now, clutched the folds of her gown.
Rolfe recovered. He touched her chin, gently, afraid that this shadow of the woman he had left behind might break, and turned her face up. She had lost a stone. Her face was gaunt, huge dark shadows beneath her violet eyes. He looked into their depths and was moved, for they were haunted, scarred, a tableau of pain and suffering. And still so very beautiful. She was thinner, she was pale, even her hair had lost its luster, but she was still beautiful, and this amazed him. “What happened?” he managed. His voice sounded raw.
“I was ill.”
Guilt, horrific, incriminating guilt, overwhelmed him. He did not have to ask, but he did. “From the flogging?”
Her gaze, defiant, proud, alive, held his. “Yes.” “How are you now?”
“Fine. I know I do not look it, but I am.” Her chin was raised. She dared him to say otherwise. Yet he could see that she was trembling.
“Are you with fever?”
She shook her head.
“You are shaking,” he said, touching her shoulder. She drew away from his touch, and he heard the sound of her suspended breath.
“I—I am fine.”
She was afraid of him, or, at the least, as wary and apprehensive as a pup that had been kicked. But should it be otherwise? He was grim. Self-hatred welled. “I want you to rest. I want you to eat. I want you to eat six times a day. I want you to gain back your weight.”
“Is that an order?” Despite the sarcasm, her voice quavered.
He would not, could not, be angry now. “Yes. In a sennight, Ceidre, I expect you to look as you did before I left. Is that clear?”
“Mayhap ’tis better now,” Ceidre said frankly. Her gaze was steady. “You will not chase me now, and I do not have to run.”
He smiled slightly, and let his glance dip to her bosom, which she had barely lost, if at all. On her slender frame it was more voluptuous than ever. “Shall we put this theory to the test?”
She folded her arms and backed away. “You would lust after a sick woman?”
His smile was fuller now. “You said you were not ill.”
“You can see for yourself that I lied.”
“So now we add liar to the label of traitor?”
“Why not? Husbands are also adulterers.”
“Are you implying something?”
“Me? I speak only the truth.”
“When it suits you, you speak the truth; when it suits, you lie. You are not constant, Ceidre,” Rolfe purred.
“And when it suits, you bed your wife, and when it suits, you chase after me!” Ceidre flung back, her cheeks stained pink. Her eyes widened—at her audacity and bravery.
He closed his hand over her arm, but her courage thrilled him. “Stop. You are getting overwrought. You will be ill again.”
“Do you care?” She was instantly horrified at her telltale bitter tone.
His jaw tightened. For a long moment he did not answer. Then he said abruptly, “The health and well-being of every serf on Aelfgar is my responsibility. As is yours. Where are you sleeping?”
“Lady Alice let me move in with my grandmother.”
“I want you under this roof.”
“The better to chase me?”
His gaze pinned her, and she shrank. “The better to guard you, Ceidre. You are a traitor, and my responsibility. I do not trust you, not as far as I can spit.” And he thought of his loss of York—and his betrayal of his king.
The hall was empty, as he had ordered, except for Guy. Through the open front door Rolfe could see the comings and goings of his men and his serfs. It was a glorious day, hot, bright, the first of July. There did not seem to be a cloud in the sky. Inside, it was overly warm, and a thin film of sweat covered his skin beneath the lightest-weight undertunic he possessed.
Guy was aghast. Rolfe had informed him of his meeting with William and the punishment that had been meted out for Morcar’s escape. “’Tis unfair,” he cried. “You have no cause to be treated like any other. You are his best man and he knows it!”
“William has never been one to play his favorites too heavily,” Rolfe said, staring out the door again. He was waiting for Ceidre, whom he had summoned. Last night, in his distress, he had lost all his intention and desire to interrogate her. But that must be rectified. “I want her watched carefully now that she is up and about,” he said.
Guy did not have to be told who “she” was. He hesitated.
“Spit it out,” Rolfe said.
“My lord, I do not trust her. Mayhap she should be kept confined.”
The thought was frankly distasteful. “She will not betray me again,” he said, with confidence he did not feel. “Besides, I need her.” He smiled at Guy’s confusion. “If anyone will be in touch with her whoreson traitor brothers, ’twill be her.”
Guy’s eyes lighted with understanding.
Ceidre appeared in the doorway, the sun behind her, creating a halo, dimming her. Rolfe gestured her inside, away from the sunlight, and she came, warily. His chest tightened again at the mere sight of her, and from his physical response, he was reminded of yet another thing—how he had failed to exorcise his lust for her last night. In his agitation he had completely forgotten to rendezvous with the maid. Now she even holds me faithful, he thought, unamused.
Guy moved to leave. “Stay,” Rolfe ordered, and smiled at Ceidre. Her eyes widened. He gestured at Alice’s chair. “Sit.”
She came forward, apprehensive now, and sat. He towered over her. “Where are your brothers, Ceidre?”
She blinked. “I don’t know.”
“Do not lie. I am your lord, and I am demanding this information. Where are they?”
“I do not know,” she said, lips set mulishly.
He reached out and touched her cheek, the stroke soft, gentle—frightening. “Because of your treachery I have lost York. And because of you I will regain it. Nothing will stop me from finding Morcar and returning him to the king. Do you understand?”
She was angry, her eyes were almost black, burning. “If you think I will help you, you are wrong!”
“I am considering a marriage for you,” Rolfe said expressionlessly.
She gasped.
It was a lie, but he knew she would cherish her independence, and he would lie now to get what he wanted. “If you please me, I might reconsider. If you do not please me, I will choose you
a groom—today. And he will not be averse to beating the truth out of you, as I am. He will most likely be a common sort, eager to please his new lord, and he will not let his wife defy him. Do you understand?”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Oh, I would,” he said softly.
Ceidre gazed at her hands, folded in her lap. “I truly do not know where they are, except that they are in the fens,” she said at last, looking up. Tears glimmered, hanging heavily on her lashes.
Rolfe knew she told the truth; he could see it in her eyes. He felt remorse for his bullying, yet swept it away. “Very well,” he said. She had told him nothing he did not already know.
“Please, my lord,” Ceidre said hesitantly.
He waited.
“Do not make me marry.”
“I will think on it,” he said gruffly. Summoning Guy, he turned and walked out.
Ceidre stared hard at the royal messenger.
A week had passed since that abrupt interview. Every morning Ceidre had awakened with dread that Rolfe would summon her to him again, this time divulging the identity of a groom and stating his intention to see her wed. She knew, if he chose to do so, there was nothing she could do to prevent it. She was afraid.
Yet the summons did not come. Instead, life crept lazily along. Most of the inhabitants of the manor were moved into the new keep, herself included. The manor, now enclosed in the bailey, served as another hall where the excess of Rolfe’s men and servants could sleep. The Norman tower was hot and airless, and Ceidre hated it. The ground floor was used for storage, the first as the hall. On the top story were the lord and lady’s chamber, as well as a solar and antechamber. Ceidre slept in the great hall, below Rolfe and Alice, with Guy ever present and nearby.
She had been given nothing to do since Rolfe’s return. She spent most of her time with her grandmother, in the village, away from him and his new, monstrously ugly building. She gained back all the weight she had lost, maybe a touch more. She felt strong again, and her near brush with death was almost, but not quite, reduced to the memory of a bad dream.
Ceidre just happened to be in the great hall fetching a clean undertunic from her pallet, carefully rolled up and shoved into a far corner. It was dark in the cavernous hall, darker still in its corners, and she froze when Rolfe and another man, dressed for travel, entered. Blinking in the dim light, it took her only a second to see that he was a royal messenger.
She stared at him.
Rolfe shouted for wine and refreshments and the two men sat carelessly at the long trestle table. Rolfe leaned back in his chair, unaware of her presence, as Mary came in with bread, cheese, pies, ale, and wine. The messenger began to eat ravenously, draining first one cup of wine, then another.
Ceidre hunched closer into herself.
“I am in no rush,” Rolfe said. “There is no need to act the wolf.”
“I rode hard, my lord,” the messenger responded, mouth full. “The king’s orders.” With a greasy hand, the messenger extracted a scroll and shoved it at Rolfe.
Rolfe took it but did not open it. He toyed with the string without untying it. “What news at York?”
“Two Danish vessels were spotted just off the coast,” the messenger mumbled. “Another invasion was feared. Yet they went right past. ’Twas most strange.”
Rolfe said nothing.
“The king is pleased with the rebuilding of the castle and has named Odo’s bastard, Jean, castellan. Scots raided Lareby and burned the village to the ground. Odo took a royal force and repelled them, chasing them far into Cumbria. That is all,” he finished, reaching for a pie.
Ceidre’s heart was pounding. The missive, the missive, she prayed. If only they would discuss it. She was afraid to move. She had already spied for too long; it was too late to make herself known. If she was caught now, she would truly be in jeopardy.
“Where are the Danes now?” Rolfe asked.
“Gone south.”
Lazily Rolfe poured himself a cup of wine and sipped it.
“Oh, William has stated that he intends to crush these rebels by this winter. He will not pass Christmas at York, he intends to be at Westminster.”
Rolfe smiled slightly, a mere curling up of the corners of his mouth.
At this precise moment, something furry and alive scampered across Ceidre’s bare foot. Ceidre was not afraid of rats, just cautious, for their bites were poison. But she was listening so intently that she was taken by surprise, and she gasped.
Rolfe was standing, piercing her with his gaze.
Blushing, Ceidre got to her feet, clutching the clean undertunic. She could not look away from him.
Now he truly smiled. “Come here, Ceidre,” he said quite amiably.
“I just came to get another tunic,” she mumbled hastily. “I—I did not want to disturb you.”
He was still smiling. “Come, Ceidre.” His gesture was expansive.
She came forward, out of the gloom of the corner, until she was an arm’s length from him. Her heart beat wildly, he was unruffled and calm. “Sit,” he said.
Her gaze widened. He pulled out Alice’s chair, and with a hand on her shoulder, she found herself sitting beside him. He casually draped his big frame back in his own chair. The messenger finished his pie, rubbed his hands together, and burped. “My lady,” he said.
“She is not my lady,” Rolfe drawled. “She is Lady Alice’s sister.” Then he proceeded to ask the messenger about his journey, about the villages he had passed through, the attitude of the villagers, the state of their harvest, the conditions of the road. Ceidre stared at the scroll, so near Rolfe’s hand. They discussed the weather. They discussed Hugh of Bramber, who was wedding a Saxon heiress. They discussed everything but the royal missive.
Ceidre sat very still, so as not to draw attention to herself, wondering what he was doing, why he had told her to sit, and trying not to look at the scroll. Her gaze kept wandering back to it, and Rolfe’s hand, relaxed on the table, a centimeter from the missive.
“I do not begrudge Hugh Bramber,” Rolfe finally said. “He is a good man, and he will secure his fiefdom well.”
“Yes, my lord,” the messenger said agreeably.
Rolfe reached for the scroll. He finally glanced at Ceidre, who felt herself flush. Then, to the messenger, he said, “You may go.”
The man bowed and left, swaggering away. The effect was ruined when he broke wind, loudly. Rolfe toyed with the scroll, and Ceidre tore her gaze from it again, with increasing difficulty. She was perspiring. He was playing with her, wasn’t he? She lifted her eyes to his. He was regarding her steadily, casually. Was there the hint of amusement in that cool blue gaze?
“Do you read, Ceidre?”
She could not believe her good fortune; she almost choked on it. “Y-yes.”
His head inclined slightly. “’Tis most unusual for a man, much less a woman.”
“Yes.”
“But then, you are most unusual, are you not?” She stared into his gaze. Was he referring to her evil eye? What did he want? He smiled, once, and began unrolling the scroll. Her heart sank when he held it up and perused it. Then he lowered it. “I do not read. Read it to me.”
Her heart stopped, then began racing again. Her hands trembled as she took the scroll. She dared not look at him. “First,” she said huskily, and coughed to clear her throat, “there are greetings from William. It says”—and her heart sank—“that a spy has been caught, a spy of—of my brothers.”
“Continue.”
“Another rebellion is planned, but the spy did not know when, or where. Maybe it will be soon. This is an alert.” She rerolled the scroll nervously. Her mind was racing. Who had been caught? Was Edwin truly planning another uprising—this soon? It was too soon! The Normans would be waiting now. She had to warn them!
She realized he was watching her intently. She blushed again, handing him his missive. He stuck it into the flame of a candle, setting it on fire. Rolfe held the scroll aloft, studyin
g it as it burned. His face was impassive. But his mind was not.
The bait had been taken; the trap was set.
Teddy’s father was her uncle, her mother’s brother, Feldric. He was a dozen years older than Ceidre, and widowed. Teddy was his youngest, at fourteen. It was a few minutes later, and Ceidre was no longer feigning nonchalance, as she had when she strolled into the village with one of Rolfe’s men trailing after her. Feldric was stacking bushels of wood. “I cannot,” he said.
“Oh, you must, I beg you! Think about Annie!” Ceidre cried, referring to her mother.
“That is not fair,” Feldric said, pausing, a hand in his gray hair.
“What has happened to my brothers is not fair,” she shot back. “Feldric, we must warn them that the Normans are aware of their plans! We must! I know you can find them. Look,” she said urgently. “I would go if I could, but that brute outside guards me every minute of every day. Tonight you can slip away, Feldric. Once you are in the fens, as a Saxon, you will find them instantly. Please.”
He sighed. “All right,” he said. “I will do my best. But if I cannot find them in a fortnight, I am returning, and that is that.”
“Thank you,” Ceidre said, meaning it. “Thank you.”
That night Feldric left, on foot. Beltain followed.
Ceidre awoke the next morning with a strange, eerie feeling of anticipation. Mingled with this was worry, over what she had discovered the day before, and elation—she had sent her own messenger to find her brothers. She was finally doing something to aid Edwin and Morcar, and the taste of her activity was sweet. It was also heightened by a personal victory—she had fooled the Norman. She had actually succeeded in outwitting him!
His eyes stroked her lazily during the noonday meal. Ceidre felt as if her guilt showed, as if he could read it —she could not meet his gaze. Then she chastised herself, for there was no guilt to feel—it was her duty to abet her brothers, her duty to fight the Norman. But it was guilt she felt, or something suspiciously like it.
Beth nearly dropped a trencher on her lap, in the process whispering in Ceidre’s ear to meet her in the kitchens as soon as she could. Ceidre was surprised, but hid it. She knew Beth, of course, but she was not exactly a friend. That Beth would relay such a message thoroughly aroused her curiosity, and her hopes.