by Brenda Joyce
“She is safe,” Edwin said. “She was not condemned to death but to life imprisonment. Had she not been Guy Le Chante’s wife, she would have swung at the end of a rope, I have no doubt. In that respect, we owe the Norman.”
“I fear for her because of his rage.”
“We will take Aelfgar and then you need not worry any more,” Edwin said.
Rolfe learned of the attempt upon Ceidre’s life the instant he returned, before he had set foot within the Great Hall. “Was she harmed?” he demanded.
“No,” Guy said. “Shaken, of course, but it quickly passed.”
“And what was done with Alice?” His heart was thudding. Alice had almost succeeded in pushing Ceidre out of the window and to her death!
“We locked her in her chamber with a guard, my lord,” Guy’s voice lowered. “She is sane now, but truly, she was insane to do such a thing. I saw her. She was howling like a madwoman, screaming how she wanted to kill Ceidre. Beltain and Athelstan saw it too.”
Rolfe left Guy and strode up the stairs, controlling his temper with vast will and great difficulty. Alice had gone too far. He would not stand it any longer. At the top of the stairs he paused and looked at the bolted door behind which Ceidre was imprisoned. It had been over a month since he had seen her, and he had the urge to throw open the lock and go within—to make sure Guy told the truth, that she was unharmed, that she lived. He struggled with himself and won. He turned to his own chamber, entered, and dismissed the guard.
Alice stood, hands clasped, eyes wide. “They are all lying,” she said huskily. “’Twas a mere spat. I did not intend to push her to her death. I swear it.”
“You are leaving Aelfgar in the morning,” Rolfe said relentlessly. “Pack everything you wish to take with you,”
“Where are you sending me?” Alice cried.
“You are going to France, my lady,” Rolfe said coldly. “To the Convent of the Sisters of Saint John.”
“I—for how long?” She gasped.
“In the convent you may repent your deeds, if you wish. If not—” He shrugged. “There, at least, you will not be able to harm your sister, or anyone else.”
“For how long?”
“Until you are old and gray, my lady,” Rolfe said. “You cannot mean it!” Alice shrieked. “You cannot do this!”
“No? I do mean it, and I can do it. You are not the first wife to be exiled to religious seclusion. You were warned, yet you failed to take me seriously. Were you one of my men you would have been dismissed forthright, long since. Prepare what you need, Alice, for an extended stay.”
Rolfe paced his chamber. He had removed Alice, under guard, to the old manor, never wanting to set eyes upon her again. He was still angry, furious at her attempt to murder Ceidre. This realization made him livid with himself. He still harbored some kind of feelings for that deceitful whore.
She was so close, behind the door across the hall. He paused in his pacing and imagined her asleep on the pallet, her beauty unsurpassed, a seductress’s unnatural beauty. He hated her with every fiber of his being. He did not care that Alice had almost murdered her, he told himself, he cared only that Alice had defied him and nearly killed the royal prisoner who was his responsibility. His frustration and wrath increased.
He needed a woman. There had been no one in the past month since his own wife, bedded with rage and frustration just before he had left for his northeastern borders. All his men had gone celibate, for there were no villages and no wenches about in that far, savage clime. He did not think he had ever gone so long without a woman since he was a bare-faced boy. He thought of Ceidre, just across the hall. He could easily fuck her brains out this night.
He hated her, and he would not.
Why not?
She was a whore. He desired her. She had been his whore. She was now his prisoner. She could not deny him, and if she did, he would take her anyway. He was so hard just thinking about it he thought he might explode. With no thoughts now beyond that of instant gratification with the woman who had betrayed him, he stalked to her door, threw the bolt, and flung it open.
She was asleep. The sight of her curled up on her side—a sight he had seen many times before—halted him in his tracks. For a moment his resolve wavered, and then, with renewed fury, he pushed it aside. He reached her and shook her roughly. “Wake up,” he said with a snarl.
She blinked awake in confusion. Rolfe squatted, taking her chin in his hand, pushing his face near hers. “Are you awake, witch?”
She gasped with recognition.
“Good.” He smiled and stood, hands already pushing down his hose to free his straining, angry member. Ceidre gasped again, eyes widening. “I have need of a whore,” Rolfe said coolly. “Spread yourself for me.”
She did not move.
He pushed her down on her back, hard, hoping to hurt her, reaching for her thighs to spread them. He was unprepared for her arms, which went fiercely around his neck, her face buried there. “Take me, my lord,” she breathed. “I will never deny you.”
Her words, her acceptance, her serenity inflamed him. “You cannot deny me, whore,” he spat, already on top of her. He thrust into her and she whimpered. Unlike the night he had raped her on her wedding day, she was dry and tight and he knew he had hurt her. He told himself he did not care. Yet he froze just the same, unable to continue ruthlessly.
She stroked the curls at the nape of his neck tenderly, kissing his jaw. “Your whore’s games will not work,” he shouted, thrusting fiercely into her. She met his rhythm fervently, gasping now with pleasure—he recognized the sound too well. He did not want to pleasure her. He only wanted to use her. He intended to spill his seed quickly, as quickly as possible. In the past, he had had to fight himself from finishing, wanting to give her ecstasy; now he welcomed his unbearable arousal, encouraged it. He reminded himself of every lie she had told, every instance of treason, and the final act—the one resulting in the loss of a dozen of his men. She had probably lied about Guy too, had probably shared his bed many times. After all, why not spy in two beds, or even more? He came violently.
He stood, smiling coldly, adjusting his hose. He could see that she had not been assuaged, her eyes were black with passion and desire. He was pleased to have found release—and even more pleased to have excited her and then denied her hers. “From now on you are not just my prisoner,” he said, raking her contemptuously. His gaze lingered on her femininity, damp and exposed with her gown still up around her waist. She did not try to cover herself. “You are my whore. When I feel the need, I will take you. I think this suits you very well, Ceidre.”
Her eyes were wide and violet, and he saw the shimmer of tears. “I will never hate you, my lord,” she whispered.
“Then I will hate strongly enough for the two of us,” he stated, and he turned abruptly and walked out.
It was four days later.
Rolfe cautiously looked around the woods. He was six kilometers from the village, near a huge fallen tree that crossed the racing creek like a bridge. This was most definitely the place for the rendezvous.
He was mounted on his gray, alone. At least, he appeared to be alone. In truth, his men were hidden in the forest, not far—in case this was a trap. His hand rested lightly upon the hilt of his sword.
He heard him before he saw him. Staring across the river, Rolfe watched the rider appear through the trees until he had reined in on the creek’s rocky bank. As one, Rolfe and the rider dismounted, moving to the fallen tree. Rolfe leapt nimbly up and walked carefully to the middle, as did the other man. All around them the creek gurgled happily, the sound innocent and bell-like and loud enough to drown out their words— should anyone try and listen.
“Aelfgar will be attacked. There will be five dozen men. The maid Beth will let them in through the secret door in the wall. Edwin and Morcar and Hereward lead.”
“When?”
“The thirtieth—in ten days.”
“You have done well,” Rolfe said.
“If you speak the truth, as William has promised, your reward is the fief of Lindley in Sussex.”
“Oh, I speak the truth,” Albie said.
The Saxon camp was nestled in a hidden dale, within twenty kilometers of Aelfgar.
It was the twenty-ninth of September. The night was pitch-black and moonless, promising a gray, cloudy morning. The camp was completely hushed. There was no whispered conversation. No fires burned. Few were sleeping, however, on the eve of battle.
“Even the weather favors us,” Morcar said, low.
Edwin said nothing. The brothers sat side by side on a log. The night sounds were all around them—crickets, an owl, a lonely wolf.
“We will win, Ed,” Morcar said, barely suppressing his voice in his excitement. “The time has come to take back what is ours! I can feel it!”
Ed smiled slightly.
“Beth knows what she must do,” Morcar whispered. “Just before dawn she will open the door. With me and my men in the lead, no one will know what has hit them! I think we will be within the keep before an alarm is even sounded.”
Edwin touched his brother’s shoulder, then clasped it firmly. “This time,” he said, “it does appear that the gods have favored us.”
Ceidre was waiting.
He had not come to her again, not since the one night when he had tried to use her cruelly and coldly, yet every night Ceidre waited, hoping. If he still desired her there was a chance for them, a slim chance, true, but she would gladly take it. In his arms she would show him how she felt—how she repented her betrayal, how she loved him.
It had hurt unbearably to be treated as a whore, but in a way she welcomed punishment, for she deserved it. Yet, in truth, even though he hated her, she still loved him, and being in his arms could not be a punishment no matter how cruel he tried to be. She sensed the raw, gaping wound she had left, the one he hid with anger and hate. She ached unbearably with love and hurt for him—she had not lied when she had said she could never hate him.
She knew she should hate him. To love one who hated her so thoroughly was hopeless. Yet she could not—just as she could not deny him. If only he would come to her again!
Something was amiss this night. It was already very late. Ceidre was tense in her vigil, for the keep was hushed, and she sensed that something dire was about to happen, was happening. She hugged her knees, staring through the candlelit room at the door. Rolfe, where are you? Come to me!
When Rolfe suddenly entered, approaching her with hard, quick strides, Ceidre felt both dread and joy. His face was so closed, his eyes like ice, and what if she failed? What if he came to seek release and hurt her and she could not thaw the freeze in his heart? She was already standing, trembling. “My lord,” she managed. “I am glad you have come.” She prayed her heart’s deepest feelings shone in her eyes.
Something flickered in his gaze. “Do you think I care?” He laughed, yanking her to him. “I am bored with the pallet, whore. Show me some new tricks.”
Tears came to her eyes. “Which kind would you prefer?”
“Any kind,” he snapped.
Ceidre lowered her lashes to hold back the tears, knowing she was a fool—she would never penetrate his hate and disperse it. Never. But how to give up her hopes, her dreams?
He made a sound, of disgust, and wrenched her hand down until her palm covered his manhood. It was rock-hard and straining to his navel already. She stroked it blindly, despair filling her. She could not continue like this—but hadn’t she prayed for the chance for them to be together? Why did her heart have to feel as if it were breaking? She must be strong and filled with resolve! And then, as she felt him coming under her power, under her spell, she heard him utter a short, hard sound, and she looked up. His eyes were closed, his face dark and strained with arousal. The stabbing of desire was like lightning—her own body grew tense and eager. For she loved him. “Rolfe,” she whispered.
He heard her, she saw the flitting of something undefinable across his face, but he did not open his eyes. She leaned against the wall and lifted one thigh to wrap it around his waist. He needed no encouragement, soon he was plunging into her, her legs anchored on his hips, back against the wall. To her surprise, he kissed her, fiercely, the first time he had done so since her treachery. With a cry she kissed him back, claiming his mouth as he possessed hers. They kissed and kissed as their hips thrust, tongues entwining in a desperate dance. She loved him. She loved him so much. “Rolfe,” she cried when her orgasm spun her away. “Rolfe, Rolfe!”
He slid her to her feet, stared at her, and she saw something in his eyes, something that had nothing to do with hatred and anger. He suddenly lifted her in his arms and laid her on the pallet. Ceidre’s heart clenched. “I want to see your witch’s body,” he said, and his tone was unsteady instead of mocking.
“What is it?” she said, worry gripping her, all her intuition coming into play. Something was amiss, something was happening! He ignored her, pulling off her gown. For a moment he just stared at her breasts, at her belly, at her long legs. His hand swept over her. “What is it? What happens?” There was fear in her tone.
He did not answer, his eyes on her swollen bosom, his hands testing their weight and feel. Ceidre froze. He can tell, she thought, panicked, that I am with babe. He had not undressed her and seen her naked body in six weeks, not since Cavlidockk.
He groaned and sought her nipple with the eagerness of a nursing infant. Ceidre relaxed. Soon she was gripping his head, and then he was entering her, leisurely this time—gently. She wanted to weep at the beauty of his coming to her. His mouth found her throat, her jaw, her cheeks and ear. His hands played her like a viol. He touched her everywhere, even pausing, magnificently still and full within her, on his knees, reaching down to stroke her wet flesh where they joined.
Ceidre looked at his face. He was watching his own hands upon her woman’s flesh, but then he looked up and their eyes met. The blazing passion in his brought her to a rapid, writhing climax.
He was no longer her warden, her torturer, but her lover. He did not finish, but wrapped her in his arms, moving steadily within her, his mouth on hers. Again and again he brought her to a shuddering climax, and finally, with a hoarse gasp, he spewed himself into her.
Ceidre held him, stroking his sweat-drenched back. Tears were in her eyes. He had loved her as if Cavlidockk had never happened. Dare she hope that this meant something? Dare she?
He rolled free of her and lay on his back, one hand across his eyes, panting.
She studied him openly, her heart near to bursting with hope and gladness. He was tall, golden with muscle, impossibly handsome. Her hopes started to crumble when he got up without looking at her. In the course of their passion he had shed his clothes with her help. Now he dressed efficiently, not sparing her a glance. “My lord?” Ceidre tried.
When he turned to her, a hard, cynical expression, one she had hoped never to see again, was firmly in place. His eyes were narrowed. His fine nostrils were flared with disdain. She felt her hope collapsing like a landslide, and she hugged her hands to her heart. “My lord?” Her tone quavered.
“If you have something to say,” he said coldly, “say it.”
He still hated her. He would never forgive her. Guy’s words echoed—he has strict ideas of duty and loyalty. He will never forgive you your betrayal, Ceidre. And hadn’t Guy also said that he was not the kind of man who was capable of loving a woman? She was a fool to love him, a naive fool! She swallowed. “Is something happening? Why is the tower so hushed?”
His smile was ugly. “Think you to betray me again? Do you think”—and he laughed—“because I have shared your whore’s passion that now I share my command’s secrets? Think again!”
Tears blurred her vision as he marched to the door. Her heart pounded loudly, hurtfully, so much so that she bearely heard him when he paused. “Do not think to leave this chamber tomorrow regardless of what passes,” he said.
She was crying, her face turned aw
ay, so she did not understand what he had said. And she missed the rest of his words entirely, when he added, low, “You will be safe, Ceidre.”
She was only aware of her heart’s agony, and the ironic, insane thought—how was it possible to have your heart broken twice?
At the edge of the woods, the Saxons paused. Across the moat lay the wall with the hidden door. Although more than fifty men, they blended with ease into the forest, not moving, not making a sound. It was black out in the pitch of night just before dawn. Morcar crouched next to Edwin.
“’Tis time to go,” Edwin said firmly.
Morcar smiled, nostrils flared with excitement. He turned to his brother and was embraced in a massive, long hug. When Edwin released him, Morcar grinned. “Soon,” he whispered. “Where’s Albie?”
“Here” came a voice, and Albie stepped through some bushes.
Edwin slapped them both on the back. “God speed you,” he whispered.
Morcar gripped his hand. “To victory,” he said, then he was gone, racing across the open with Albie on his heels, lost in the engulfing blackness of the night.
At the moat Albie waited, handing Morcar the one end of a rope bridge. Morcar waded in, grinned once at the icy cold, a flashing of white teeth, then plunged on and swam for the far side. When he had reached it he tied the end of the rope bridge to a plank in the wall. Twenty minutes later a dozen men had crossed, with the rest waiting their turn.
When half their number had joined them beneath the keep’s wall, the sky was just faintly lightening, dark now, but not ebony. Morcar gathered his dozen men around him. “Where is Albie?” he asked, looking for his second-in-command.
No one knew where he was, and Morcar felt both worry that something had befallen him and a frisson of nameless fear. He could not wait. They must be within the walls before dawn. “We go,” he said, raising his sword.
The door was open, and Morcar smiled briefly, intending to thank Beth in the way he knew best. He slipped through, his men on his heels. He was four steps into the bailey when he saw a glinting of steel, but it was too late.