by Brenda Joyce
She laughed, a joyous sound.
He bent and kissed one full breast, then her navel, her belly. She gasped when he kissed the triangle of hair between her thighs. “What are you doing, my lord?”
“Rolfe,” he corrected. He spread her thighs and kissed her again, this time his tongue flicking deeply into her. She gasped. “I love you,” he said. He froze, then looked up. Their gazes met.
She smiled slightly. He would learn, he was already learning. Then her smile abruptly faded, because he lowered his head and was licking her with his tongue, lifting the bud of her flesh, gently drawing it into his mouth. She came in a violent, arching climax, and when she was through, he slid into her, his gaze hot and brilliant. “You will never want to leave me,” he whispered in her ear, stroking steadily.
“I never wanted to leave you,” she told him frankly, and then there were no words, just touches, kisses, and their bodies fused and pushing rhythmically together, until their world shattered brilliantly, as one.
“Will you return with me?” he asked, many hours later.
Ceidre was stirring a stew, and she turned. She saw the anxiety in his gaze, and her heart went out to this strong, proud man who had learned to ask, not demand, who beneath his warrior’s armor was flesh and blood, heart and soul. “Yes. I love you, Rolfe.”
He smiled with genuine pleasure and came to her, wrapping her in a hug. “I need your love, sweeting,” he said. “I cannot live without it.”
She turned to face him. “Does this mean you forgive me for Cavlidockk?”
“Yes,” he said. “You are a patriot, as am I.”
Their gazes held. Many unspoken thoughts and worries flew between them. “We must talk,” Rolfe said heavily, and taking her hand, he guided her to the table.
“I am sorry,” he said slowly, “that I am Norman and you are Saxon. Yet you do love me.”
She heard the question. She would reassure him forever if she must. “I do.”
He smiled slightly, then continued. “I am sorry Morcar is dead, truly. Your brother is imprisoned. At least he is alive. Can you accept me as lord of Aelfgar, Ceidre?” His tone was blunt.
“I do.” She was sad and joyous at once. “There are things we cannot control, I cannot control. I have grieved endlessly for Morcar, and I grieve for Ed. But I love you. Rolfe, I will never betray you again.”
“I know.” He hesitated. “Ceidre, there is something you must know. When you return, you will still be the king’s prisoner. I cannot change that. I can attempt to talk to William, and I will, but he does not forgive treason readily, and the truth is, I doubt he will lift your sentence. To return”—he took a breath—“is to put yourself back in my custody.”
“I understand,” she said levelly.
“I will never hurt you,” he said fiercely. “I will protect you with my life. No one shall take you from me, I swear this. I will not allow it. You are mine—and this means you have all that is mine, and that you have my protection until I die. Do you understand this?”
“Yes.” She took a breath. “I am going home with you, Rolfe. Even had you not said this, I would go. I cannot live apart from you either,”
He smiled, taking her hand, holding her gaze.
“I would I could marry you,” he said suddenly.
Those simple words meant more to her than anything he could possibly have said. She looked at the floor, willing herself not to cry. Alice was still in a convent in France. “I am flattered,” she said softly.
“You know it cannot be,” he said, lifting her chin so he could gaze into her eyes.
“I know.”
“But in my heart,” he said, his blue eyes locked with hers, “you are my wife.”
No words could have made her happier.
“Alice was never my wife in my heart,” he said. “You know the man I am. When I pledge you my heart, it will never be taken back. You are my wife in my heart: You will always have my protection, my loyalty, my fidelity, and—” He hesitated, and then he flushed.
She was so happy she was crying. She gripped his hand. “’Tis only words,” she encouraged softly. “Only words. A man like you is afraid of a few small words?” she teased through her tears.
He smiled slightly. “You also have my love. We are married in our hearts and, I hope, in the eyes of God.”
She left her chair to sit in his lap, holding him. He let her, tucking his head in her bosom. She kissed him, trembling with love, stroking his hair. He could not remain submissive for long, and he shifted so he was holding her. She did not care, she laughed, she wept. Never had she been so happy. She knew the man he was, this husband of her heart. He was Rolfe de Warenne, he was Rolfe the Relentless, proud, strong, a man of honor above all else. He had just given her everything she wished for, all that he could. He had given her his heart, his love.
“I gladly accept, my lord,” she whispered, and he crushed her to him again.
On December 24, 1072, Alice hanged herself in her chamber in the Convent of the Sisters of Saint John.
On December 24, 1073, Ceidre was married to Rolfe de Warenne. The wedding took place at York. Edwin was released temporarily from confinement to give away the bride. Their three children, two boys and an infant daughter, attended the ceremony, as did King William, Roger of Shrewsbury, Bishop Odo, William fitz Osbern, Walter de Lacy, and many others. The bride was radiant and beaming, the groom grinning and proud; everyone agreed there had never been a more lovestruck couple. The king’s wedding present to the couple was the suspension of Ceidre’s life sentence; and he was named godfather of their infant daughter. Most of the female congregation wept throughout the service, and a few of the men had shiny eyes as well.
Ever generous when the mood struck him, King William remanded Edwin into Rolfe’s custody. He also agreed to the engagement of his widowed daughter Isolda to Edwin. They were married early the following spring, and Edwin promptly claimed Isolda’s two-year-old daughter as his own. It is rumored that she had visited him in his confinement at Westminster as early as January of 1070.
Rolfe de Warenne and Ceidre are fictional characters.
Edwin and Morcar were powerful Saxon lords prior to William of Normandy’s invasion and the Battle of Hastings in October 1066. They were the sons of the eaorl of Aelfgar, who was good, kindly, nobly connected, and powerful. Morcar was the younger son, renowned for his handsome looks. They did have a sister, but she was married to a Welsh lord.
Prior to 1066, Edwin and Morcar were weakened by an attack from the king of Norway, and they did not fight at Hastings, which was apparently fortunate for William. After that battle, both Ed and Morcar swore fealty to William. William in turn promised Ed his daughter, whom I took the liberty of naming Isolda, and gave him control of all of the north, making him eaorl of Mercia. His own Norman lords, who had followed him from Normandy, as Rolfe did, to gain lands and power, were justifiably upset that so much power was being given to Ed. William finally reneged on his promise to give Ed his daughter, and Ed and Morcar, who had gone to Normandy with William after Hastings, returned home furious.
In 1068, while there was the threat of a Danish invasion, Ed and Morcar staged their first rebellion in the north. William had secured the south of England by granting feudal fiefs to his followers at strategic locations, as I have described in this novel. He took his army north and crushed the rebels, building castles and leaving royal garrisons everywhere in Mercia, including at York. Both brothers swore fealty to him again and were forgiven. However, there were now royal garrisons and Norman castles in their territories, to keep them in check.
The brothers staged a second rebellion in 1069, killing the earl of Durham (a Norman) and attacking York. York was besieged and demolished. Apparently at the same time, the Danes invaded and were repulsed at Norwich. It is not clear if this was a coincidence. William and his troops crushed the Danes, relieved York, and sent the rebels fleeing. Construction of a second castle at York was begun, with William remaining there
to oversee it personally. Meanwhile, his policy to destroy the rebels began in all earnestness—an iron fist. He would burn and destroy every rebel lair and village, even if he burned down most of the north. Historians have referred to this phase as “the harrying of the north.” In my opinion this is too light a term for such a ruthless policy. This is where the story of Rolfe and Ceidre begins. Rolfe is William’s most trusted commander in charge of securing the north, crushing the Saxons, and carrying out this policy of burning out every inch of every rebel nest.
It worked. One year later, in 1070, there was a last uprising in the fens, led by Edwin, Morcar, and Hereward the Wake. Because of treachery from within, the rebellion failed. Morcar was killed, Ed captured and imprisoned for life. Hereward’s fate is unknown.
Because of the fast pacing of this novel, I took the liberty of moving up this last rebellion so that it occurred September 30, 1069. I also gave Edwin a fictional happy ending with his true-love marriage, finally, to Isolda. His final fate is unknown.
Published by
Dell Publishing
a division of
Random House, Inc.
1540 Broadway
New York, New York 10036
Copyright © 1990 by Brenda Joyce Dworman
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.
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eISBN: 978-0-307-56729-1
October 1996
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