by Brenda Joyce
They arrived in York two days later. William’s royal garrison, Ceidre saw, was teeming with activity. She had managed to avoid anxiety during their journey, riding alongside Rolfe, sharing conversation and warm looks, even making him laugh upon occasion, much to his men’s amazement. Rolfe gave no explanation to anyone as to why she was accompanying him, and of course, no one dared to question her presence. After initial pink embarrassment at the knights’ surprise, Ceidre recovered and was soon truly enjoying herself. How could she not, after all? She was astride a beautiful blooded palfrey in the full bloom of summer, seated next to her handsome, golden lover—it was as if they were amusing themselves with a pleasant, innocent outing. There had been no incidents to hinder them, and they made good time. Yet now, seeing the comings and goings of William’s soldiers, including his messengers, Ceidre felt dread ballooning deep in the pit of her being.
The question loomed: Why had Rolfe been sent for? And now, seeing what were clearly travel preparations for a large number of troops, she feared the worst. An armed force would be leaving York, and it could only be related to the rebels.
Rolfe left her at his tent, which was quickly raised within the inner bailey, but did not restrict her to it. He went to see William. Ceidre felt as if a fairy tale had ended. She could not rest happily at York in the face of what she was seeing. She had to find out what was occurring, and why. She prayed that the Normans were going to ride out after Scot reivers and not after Saxon rebels.
She spent the rest of the day wandering in the village, where gossip ran rampant and all the village women were eager to share it with her, another Saxon. The Danes were going to invade again, one bakerwoman said. William was going to ride to the coast to meet them head on. A fisherwoman told Ceidre that William was furious over an ambush a sennight past, in which he had lost a top captain. He intended to scour the borderlands until he found the rebels responsible, and hang each and every one. An alewife told her that Hereward the Wake was reportedly close by, and this was the target of the Bastard Conqueror; another woman told her that her brothers’ whereabouts had been discovered and that William would rout them and capture them, once and for all.
This last made Ceidre sick with fear.
She purchased meat and pigeon pastries from a vendor, along with a few exceedingly plump plums, and headed back to the castle’s walls. They had been completed in wood and partially built in stone since their destruction during the last uprising. She was allowed into the outer bailey when, being questioned by the guard, she stated she had arrived with Rolfe de Warenne. She ignored a few lewd comments and a wink. After passing over the next drawbridge, she incurred the same questions, and this time had to wait until Beltain appeared to vouch for her. The heavy, spiked portcullis slammed shut after she was let in.
Rolfe had not returned to his tent. Ceidre paid a young boy to fetch water, and she washed every inch of her body by hand and sponge. She donned fresh garments, nibbled on the food she had bought, and paced restlessly. Dark shadows fell, the night grew black. He had obviously stayed to dine in the keep with William, she thought, chagrined. He had forgotten her presence or was careless of it. Then she told herself she was a fool for feeling jilted. She did not want to sup in William’s hall, and if she had, how would Rolfe explain her presence to his own liege lord? He would certainly have to, for William could question him about anything and everything. Her appearance at his side would at the least cause a scandal, at the most a royal uproar!
It was close to midnight when he made his entrance. His face, harsh in the light of the torch he held, softened upon seeing her as he drew the flap closed behind him. “I am sorry, sweetheart,” he said, and she melted.
He had not ensconced the torchlight when she was hugging him fiercely, seeking his lips. A startled sound escaped him, then he met her demanding mouth with equal fervor. “I like this greeting,” he said huskily sometime later.
Tears came to her eyes. “Take me now,” she said harshly. And she caught his face in her hands and kissed him, forcing his mouth open, plunging her tongue aggressively within.
He took her quickly, roughly, right there on the pallet, and although Ceidre found physical release, she was not sated. Her fear and anxiety were choking her. She draped herself over him and around him, and could not burrow close enough. He caressed her lazily, then laughed. “I see you missed me,” he teased.
She did not look at him, she felt like crying again. “I always miss you when we are apart, my lord,” she said breathlessly.
He was silent, but she felt his heart beneath her palm, and it had jumped in response to her words. He stroked her hair. “Is it true?” he asked, nuzzling the top of her head.
“Yes,” she said, and realized, stunned, that she was not lying.
“I thought of you this day too,” he admitted. He wrapped both of his powerful arms around her and held her more firmly against him. “Have you eaten, sweeting? Are you hungry? I will call for food and wine.”
“I have eaten,” Ceidre said, kissing his neck quickly.
He stroked his palm down her naked back, to explore the full curve of her bottom. Ceidre felt him hardening again. She felt a wild, uncontrollable need to be with him again, to have him inside her again, as if she could exorcise reality, or at least hold it back for a while. She slipped onto her side, her breasts provocatively crushed atop his chest, and reached down to fondle him. He tensed, then sighed with pleasure, his own fingers seeking her nipples and finding them.
She looked at him. His burning gaze met hers, then he threw his head back, revealing his thick, strong throat, arching his tumescent penis into her hand. His mouth opened, his breathing became ragged. Ceidre watched his face become strained as she continued to arouse him, kneading, squeezing, sliding up and down the smooth, hard length. He groaned, thrusting into her hand. “Ah, Ceidre …”
She slid onto her knees and nuzzled his full shaft with her face. He gasped, grabbing her head. Her tongue flicked out, to touch the ripe tip, to taste his seed. “Don’t stop,” he cried.
She kissed him, she licked him, she took him in her mouth.
Moments later he yanked her beneath him and plunged into her, again and again, his hands everywhere, until she was shaking and screaming in ecstasy. He followed instantly, collapsing on top of her.
They cuddled in silence for a long while. Ceidre stroked his chest, then said, her mouth against his heart, “How long do we have, my lord? Before you must leave?”
He paused, as he had been caressing her waist, then resumed. “And you are so sure we leave—witch?” His tone was light, teasing.
He has learned to play so well, she thought, and the sadness was overwhelming. Her soul felt on the verge of shattering. “I am not blind. I see all the preparations. You and your men ride out—for-war.” She sat up abruptly, her eyes filling with tears.
“Why do you cry?” he asked harshly, sitting also.
She shook her head, the tears falling unfettered.
“Do not fear,” he said, his tone both rough and gentle, “we do not ride after your brothers.”
Her relief was immense. Yet there was guilt now, and the sadness induced by the hateful reality that she had been forced this day to face, so she cried harder.
“Why do you cry?” He touched her cheek.
What should she say? That she cried because she was a spy, not a simple lover? “I am afraid, afraid of all this,” she managed.
“Dare I hope,” he breathed, capturing her chin, “that some of your fear is for me?”
She looked at him mutely and nodded.
He smiled, leaned forward, and kissed her mouth softy. “Do not fear for me. I will return to you, Ceidre. Nothing can stop me.”
“Will there be fighting?” she asked, touching his jaw.
He hesitated, searching her eyes. “Hopefully, yes.” “I hope you do not find the Wake!” Ceidre cried, meaning it.
“We know where he is, Ceidre,” he said, still regarding her. His look was st
range, searching, but she was too distraught to really mark it.
“How do you know? You cannot be certain!”
“We have many spies—and they are everywhere.” His gaze never left her.
“So you go to destroy him,” she said.
“Of course. He has been planning another rebellion.”
She felt guilty beneath his steady regard, but he could not know her innermost thoughts. She leaned forward and hugged him, hard. She was aware that for a moment he did not respond, but finally, slowly, his arms went around her. She clung. “When do you leave, my lord?”
There was something lacking in his touch, in his embrace. “As soon as Roger of Shrewsbury arrives— in two days.”
She thought: oh, my God, Roger Montgomery too! The Wake had not a chance against such a force! And with a part of her mind she was aware of the strange emptiness of his caress, and the way he was waiting for her response. “At least with such a strong force, I can rest easy knowing you will not be harmed,” she managed, into his shoulder.
She looked up and saw a dark thundercloud upon his face. “Do you care?” he demanded harshly. “Do you care, Ceidre?”
“Yes!” she cried, and it was the truth. But there were so many lies, and tears filled her gaze again.
He crushed her to him, twisting her beneath him. His mouth, upon hers, made up for all the passion his touch had lacked a moment ago; it was so fierce he cut her lip. Ceidre did not care. She welcomed his brutal touch, she welcomed him.
Rolfe did not leave her the next day until noon, to take his dinner with his lord. Ceidre had been sick with dread all morning, and trying, unsuccessfully, she thought, not to show it. He had appeared, somehow, oblivious to her anxiety. This increased her worry. She truly did not believe she was such a good actress, and she also knew he was very clever. Yet he was really unaware of her agitated state of mind.
The instant he left, Ceidre hurried to the village. She was cautious, unlike the day before, but no one followed her. The guards called out a greeting to her as she left the castle, and waved. Yesterday, before he had gone to see William, Rolfe had given her some coin, and today she asked him for more. He had gladly supplied it, without question, impatient, in fact, to be gone. Ceidre used the coin to pay the smith’s son to take a message to Hereward the Wake. Last night she had managed to find out from Rolfe that the Wake was hiding in the fens near the Welsh village of Cavlidockk. “Do you go far?” She had asked. “Not farther than Cavlidockk,” he had said. His gaze was level. “I trust you, Ceidre,” he added bluntly, shocking her. She had managed a smile, and turned her face away before he could see the damning blush.
She had no choice. She had to warn Hereward of the danger he faced. Otherwise, it could be a slaughter.
* * *
The next morning at dawn Rolfe held her slightly apart, gripping her arms, staring down into her face. It was chill out, without the summer sun, but that was not the whole reason Ceidre shivered, wrapped hastily in a mantle and quite naked beneath. He was fully dressed for battle, in chain-mail hauberk and chausses, his sinister black cloak hanging from his shoulders, the citrine brooch at his chest winking. His hands on her tightened.
“God speed you, my lord,” she said softly. She could not look away from his bright blue gaze.
A muscle in his jaw ticked. “Can you not, this once, call me by my name?”
She wet her lips. “God keep you—Rolfe.”
His nostrils flared, his eyes flamed, and he crushed her in his arms. She clung to him. “God keep you, Ceidre,” he whispered, then he claimed her mouth passionately.
He drew apart, gave her a last look, and turned on heel and was gone. Ceidre did not go out to watch him ride away; she couldn’t. Miserably she sought her pallet and refused to leave it until the sun was high in the sky.
She felt listless. There was nothing she wanted to do. She bathed, she dressed, she ate. She supposed she could drift through the days until he returned—he had said he would be back within a sennight. Or she could pull herself together, somehow, and shed this cloying fear. Fear for him, for her brothers, for Hereward, for all the rebels, for them.
Oh, God, she thought. I care for him, I care for the Norman, and this cannot be! I cannot let it be! He is the enemy, he is the usurper of Aelfgar, he is my sister’s husband! I am only his leman, and my duty lies to my brothers!
Frantic, she left the castle, striding into the village, wanting to outdistance these impossible feelings, these awful realizations. In an orchard, blackened grotesquely, the trees mere stumps, she paused to weep. She was about to pull herself together when a girl she vaguely recognized approached. Ceidre sat up, brushing her eyes.
The girl was shy, a pretty thing, almost a woman, blushing a fiery red. “I am sorry, Lady,” she said, flustered. “I must speak with you, but I shall come another time.” She turned to leave.
“No, stop, ’tis all right, I am being silly.” Ceidre managed a smile. “Your name is Maude, is it not?”
“Yes.” She blushed again. Then she glanced furtively around. “Your brother Morcar wants to see you.”
Ceidre gasped. “What?”
Maude smiled with pride. “I am his friend,” she said, and another blush swept her. “So I am glad to help him fight these Norman pigs! When you first came I sent him word that you were here. He expects me to keep him informed of all I see here at York,” she explained patiently. “I am to use my judgment,” she added proudly. “He has sent word back. His man Albie awaits you ten kilometers north of here, by the river Wade at the crossing. He will take you to them.”
Ceidre was ecstatic. She clutched Maude. “You are a good woman,” she said, then eyed her. “How old are you?”
“Fourteen next month,” Maude said defensively.
Ceidre intended to give Morcar a piece of her mind. He had a hundred women to choose from, but he had to bed a babe, even if she was pretty and pleasingly curved! “Thank you,” Ceidre said. “I will not forget this.”
Maude smiled. “Send Morcar my love.” She blushed again.
“Please, Ed, change your plans!”
Edwin regarded her sadly. “I cannot, Ceidre.”
“This time you will be killed! The Normans have spies everywhere—he told me himself! Look—they have discovered Hereward’s whereabouts! They could discover yours!”
“I have spies everywhere too, Ceidre.”
“’Tis too soon! Can you not at least delay? You will be defeated, maybe killed! Ed, please, reconsider what you do!”
Morcar was regarding her with folded arms. “What is this, Ceidre? Why are you so overwrought? Has he told you to come and beg us to cease?”
“No!”
“If he has,” Morcar continued, “’tis because he would like nothing more than to have us hand him Aelfgar on a pewter platter!”
“He has not sent me here,” she protested.
“Has he hurt you?” Edwin asked, regarding her steadily.
She flushed. “No, he has not.”
“You have done well, sister,” Edwin said. “He must trust you completely to have been so foolish to tell you his plans and Hereward’s whereabouts.”
“So—he did not lie? Hereward is really near Cavlidockk?”
“Yes.”
Ceidre had, in the back of her mind, feared the Norman had dissembled, discovering her game. But he had not lied, which meant he did trust her, and oh, how she hated herself and this entire damn war!
Edwin took her shoulders. “You care for him?” His tone was quiet.
She shook her head to deny it, even as tears escaped.
“Of course she does not care for that Norman pig!” Morcar roared, blue eyes blazing.
“In war,” Edwin said, ignoring his brother’s outburst, “we all do what we find distasteful. War is not a happy time.”
Ceidre choked back her sobs. “I know, Ed,” she said, hugging him.
“And to love the enemy is perhaps the worst of all,” he said heavily.
She blinked up at him. “I do not love him.”
“Have you seen Isolda?”
She jerked. Isolda was William’s daughter, the one he had promised to Edwin after Hastings, then married to one of his own vassals. “No, I have not.”
“I heard she was at York, with her husband. I heard she is with child—again.” It was a question.
Ceidre had known Edwin was furious when William had reneged on his promise of his daughter as a bride, but never had she suspected he might actually have wanted Isolda for more than a royal alliance. Rumor had it, of course, that she was beautiful, tall and blonde and regal. “I will find out,” she promised him.
“It matters not,” he said, turning away. “Once it mattered, but that has long since passed.” He looked at her. “All that matters is Aelfgar. I can never give up until I have taken back what is mine. I need you, Ceidre.”
Her heart split precisely in two. “Do not fear. I will never deny you.”
“This I know.” He hesitated. “Ceidre—be careful. The Norman is shrewd. Do not let him catch you at these games.”
Ceidre felt suddenly strangled. “What if …” She drifted off, unwilling to voice her fears. What if he guessed that she had been involved in warning Hereward away? There would be no proof, yet … She would not entertain it. Nor would she alert Ed to her thoughts. She was afraid he would fear for her and order her to remain with him and his men. Ceidre realized she did not just have to return to York and the Norman—she desperately wanted to.
A hundred Normans rode in double file, still ten kilometers south of Cavlidockk, deep in the forested hills known as the fens. Rolfe rode with his men in the lead, William in the middle, Roger at the back. There had been no sign of rebels so far. In another hour they would stop, scout out the Wake’s camp, then surround and attack. Rolfe smile grimly. Soon another nest of vipers would be wiped out—if all went well.
Someone screamed a death cry.
Rolfe was aware of the ambush at that same instant and was shouting to his men to wheel and fight. Arrows flew from the trees above them, and Beltain, at his side, gasped when one pierced his shoulder. Rolfe was already riding at an archer in a tree, sword raised, and with one blow he hacked off the branch holding the man. The archer fell, and Rolfe effortlessly cleaved him in two.