The Conqueror

by Brenda Joyce

  “Yes. They are both awaiting you,” Guy said as they entered the hall. “As you can see.” The two apprehensive men stood alone in the hall.

  “Who was the last to see the prisoner?” Rolfe demanded.

  Jean, flushed, stepped forward. “I did, my lord.”

  “When?”

  “When I first took guard, yesterday morning.”

  “And did you know if the prisoner was there when you left your post?”

  Jean hung his head. “’Twas late. I thought he slept.”

  “So you”—Rolfe turned to Louis—“did not inspect to see if the prisoner was there either?”

  “No, my lord,” Louis said, standing straight and tall. “I too thought he was asleep. But—”

  “What?”

  “He could not have escaped during my watch. I did not close an eye, nor did I take one step from my post. This I swear, and if I speak false, let God smite me as I stand.”

  Rolfe believed him, and he turned to Jean, who was crimson now. “What have you to say?”

  “’Twas me,” he croaked. “I was deathly ill, my lord. All of a sudden I had a severe cramping. I could not hold my bowels.”

  Rolfe stared. “You deserted your post.”

  “I was sick, so sick I could not control myself.”

  Rolfe’s face was hard and rigid, but he contained his wrath well. Only his eyes showed his emotions. They blazed. “At what time were you sick?”

  “Just after I took my dinner, my lord, during your wedding feast.”

  “Strip him of his sword,” Rolfe said to Guy. He then looked at Jean. “You are relieved of duty until I deem it otherwise.”

  Guy turned to Rolfe. “Do you think…?”

  “I am almost sure of it—he was poisoned. Have there been any other reports of this strange illness?”

  “No.”

  Jean jerked upright. “My lord?”

  “What?”

  “She brought it to me.”

  Rolfe thought the hall had become strangely still. “Who?” And he knew.

  “The witch—my lady’s sister—Ceidre.”

  For a moment Rolfe didn’t breathe, didn’t move. Then his heart picked up its beat. His face was devoid of expression, of emotion. “And you were not suspicious—after she poisoned Guy at Kesop?”

  “Aye, I was. But she took a bite of everything, my Lord, to prove ’twasn’t poisoned. Yet now I think they were small morsels, my lord, very small.”

  Rolfe’s nostrils flared. In his mind was hard, hard anger. She understood well what she had done, and the consequences, but she had done it anyway.

  Treason.

  And in his body there was sickness, deep, reaching from his heart straight into his soul.

  “I knew it,” Alice cried from behind them. “She asked me the other night, my lord, to help her plan Morcar’s escape. Of course, I told her she was a fool.”

  Rolfe had been about to tell Alice to be quiet, but now he was all ears. “And you did not inform me?”

  “You were sleeping from the effects of the wine, my lord,” Alice said with the faintest of smirks. Her eyes glowed. “I commanded Guy to put her in the dungeons for treason, yet he would not!”

  Rolfe looked at Guy.

  Guy shifted. “The lady Alice thought she had poisoned you, my lord, and thus accused her sister of treason. I determined you were in your cups, so did not lock up the wench. If I have behaved wrongly, I will gladly accept just punishment.”

  “You did rightly.” Rolfe held up a hand, taking a breath, mouth tight. “There is no need to hunt for Morcar—the Saxon is long gone.”

  Guy nodded.

  “Find Ceidre,” Rolfe said. “And chain her in the stables, with a guard.” “Yes, my lord,” Guy said.

  Rolfe turned and walked to the large trestle table, his back to the company. He stood unmoving, and then his arm rose. His fist came smashing down. All his raw power was in the blow. The noise was deafening; the table cracked.

  Ceidre shifted and tried to find a more comfortable position upon the straw. Her wrists were tied behind her and from there secured to a post in the stable. Her guard sat upon a bale of hay, ten yards from her, arms folded, watching those who passed by. And the passersby were many.

  She no longer flushed as, upon one pretext or another, the villagers strolled by to gawk and stare. She had been sitting here for half the day. She was used to their slack-jawed gaping and even to their pity. Everyone had made a point of coming to see this new attraction, and the whispered word treason abounded.

  Alice had come too. Her stride had been hard and purposeful, eyes dark and bright. Ceidre had stiffened instinctively, the movement causing the rope to dig into her flesh and burn. She sensed the worst. “Now you will pay, witch,” Alice had hissed. “Now you will pay!”

  Her sister had shaken her already shattered nerves as no one else had. Thankfully, she did not pause to stay and taunt, but hurried on. Ceidre blinked back tears, trembling. Her own sister hated her enough to gloat. And Alice was right, now she would pay. She knew the price well, she had been warned.

  Oh, sweet Mary, what would he do?

  Ceidre was afraid.

  She had known the instant she saw Guy approaching this morning that he had come for her. There had been no point in running—where should she go? She had waited, near the village well, facing him valiantly, head held high. She had been very certain Guy would take her to the Norman. So despite her outward poise, there had been thick unease within her. Her heart had wings and fluttered like a trapped bird. She must not show fear. She must not shiver like a stray in winter. Yet instead she had been escorted to the stables and tied up. And here she had been all morning and all afternoon. With no food, not even a blanket to sit upon. Not that she could eat, she would surely vomit if she tried. An hour past she’d been brought a cup of water to wet her dry, parched throat, and was finally allowed to answer her body’s needs.

  When would he come?

  Fear lurched in her breast again. It was a formidable lump that she could not swallow. With the passing of time it grew, expanding uncontrollably. His rage would be beyond anything she had ever seen before. If only he would come and the confrontation could be gotten over with! This waiting was torture of the worst sort, and she could not stand it another minute! Perspiration had long since gathered under her arms and between her breasts and upon her brow. She knew, with certainty, he kept her waiting like this apurpose, to feed her fear. And it succeeded.

  And her worst fears began to rear themselves in the darkest hours of the night.

  Would he hang her?

  She prayed for mercy.

  Ceidre would not beg information from her guard, although she desperately wanted to. She would not beg for audience, or to know her fate. Yet the thought came—if she begged the Norman, if she wept, if she clung to him, perhaps he would show mercy. She imagined him standing there, stone-faced, ruthless, cold-hearted, while she clutched at his tunic, begging for leniency. She knew positively then that he would not spare her this time. Her mind, traitorous to her soul, sped on. What if she tried to use a woman’s wiles to gain his mercy? No! She could not! She could not weep, beg, or seduce! No, she would never beg—she would staunchly bear whatever she must, even if it were her own death.

  She was going to be hanged.

  She had committed treason, her life was forfeit.

  She could not sleep. Nor could she cry. Instead, she sat huddled and frozen, her mind conjuring up the worst images of herself—dangling at the end of a rope.

  Rolfe’s eyes were bloodshot, and they mirrored his frustration. He sat alone in the hall, as he had all night, after ordering everyone out. He had dozed. But his dreams had been nightmares of the worst sort. Ceidre screaming, her back bare and bloody, while his man whipped her with his lash. Rolfe had screamed for a halt, yet the gory flogging had continued. He realized, as he shouted again, that he was opening his mouth, screaming as hard as he could—but no sound was being emitted. And
then he woke up, sweating and trembling, to find himself sitting at the table in the hall where he had passed the entire night.

  He could not do it.

  He had to.

  Rolfe rubbed his face and his eyes. He was a commander. His word was law. He controlled his men and the occupied territories because the threat of punishment for a breach or treason was real. His fist was iron; it had to be. He rarely showed mercy. His men rarely disobeyed. Traitors were whipped, if boys or women; male adults hanged. Harsher lessons were dealt in the more difficult territories, as just due to more serious instances of rebellion. At Kesop, the village had been razed for the villagers had harbored a dozen Saxon archers. ’Twas the declared policy. If a policy was declared, it must be the law, with no exceptions. Or soon, very soon, there would be chaos and anarchy.

  He could not do it.

  “My lord?”

  Rolfe had not heard Guy enter. He gestured for him to sit. “I cannot do it.”

  Guy, ever his closest man, understood. “She has bewitched you from the first, my lord.”

  “Aye, that is true.”

  “My lord,” Guy said urgently, “there is not a soul in the village who does not know what she has done.”

  “I know.”

  “Everyone waits to see what you will do.”

  Rolfe smiled, without mirth.

  “You must punish her.”

  “If she were my wife,” Rolfe said, “I could lock her up and throw away the key and no one would object.”

  “She is not your wife,” Guy said.

  Rolfe laughed. He thought of his wife, asleep upstairs, whom he had not even seen since yesterday morning when the news of this treachery had been revealed. “Believe me,” he said heavily, “I know well which dame is my wife and which is not.” He stood. “Bring her to the courtyard at noon.”

  Guy was also standing. “Yes, my lord.” There was a question in his eyes.

  “’Twill be done,” Rolfe said grimly.

  Ceidre heard the edict immediately. The village rippled with excitement—she was to be brought to the courtyard at noon for the eaorl’s punishment. Ceidre was sick. Rumor and speculation abounded. Would she be whipped, or hanged? Perhaps the lord, who had a hot eye for the witch, would do neither, but toss her into the dungeons for a day or two. This was a big event for Aelfgar, the first instance of the new lord’s exercising of his power in discipline, for the most serious offense there was—treason. Everyone was breathless with anticipation, wondering what he would do. Most thought it would be the worst, for the lord was a cold, hard man, and a Norman as well. Ceidre knew that they were right. She was losing what little control she had over her emotions.

  She was shaking and ready to weep. She was deathly afraid. She had tested him too many times—and now she would hang. She prayed. She prayed to Jesus, she prayed to the saints. She even prayed to a few old pagan gods she had never beseeched before. She prayed for the strength to bear her fate, to be brave and strong and die a martyr, not a coward. She was so terribly afraid she was going to weep and beg for mercy, clinging to his feet.

  It was many hours till noon, and time was merciless, cruel, her pace slow and snide. Ceidre watched the sun —she could not bear its slow, inexorable ascent. And then a shadow fell across the straw at her feet, and Ceidre looked up, startled, for no one had dared to come this close all day. It was Alice.

  Alice smiled meanly. “He is enraged, Ceidre. You have cost him a most valuable prisoner, and he will show no mercy.”

  Ceidre closed her eyes. By the gods, she did not need to hear this! Not now!

  Alice hunched down. “You are going to die.”

  Ceidre opened her eyes, her face amazingly calm. “I will bear whatever I have to.”

  Alice laughed. “As if you have a choice!”

  Thankfully, Alice turned and left. Once she had slipped outside, Ceidre hunched over, retching dryly. Then she crouched panting. So it was true, she would hang—when deep inside, all along, she had clung to the faint hope that he would spare her life.

  Then something miraculous began to happen.

  She could feel her frightened heart begin to slow. The terrible, gut-wrenching fear quieted. The whole world quieted—the baaing of sheep, the laughter of villagers, the groaning wheel of a passing cart. She was no longer trembling. Her body felt heavy and lethargic; she had become utterly relaxed, as if given a potion to slow her senses. It was almost a feeling of serenity. The sun was not hot, it was warm. The earth was not cold, it was cool. The birdsong above mellowed, the yapping of the hounds dimmed. Only her vision remained sharp, in fact, the world became brighter, more focused. She no longer thought of what would occur. No images haunted her. Instead she sat back, her breathing steady, and waited for them to come for her. And there was peace.

  At noon Rolfe stepped out of the manor. He was not surprised that the entire village had turned out, he expected it. In fact, he had just sent Beltain and Louis to rouse anyone who had not come. All of Aelfgar would witness the price to be paid for treason.

  His mouth was clamped in a hard, controlled line. His eyes were opaque and showed nothing. His face was expressionless, except for the extreme rigidity there. He stood unmoving on the manor steps. He tried to detach himself completely from any emotions whatsoever, a feat he had long managed with complete success. So far, so good. He could not be unaware of the fluttering of his heart, but he was in control of himself.

  Lady Alice stood beside him, head high, her hand on his arm.

  The villagers began to whisper excitedly, someone crying “Here they come!”

  His stomach lurched. Rolfe clamped down harder on his jaw and watched Guy and Ceidre approaching. Her hands were still tied behind her back. Her dress was dusty and covered with straw. Her thick braid was scraggly, many strands escaping, and it hung over one breast. Her head was high, shoulders erect. Her chin was in the air. As she came closer, he saw the mask of her expression—one of calm and dignity. His heart lurched with an emotion so strong he was not sure if it was pride or something more.

  Guy brought her to him. She turned her purple eyes upon him. Her chin had not lowered. Rolfe saw the utter calm in her gaze—the trust. His own heart tried to leap out of his chest, and he felt a trickle of perspiration begin to descend from his temple. Guy paused with Ceidre in front of him.

  Rolfe stared into her eyes. She was proud and serene on the brink of disaster. He could find no fear in her gaze, just acceptance. She was braver than most men, and he admired her greatly in that moment. She would not let her people down by weeping and begging; she would not show him any weakness.

  “Ceidre,” he said, low. His tone was harsh with pain, yet intimate. He had not meant to address her in such a manner.

  She smiled serenely, and then he saw the thinnest filming of tears. “I am ready,” she said simply.

  He wanted to take her into his embrace—and protect her. “You have committed treason,” Rolfe said quietly. “Ten lashes.”

  She blinked furiously, lucid cognition flashing in her gaze. Ten lashes! That bitch had lied! She would not hang, she would not die, and oh, she was so lucky, for she could survive this!

  Rolfe saw her shock and relief. He himself was stunned, in that moment knowing she had been ready to accept a martyr’s death, that she had thought her fate to be the hangman. He heard the sigh of relief rippling through the crowd. Beside him, Alice gasped. He did not care. He could not believe she had been so courageous—-just as he could not believe she knew him so little to think he would sentence her to death. He wanted to laugh—without mirth. And he wanted to weep for what was to come, yet he had never shed a tear in his life.

  “Ten lashes,” he repeated, his voice husky and harsh. As anyone who had ever suffered the whip knew, ten lashes was plenty for the delicate skin of a woman. As it was, his heart was now beating frantically. He must use all his strength, all his self-discipline, every reserve he had, or he would not make it through this ordeal. He was a scant instant f
rom reversing his decision, and he knew it. He nodded abruptly to Guy.

  Ceidre was led to a post and turned to face it, her back to the crowd. Guy ripped open her dress from shoulder to waist. Her back was long and elegant and graceful, her skin slightly tinged with gold. Rolfe realized he had ceased to breathe. “Louis,” he barked, causing the man holding the whip to turn sharply.

  “Ne rompe pas la peau,” Rolfe commanded harshly. Do not break her skin.

  Louis paled.

  Rolfe was sweating. He saw Ceidre stretched taut, unmoving. “Begin,” he said.

  The lash snaked through the air and sliced cleanly across Ceidre’s back. She jerked but did not cry out. Her skin did not break, but a fat red welt appeared. Rolfe clenched his fists, hard. Beside him, Alice made a sound, something that sounded impossibly like a snicker. Rolfe shot her a quick glance and saw that she was smiling. Furious, he hissed, “Restrain your pleasure, Lady!”

  Again, Ceidre spasmed beneath the whip, and Rolfe flinched as well, he who had never flinched in the face of physical hurt before. The whip fell again and again. It was not until the sixth lash that she made a sound, a small cry of anguish. Rolfe took one step off the stairs. The seventh and eighth lashes fell, and a streak of blood appeared among the crisscrossing of welts. Ceidre gasped and moaned, jerking hard against her ropes. Rolfe gripped the hitching post near him with all his strength. He could not remove his eyes from Ceidre, yet he was aware of his wife’s guttural pleasure in her sister’s pain. The final lash descended. Ceidre sagged, trembling, against the post. Rolfe moved.

  He was at her side and cutting her free before Louis had even coiled his whip. He ignored the gasping of the crowd. The last three lashes had cut into her delicate skin, making him sicker than he already was. Had he eaten this day, he would be throwing up. “Ceidre,” he managed, supporting her with one arm around her waist.

  “Don’t touch me,” she murmured, gasping, but she did not fight him.

  Very gently he lifted her into his arms. “Je le regrette,” he whispered.

  She whimpered and clung, tightly, her face buried in his neck.