by Brenda Joyce
A full-scale battle ensued. Wielding his sword ceaselessly, Rolfe slew half a dozen Saxons methodically, efficiently, without pause. And then the glade fell into a hoarse, panting silence.
Rolfe saw that the last of the Saxons had fled, and he called for a halt.
With horror, he stared at the ground before him. It was littered with a score of rebels, all dead or dying and dismembered. But another dozen of the dead and dying were his own men, who, in the forefront of the cavalcade, had taken the brunt of the attack.
“We were betrayed,” William shouted, galloping up. “I saw Hereward myself, even exchanged blows with the traitor! I have lost three men, Roger one. How have you fared, Rolfe?”
Sickness choked him. “Much, much worse,” he said. A dozen of his men, the best in the land … He spotted Beltain, his shoulder and torso drenched with blood, and spurred his mount to him. “How badly are you hurt?”
“I will live, I think,” Beltain said, although he was ghostly white.
Rolfe called for aid as he vaulted from his stallion. He helped his captain down, stanching the flow of blood with a quickly placed tournicot. Beltain mercifully fainted from the loss of blood.
He was bandaged before he revived. Rolfe grimly did so himself, concentrating wholly on his task, his hands efficient and dexterous. Yet his mind, his mind was spinning—a dozen of his best men … ambush … Litters were made, the wounded tended to, the dead lashed onto the sleds to be brought to York for a Christian burial. William paused by his side. “I am sorry for your losses,” he said sincerely.
“Shall we go on?” Rolfe asked harshly.
“We will burn Cavlidockk to the ground for harboring these rebels, though they have long since gone,” William said. “Roger, as my marshal in Shrewsbury, will do this. You and I will return to York—to lick our wounds.”
Rolfe said nothing. He stared at his dead men, bloody and gored, young William decapitated. Twelve of his men—the best fighters in the world—dead … betrayed….
“These damned Saxons have spies everywhere,” William gritted.
“Everywhere,” Rolfe echoed. Betrayed.
He was so sick, he thought, in that moment, he would heave up his guts like a boy after his first battle. And suddenly, he did.
He had returned!
The garrison was alive with talk of the return of William and his men, spotted as they entered the village. Ceidre wanted to run out into the outer bailey and launch herself into his arms. Of course she could not do this. Instead, she retreated to his tent, pacing nervously, excitedly. Oh, she could not deny it—she had missed him! At the same time, she dreaded his return, certain her guilt would show. And—what had happened? Had Hereward managed to elude his attackers? More important, was Rolfe all right?
The tent door swung open.
Rolfe stood there, backlighted by the sun, and Ceidre could only make out his imposing bulk. “My lord?” she breathed, her eagerness etched upon her face.
He stepped in, dropping the flap closed behind him. His face was stone. His eyes were ice-cold shards. Ceidre shrank inside. “What—what happened?”
He stared at her, his mouth a firm, hard line. “What happened? We were ambushed just south of Cavlidockk.”
Her eyes widened. “Ambushed!”
His jaw clenched. “At least,” he said harshly, “I know you did not know of that!”
Her hand covered her palpitating heart. She took a step back. “What do you mean!”
He stepped forward, crowding her. “Do you not know what I mean, Ceidre?”
“No,” she squeaked, so afraid now.
“The truth! Tell me the truth, damn you, Ceidre!”
“I do not know …” She faltered, tears filling her eyes.
He grabbed her and shook her, hard. “Did you betray me? Did you? You knew we were going to Cavlidockk! Was I a fool to trust you? Answer me!”
Tears welled and spilled. She shook her head to lie, to deny it, but no words came out. She was sick with guilt, sick at heart, and it must have shown, for suddenly he released her with such force she flew onto her back on the pallet. She lay there, panting.
“’Twas you!” he roared. “I see it in your eyes! Answer me!” he shouted, more furious than she had ever seen him, his face red, the cords standing out in his neck. His hands, clenched into fists, shook. His eyes were crackling blue flames.
Her own hand covered her mouth, trembling, and then she wept, reaching up to grab his palm. “I had to,” she said, sobbing. “Please understand, I had to!”
He threw her off, staring, stunned.
She saw then, too late, that he had refused to believe what he had thought, that maybe she could have convinced him she was innocent, but now there was no taking back her confession. She lifted her tearstained face. “But you are all right,” she said. “There was no harm done, no—”
“No harm done! A dozen of my men dead—because of you!”
She gasped, horrified.
He knelt, his expression twisted with bitterness and revulsion, and drew her forward by her shoulders. She winced but welcomed the pain. “You are a lying, conniving woman. You take me in your arms and play the inflamed lover, all the while shrewdly planning to betray me, waiting for an opportune time!”
She opened her mouth to protest, but could not find any words, for the indictment was true.
He yanked her roughly to her feet and dragged her out of the tent. “Where are we going?” She gasped.
He did not answer. She saw his face, filled with ice-cold resolve and red-hot fury. She was afraid.
When she saw that he was taking her to the keep, she dug her heels in. “What do you intend?” she cried.
He turned on her, livid, hand raised in fury to strike her. Ceidre cried out. The blow did not come. His grip was so tight she thought she might faint. “You may be dragged on your belly, ’tis of no import to me, or you may walk.” And he yanked her forward again.
She stumbled to keep up. He could not, she prayed, fighting the tears down, he could not be doing what she thought….
The great hall was filled with men. Most sat at the table, three times the size of that at Aelfgar and with William at its head. Rolfe did not pause. He propelled Ceidre forward, to the dais where William sat, then pushed her abruptly to her knees on the floor. His hand anchored in her hair, holding her facedown, her nose against the stone. “Here is the spy, Your Grace.”
Silence swept the room.
William stared at Rolfe. “Your mistress?”
“Yes.”
William rose. “Everyone out!” His gaze locked with Rolfe’s, as he waited for his men to leave. When they had, he spoke. “You are sure?”
“She has confessed,” Rolfe said coldly.
William looked down at her. “Raise up my prisoner,” he said.
Rolfe yanked her to her feet, ignoring her whimper.
Ceidre lifted her gaze to the king’s.
“You sent a spy to warn Hereward of our advent?”
Although she wanted to cry, she lifted her chin a notch. Her voice trembled. “Yes.”
“And how did you learn of our plans?”
Ceidre hesitated. She had betrayed Rolfe, but now she would protect him from his liege lord. “I eavesdropped around the garrison.”
“She lies,” Rolfe stated. “I trusted this witch because she warmed my bed so eagerly. I told her where we were going, to allay her fears for her brothers. More the fool, I.”
William ignored this and kept a steady regard upon Ceidre. “She is most charming of appearance. She resembles that scoundrel Morcar somewhat. You are lucky, wench, that Lord Warenne saw you married to Sir Guy. I have spies everywhere and I am well aware that this is the second time you have committed treason to me. I knew that you freed Morcar. Clearly you are unrepentant. Your sentence is imprisonment for life.” He turned and called for his guards.
Ceidre froze, unable to move, to breathe, to think. The two men entered and approached. William told them
to lock her up below. She whipped a frantic regard at Rolfe—he would not let this happen! He would not let this sentence stand—would not let them throw her into the dungeons! Surely he would not!
He ignored her. As the two men grabbed her, she closed her eyes. She knew her fate. It was over. She was to be imprisoned for life. And first tossed into the dungeons. She would not weep, would not beg—she would resign herself to death, for to be closed up below would surely kill her. With a deep breath, she managed to walk out between the two guards. Her shoulders were squared, hard, but her hands at her sides trembled.
When she was gone, William turned to Rolfe, who dropped down on one knee, head bowed. “Whatever you decide, ’tis not less than I deserve.”
“You are right, of course,” William said, walking away. He picked up a cup of wine, sipped it, and turned to gaze at Rolfe, who was still kneeling in deference. “Get up, Rolfe.”
Rolfe rose gracefully.
“This is most strange. First you chose not to tell me that the serf who helped Morcar escape from Aelfgar was this wench, his bastard sister.”
Rolfe was too bitter to be startled. “Again, I am a fool.”
William ignored him. “But I let it go, trusting your judgment. ’Tis strange that you then wed her to Guy. ’Tis stranger still you allowed her in your bed. In one blow you cuckold wife and good friend. Is it true—that she has the eye?”
“Yes, but she is no witch.”
“Mayhap she did give you a potion,” William said. “Because you are not a man to behave as you have, nor are you one to spill our secrets—in bed, good God! It matters not how comely the wench is!”
Rolfe said nothing. But his eyes blazed.
“You are angry. I am glad to see it. You have been punished enough. You did not mean to abet her, and the result was you lost a dozen of your men. I will not add to what you are already suffering.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Rolfe said without gratitude. His jaws were clamped together.
William sighed. “In truth, despite the betrayal, we weakened their numbers and drove them from their lair, as we intended. Although our losses were heavy, we still succeeded in our plans.”
“Yes.”
“I place the wench in your custody. My dungeons are overfull already; besides, ’tis fitting, I think. Yet do not mistake me—she is a royal prisoner.”
Rolfe smiled, cruelly, coldly. “I gladly accept,” he said.
“Your confinement is ended,” Rolfe said coldly at the door to the chamber.
Alice rose from the bed, staring. Then she swept forward, dropped to her knees, and took his hand. “Thank you, my lord,” she said humbly. “I beg your forgiveness.” She lifted her face, her mouth quivering.
He ignored her, gesturing for her to rise, and turned grimly to examine the heavy door and inner bolt. A man stood at his heels. “This must be removed,” he told the carpenter. “I want it placed on the outside. It must be unbreakable. Do you understand?”
“Yes, my lord,” the carpenter said, inspecting the door.
Rolfe crossed the room with hard strides, to peer out an arrow slit. Not even a child could slip through, he noted with satisfaction. There was only one way out of the solar, and that was through the door. “The bolt shall be wood for now, but made of iron immediately. Inform the smith,” he stated.
Alice, wide-eyed, wet her lips nervously. “What passes, my lord?”
His disdainful gaze swept her, surprised she was still there. “You will move back into my chamber,” he told her shortly. “Your sister will be imprisoned here.”
“Ceidre!”
Rolfe started to leave the room, and Alice hurried after, catching his sleeve. “My lord, what has happened!”
He did not break stride until he was in their own chamber. He ripped off his hauberk. “I need a bath now.”
Alice scrambled to call for one.
“Your sister has committed treason one time too many,” Rolfe said carelessly, yet with such an ice-cold attitude that Alice shivered. He pulled off his padded leather undertunic. “She is the king’s prisoner, and her sentence is for life. William has placed her in my custody. She will never leave the solar until the day she dies.”
Alice bit her lip to keep from smiling, unable to believe her good fortune. She wanted to know details, but she would find them out soon enough. “I wanted to warn you,” she said carefully, “before you left for York.”
Rolfe pierced her with a cold gaze, clad only in his hose. “Did you?” His tone was mocking.
Alice flushed. “She came to me the day before you left, my lord.”
“If there is something you want me to know, then spit it out.”
He was rude and crude and she hated him. Yet she remembered the feel of his huge lance inside her, the pain and the pleasure, and imagined him taking her again, roughly, hurting her, making her hate him, making her weep, making her keen. The carpenter’s blows as he nailed the new bolt in place on the solar door began ringing out. She lifted her chin. “She came to apologize for bedding you, my lord. She wanted to explain that ’twas her duty—to her brothers.”
Rolfe stared, expressionless.
“They had asked her to seduce you and gain your trust—to spy. ’Twas the only reason she shared your bed, she said. She thought to ease my mind.” Alice laughed lightly. But she was watching him, and she rejoiced silently when she saw the hot, red anger flooding his face and the hard, cold hatred filling his eyes. He turned away from her, and she smiled quickly, unable to contain herself.
When the tub was filled, Rolfe eased himself in. His heart was thudding thickly, too thickly, and he kept remembering how he had come to this room and found the witch naked in his bed. It had been a plan, a scheme of her brothers—seduce him and spy. And he, the fool, had been led by his eager cock. Well, he thought, a cold laugh passing his lips, ’twould never happen again.
His anger choked him. It had been choking him since she had actually confessed—he could not escape it. And with it came the hate.
She was a traitor, and she was his prisoner, and she would rot in that chamber until the day she died.
Ceidre was led by a guard into the solar. He released her and left, slamming the thick wooden door closed behind him. She heard the bolt falling, the sound ominous, final.
She hugged herself, hard, and looked around.
This was where Alice had been confined, yet the chamber no longer resembled that room. The bed had been removed—a straw pallet and blanket took its place. One candle had been provided, with a cup of water and a chamberpot. Being so bare, the room seemed vast, even though it was half the size of the chamber across the hall.
Ceidre walked to the arrow slit and looked out, tears filming her gaze. She had been imprisoned in the dungeon at York for half a day. That dungeon had been nothing like the one at Aelfgar, fortunately. It was large, taking up the entire space beneath the keep, and airy in comparison, not pitch-dark, with cells and many prisoners. She had been able to breathe despite the cloying fear in her chest. True, her breathing had been shallow, she had felt as if she was going to suffocate, but somehow the awful madness that had seized her in the other dungeon had not overwhelmed her. Maybe it was because of the other prisoners, maybe it was because the place was so large. She had had her own cell, half the size of this chamber. She had huddled in a corner, ignoring the other prisoners, perspiring and panting, but she hadn’t tried to claw her way out in a futile hysteria.
She had wept.
The pain in her heart overshadowed all else, and she did not care that she might be swallowed up by the ground or choke to death from the lack of air. She wept, hopelessly, endlessly, grievously. She had betrayed him, and Ceidre knew what kind of man he was. She knew he would never forgive her. She wept until she had not another tear to shed, because she loved him.
The realization came much too late.
And even if it had come sooner, what difference did it make? She loved her brothers too. She would have been t
orn between the two irreconcilable sides. She would have, however, refused to spy, but brooding upon what might have been did not change anything. He would never forgive her.
The ride back to Aelfgar had taken two days. Ceidre had only seen Rolfe’s back upon occasion. He had cut her out of his existence with one brutal blow. She knew this, was not surprised, just as she knew there would never be any going back to what they had once shared. Fortunately, she had no tears left. Her heart ached with its broken love. And whenever she saw his broad shoulders, or heard his voice, she could not tear her gaze from him. Yet he did not once look her way.
Not once.
It was growing dark. Ceidre wondered if she would be brought another candle once this one was finished. She decided not to light it. She was uncertain how her confinement would be styled. Right now, she feared the utmost deprivation. In truth, she was surprised she hadn’t been sent to the black pits beneath Aelfgar.
She heard the bolt being removed and assumed it was bread and ale, the fare she had subsisted on since her imprisonment. She leaned her cheek against the wall, not bothering to look. Yet when the door was open, she knew who had come. She could feel his presence—it was overwhelming, vibrating with force, seething with hostility—and she jerked around, eyes wide.
Rolfe stood framed in the doorway in the last dimming light of the afternoon.
Ceidre said nothing, but her heart was leaping wildly—with hope. Why had he come? Oh, God, please let him forgive me, ’tis all I want!
Rolfe looked around, then smiled with cruel satisfaction. His gaze pinned her. Ceidre saw the contempt, undisguised, and the hatred, and all her hopes died. She slumped, beaten. He hated her. “I had no choice,” she whispered, the words unbidden. “You must believe me!”
He smiled, another cruel twisting of his lips. “You think I care about your choices, Ceidre?”