by Brenda Joyce
“Alice, are you mad? How can you even think to marry him—the enemy—the usurper of Edwin’s patrimony?”
“William is now king,” Alice said. “And I do not care. Nor do I care if Edwin be eaorl or not. In all, ’tis better this way, with the Norman lord of Aelfgar and me the lady.” She smiled, triumphant.
“I would help you,” Ceidre offered. “To run away. We could go together—find Edwin. He would protect us from the Norman!”
“No! Did you not hear? I am marrying him—gladly! But you—you stay away from him. You flaunt your witch’s unholy beauty in front of him and he pants after you like a stud. I will not have you enticing him into your bed. I will not have you his leman, as your mother was our father’s. I mean it, Ceidre, I warn you!”
“I would never be his mistress,” Ceidre snapped.
“Good.” Alice drew herself up straight. “Now, the next matter. Your place here.” “What?”
“I am the lady here of Aelfgar. I am tired of your ways. With our father dead, our brothers gone, many men lost, ’tis time you did your share.”
“What are you talking about?”
“At dawn you will go to the kitchens,” Alice ordered. “You will work as cook’s assistant to replace Jess. And, Ceidre, you will take your meals with the rest of the serfs as well.”
Ceidre stared. Alice was the lady of Aelfgar and had been since the widowed Jane remarried last year. Never had she ordered her to a station. In the past she would not have dared—Edwin would not have allowed it. Yet she had the authority to do so. “Surely you jest.”
“No. The Norman agrees, there shall be no slack hands here.”
Shock assaulted her. “He agrees to this?”
“Yes, of course. You are his serf, Ceidre, just like any other.”
“I am a free woman,” Ceidre said, “and you know it. You know Father gave me and my mother our freedom.”
Alice grinned. “Can you prove it?”
“Everyone knows.”
“Do you have the papers?”
“There were never any papers.”
“Then you cannot prove it.”
She could not believe the wicked intention of Alice’s game. “Everyone knows!”
“Who will swear on the Bible—or in the shire court? You? Your witch-grandmother? The villagers? Athelstan? You are a bastard brat, Ceidre, nothing more. Whose word will the lord accept, yours, a commoner’s, or mine?”
“Our brothers know the truth!”
“Do they? But, Ceidre—they are not here!”
“What are you trying to do?”
“It does not matter. You live in this household, Aelfgar is your master, whether you are serf or no. If you leave, I will have you hunted down as serf. If you stay, you do as I command. Is that clear?”
Alice knew she would never leave her home, it was in her blood. Had she convinced the Norman Ceidre was his serf? She was stunned. “You are very clear, Alice.”
“Good.” Alice smiled.
While one crew felled timber for the new palisade, another was given the task of digging the huge ditch that would surround the keep. There was a natural mound Rolfe would build upon, and this pleased him greatly. Unfortunately, the village would have to be razed to make room for the bailey, but once reconstructed, it would be in a more defensible position just south of the bailey’s palisade. Rolfe himself, once certain all the tasks were being carried out correctly, stripped off his hauberk and joined those digging the ditch. He relished the use of his powerful muscles, sweat streaming down his body.
The villagers had been recruited for labor as well, their usual seasonal tasks of mowing the fields of hay postponed until after the keep was erected. At noon everyone halted for repast, the villagers fed bread, cheese, and ale on the site, and Rolfe and his men returning to the hall for mutton pies. He washed briefly outside, then took his place beside Alice. Instantly he found himself looking for Ceidre, but she was nowhere to be seen. This annoyed him.
“Why does your sister not join us?”
Alice smiled sweetly. “She has undertaken the supervision of the kitchens, my lord. And as you can see, the fare is already vastly improved.”
Rolfe had not noticed, but he was satisfied that she had not defied his edict of the night before, and he commenced his meal.
Because of the fear of fire, the kitchens were outside in a separate building behind the manor. The huge stone hearths, large enough for Ceidre to stand in, emitted vast heat, for they were constantly kept fired, day and night. Here all meats were spitted and roasted, turned by hand by a young serf, who stood naked, sweating. Here too vast cauldrons of stew simmered. Adjacent were the ovens, mostly used for baking bread, but also for baking cakes and even poultry and pheasant. In a small, separate enclosure were the pantries, where the butter was churned, and the alehouse, where the beverage was brewed. There were no windows, just one open doorway. The smoke escaped through a hole in the roof.
Everyone worked in their undertunics because of the heat, barefoot, hair pinned up. Ceidre was no exception. As she shoveled yet another loaf of dough into an oven, the heat scorching her red, flushed face, which was shining with perspiration, she wished she could go naked like Teddy, who was young enough not to care. Her undertunic, the thinnest wool because of the season, clung from her shoulders to her ankles like a second skin. In addition to the heat there was the problem of the smoke, which billowed inside in huge, thick clouds. For the hundredth time that morning, Ceidre was seized with a fit of coughing.
If only it would rain.
She fantasized a sudden downpour. She would run outside and let herself become drenched. It would be heaven.
She was no longer angry at Alice. She decided she could not blame her sister. Alice felt threatened, and Ceidre understood. The Norman did lust after her. Ceidre still found it unbelievable, and a frisson swept her, a combination of fear and something else unidentifiable. She felt the charge of some powerful emotion that she refused to comprehend. Yet Alice should have been reassured when Ceidre told her she absolutely did not want the Norman and would not have him, much less seduce him. And although Ceidre was rightly upset that Alice would try to regulate her as a serf, Alice was her sister. Ceidre forgave her.
The Norman was another matter.
She could not shake his golden pagan image out of her thoughts. He dismayed her—he angered her. His confining her to manor and village infuriated her. She would not obey. She certainly would not ask his permission when, in truth, she was free and could go as she pleased! And if he chose to beat her, she would bear it without a tear, without a cry. He was not her master, and he never would be. Just as he never would be lord of Aelfgar.
She knew, of course, that his agreeing to her new station in the kitchen was punishment for the deception of her identity. This was his punishment, thus she would pull her weight in the kitchens along with Tildie and Teddy and the others. This was the strongest reason she had for working hard, without complaint, head held high. Working harder than everyone. And after all, she was no better than any of them. In fact, Teddy was her cousin. And her mother had worked here after Ceidre was born until she had become sick. It didn’t matter that it was in a supervisory capacity.
No, she would work harder than anyone. If he thought he could make her beg for forgiveness, beg for mercy, then he was wrong. She would die before she begged him for anything. She would show the Norman she was as relentless as he. As relentless an enemy.
’Twas so hot.
Ceidre paused, feeling light-headed and weak. It was dim and smoky in the kitchen, and it became even darker. She gripped the bowl of peeled potatoes, taking a breath, fighting the need to faint.
“Get a goin’,” cried Tildie. “No time to play slug-a-bug now, girl, the lord’s already coming in from the village!”
The bowl went crashing out of her hand, shattering, the potatoes flying everywhere, into the dirt.
“You fool!” hissed Tildie. “You stupid fool! Now what will we put in the pie?”
The world became clear again and Ceidre focused on Tildie just as the woman delivered a sharp, hysterical slap to her cheek. Shocked, Ceidre drew back. Even more stunned, Tildie, realizing what she had done, gasped, her hand covering her mouth, her eyes widening into O’s of horror. The two women stared at each other through the smoke. Tildie’s full bosom, heavy with her fifth pregnancy, heaved over the mound of her belly.
“’Tis all right.” Ceidre spoke first. Her face hurt now. “I know you did not mean it.”
Tildie stepped back, and tears flooded her eyes. “I didn’t!” She started to cry. “Oh, Ceidre, how could you spill the spuds? Now what will we do! Mayhap he’ll whip us all, and me so gone with the babe!”
Ceidre put her arm around the weeping woman. “Shh, Tildie, he will not harm you. I promise.”
Ceidre was well aware that Tildie’s sentiments were not unusual. In the past few days since she had been working in the kitchens, she had realized very quickly that the serfs were wary and afraid of their new master. He was so big, and he never smiled. His eyes were so cold—mean. They had heard all the stories of Rolfe the Relentless. He was William the Bastard’s top commander. He was ruthless. At Hastings his men had slaughtered a hundred Saxon archers before they could break for the forest. He had been awarded Bramber, in Sussex. A rebellion had been stopped before it had begun, its leaders publicly hanged. Just recently he had burned York to the ground, every cottage, every shop, every tree, and every garden, after they had finally routed the Saxon rebels. And on his way to Aelfgar he had razed Kesop, not even sparing the cornfields. This was their new lord and master.
“We will bake extra bread and ’twill suffice,” Ceidre said firmly. “Hush, now, Tildie. Go and sit down outside. I’ll make the bread.”
Rolfe was smiling broadly. The ditch had been completed, the dirt removed tossed within, and now a small hill sat in the center, the foundation for the keep. Already half the palisade had been erected, the thick, stout timbered walls over twice his height—and he was very tall. In no time the new great hall of Aelfgar would be finished and the bailey would be begun.
Rolfe was only wearing his undertunic and chausses. The tunic was the thinnest wool, a rich beige that, wet with sweat, molded every rippling sinew it contained. His dark gold curls clung thickly to his head. Wiping perspiration from his eyes, damning the day for the unusual heat, he mounted and rode back to the manor, approaching from the back because that was the side where he had been working.
Ahead of him were the kitchen and pantries. Smoke drifted in incessant puffs from the outbuildings. He could smell the pungent aroma of mutton, and his stomach growled. A maid was carrying butter from the pantry, another trenchers from the kitchen, both converging upon the manor. A boy drew water from the well, then he too disappeared. The area was momentarily deserted, and Rolfe was about to ride past the yard. Then another serf stepped outside from the kitchens, heading toward the alehouse.
Rolfe’s heart broke its rhythm.
Unconsciously he halted his mount. There was no mistaking who it was. It was Ceidre.
He hadn’t seen her in days. This did not mean he hadn’t thought of her—often. He had tried grimly and unsuccessfully not to think of the wench, but ’twas impossible. Every time a woman entered his line of vision, he had looked, to see if it was her. It never was.
His mood these past few days had been abrupt and even foul. He had been quick to find fault with his men and equally quick to demand new, faultless effort. Guy had openly remarked upon it. Rolfe had said nothing. Guy, trying not to laugh, had suggested that he ease himself with Lettie, a peasant wench his men were most fond of. Rolfe had ignored him, although he had considered the suggestion. He usually slaked his lust at will. However, his lust had not arisen upon the sight of any of these village women in the past few days, hence he had not bothered with a tumble. But now— oh, now there was no problem!
She had not seen him. He couldn’t breathe, he was so strangled with thick, hot need at the sight of her. She was practically naked. Her wet undertunic clung to her full breasts and her lush derriere, leaving little to his imagination. ’Twas white, and opaque. He could just see a hint of her skin’s color—that unusual creamy gold. Rolfe forgot all his vows and started his mount forward.
Ceidre suddenly paused in the center of the yard and had a fit of coughing, bent over double. Rolfe leapt from the stallion and seized her, holding her upright until the spasm had passed. She was trembling and weak, leaning heavily against him. His lust had vanished; in its place was abject fear.
“I’m all right,” she said hoarsely, still allowing him to support her. She looked up. Her eyes went wide. So did his.
Her face was flushed crimson and gleaming with perspiration. There was a bruise on her jaw. He could see circles of fatigue beneath her beautiful eyes. Her hair was soaking wet, pinned in coils atop her head. She drew away from him as if repulsed. He let her go. She paled and swayed precariously.
He caught her. “You are ill!”
“Let me go.” She gasped. “I am fine.” She was panting from the slight exertion of trying to remove herself from his grasp. She was so weak, like a newborn kitten. He kept one arm around her. “Let me help you, Ceidre. You must sit down.”
Her chin lifted. “’Tis only from the smoke.”
“The smoke?”
“Within.”
Rolfe did not believe her. He was appalled at her condition, but, certain she could stand on her own, he left her and entered the kitchen. There were four serfs inside, including a naked boy stirring a cauldron. He had thought it hot outside. Here it was unbearable, dim and dark, and the smoke was so thick it was a miracle anyone could breathe at all. He returned to Ceidre grimly. “’Tis abominable in there.”
She shrugged. “’Tis how it is, how it always has been. Where there is fire there is smoke, every fool knows so.” She brushed damp wisps of hair away from her face.
Rolfe had never entered a kitchen before, and he wondered if the kitchens on the estates he had possessed in Sussex were as badly ventilated. “The smoke can be lessened.”
Ceidre regarded him warily.
“With windows and a fitting on the roof.”
“There is no such thing as windows in a kitchen.”
“There is now.” His gaze swept her. He noted the flour on her nose, the stains on her gown. And that darkening bruise on her face.
“What happened to your jaw?”
“’Twas an accident.”
“You look like any kitchen wench.”
“What do you expect? I am any kitchen wench. I work in the kitchens, after all, ’twas your decree.”
Rolfe stared, his anger increasing, roiling, like a storm. “You do not supervise?”
“Supervise?” She laughed. “Do I look like I’m supervising?” She gestured down at her soaking body. Her hand trembled slightly.
“You are exhausted.”
She raked him with her own contemptuous gaze. “I am not tired, and I’ve forgotten, dallying here with you so. I still have much to do.” She turned her back abruptly on him and began to march away.
That she would do so, leave him before he had ordered it, and in such a manner, was unbelievable. Yet this was less significant than the issue at hand— and her well-being. He caught her wrist, jerking her to a halt. “You will not go in there. And what is this nonsense—I decreed your place here?”
“My penance—my lord.”
“I have decreed no such thing,” Rolfe said furiously. “But I decree this. You are to rest for what remains of this day—and you are never to work in the kitchens again. Do you understand?”
Ceidre stared.
“I see that you do,” Rolfe said. “Then understand this as well. You do not turn your back on me, Ceidre. You are not nobly born.”
She bit her lip. Her flush increased. He saw the defiance in her eyes, and the mingling of apprehension before she lowered her head. She mumbled an affirmative. “Yes.”
&nb
sp; He stared at her. Her anger was arousing—she was arousing. She would fight him regardless of her fear— and he knew she feared him. He felt the soaring of some emotion like respect, which could not be, of course, for she was only a woman, and another he understood well, annoyance. He did not like her afraid of him. He touched her chin, lifting it with one forefinger. He saw the startled light in her eyes and felt the impact of their touching just as, he knew, she had.
“My lord,” he said softly.
Her bosom rose and fell. She was ensnared, unable to withdraw her gaze.
“You cannot beat me, Ceidre,” Rolfe warned softly.
Defiance flared. “Yes—my lord.”
He smiled, satisfied, but did not drop his hand. His finger stroked her jaw. “Was it so hard?”
She winced and pulled away.
Rolfe cursed, furious with himself for catering to his own base, male instincts, and forgetting her bruise.
“Go to your grandmother,” he said harshly. “Have her make a poultice before it swells further.”
She was gone before he had finished, holding up the hem of her gown and running—from him.
“Lady, I would have a word with you.”
Alice stood near their two chairs at the head of the table within the hall, waiting for Rolfe before seating herself. His men had already come in, sat, and were busily eating. Rolfe’s eyes were bright blue and cold— like the sky in January. She glanced around to see who had heard his tone. His man, Guy Le Chante, was studiously watching every mouthful he ate, but old Athelstan was slow (and insolent) to withdraw his regard. Alice seethed, but hid it behind a pretty smile. “Can it not wait, my lord? The food is hot.”
“No.” He took her elbow rudely and propelled her up the stairs.
Alice would not show her anger at being treated this way—like some field wench. She kept her lashes demurely lowered. And she reined in the little knot of fear he inspired.
“How is it,” Rolfe growled, “that you told me Ceidre supervises, when in truth she is reduced to the task of any common serf?”
