by Brenda Joyce
His chest was bare. Ceidre’s small, warm palm slid across its contours and finally anchored on his shoulder. Her face pressed into the broad plane between his nipples, wetting his skin with her tears. Rolfe cupped the back of her head and held her closer. He felt he had reached a pleasure so profound he had never experienced it before.
He forgot about Alice. He nuzzled the top of her hair. He held her tighter. She clung harder. “Forgive me,” he said hoarsely, while his inner mind was astounded that he, Rolfe de Warenne, her lord and master, should ask her, or anyone, for forgiveness. He ignored this voice. In the darkness of this night, the rules did not matter: Anything was possible. And he felt the instant of her full awakening.
She became still in his embrace, her lashes fluttering against the flesh of his pectoral muscles like the teasing of butterfly wings. Rolfe, anticipating what was to come, tightened his hold, pressing her head farther against him. He had stopped breathing. So, he thought, had she.
With her awareness, he felt awkward, clumsy, and foolish, yet completely reluctant to let her go. And he felt a soaring thrill, like a victory, that she did not struggle, but now, in fact, snuggled closer with a sigh. He could not believe his good fortune. He rocked her slightly, realizing there was no need for words, for explanations. And then he felt her steady breathing and suddenly realized she was not awake, as he had thought—but asleep.
Vast disappointment claimed him.
“This is obscene,” Alice hissed.
Had she been sleeping all along? he thought foolishly. What did it matter? Was he being reduced to a fool? But for a moment, the thought that she had been unresisting in his arms had been exhilarating, like a potent wine. He gently laid her down again. Then he turned to look at Alice.
Before she could speak, he said coldly, “If you had comforted her the way a sister should, I would not have had to do so myself.”
Alice’s eyes filled with angry tears. “You shame me before all my people!”
“I have not shamed you.”
“To take my sister as your leman is not to shame me?”
“She is not my mistress, Alice,” Rolfe warned her. He took her arm and led her out of the chamber and into their own. He did not release her. “But it is time I made something very clear. You are my wife. You will be treated as such. But if ever you question my associations with a woman again, I will lock you away. I am a man and I have my rights. You do not question them. I will take any woman who is mine for the taking if she pleases my eye. And when I tell you Ceidre is not my mistress, you do not call me a liar. Ever. Is that clear?”
“Yes,” Alice said, chin lifted. “May I speak?”
Rolfe released her and nodded, his thoughts fleeing back to the room across the hall.
“I do not begrudge you your mistresses,” Alice said. “It pleases me, you know that—I am a lady and I prefer being spared your attentions. I did not mean to call you a liar. I just know how she flaunts herself—”
“Enough! The topic wearies me. I am going to bed. You may do as you wish.”
He turned his back on her and strode back to their bed. Many moments intervened before Alice followed.
“Where are you going, my lord?”
“York.”
Alice was surprised, and she did not try to hide it. It was first thing that morning; they were still in their chamber. She watched Rolfe as he gave careful instructions to Guy, who was remaining behind, in charge of his men and the manor. Guy nodded and left. Rolfe quickly packed an extra change of clothes— tunic, undertunic, chausses, and hose. He added a velvet mantle in the richest rust color, the underside aubergine. The mantle he now wore, over his hauberk, was the familiar black over red, both sinister and utilitarian. The brooch boasted a huge, glaring yellow citrine. It was still chill out in the first hour after dawn.
“How long will you be gone?” Alice asked, anticipating his absence with great relish. She would not have to worry about the “mood” to consummate their marriage overtaking him; nor would she have to deal with his impossible arrogance and manners. Freedom. She wanted to sing with her joy.
“No longer than necessary,” he said. “A fortnight at most. If something arises to detain me, I will send word.”
Alice nodded. She knew better than to ask why he was going. If he wanted her to know, he would tell her. She watched him stride to the door, his mantle swinging out around him, his spurs clinking, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword. He reminded her, she thought, of her father and her brothers— worldly, lordly, proud, a warrior. She was not sure if this pleased her or displeased her. She supposed it did both. The latter because it put her in a position of continued impotence; she would never have power because he would usurp it all for himself, as the men of her family had. And the former because, as a powerful lord, he ensured her position as the lady of Aelfgar by ensuring his own position. One day, at least, their sons would come into their inheritance. This reminded Alice that truly she must bear him a legitimate heir—if only to keep her own place at Aelfgar.
He paused in the doorway, looking across the hall. Alice felt hatred for both him and her sister well up. She was brutalized by the image of her husband holding her sister last night, so gently it was unbelievable. And with this reminder, her instincts began shrieking renewed warnings. Ceidre was a grave threat to her no matter what Rolfe said. She sensed it. She knew it.
Rolfe grimly gave a lingering look at Ceidre’s chamber. Alice could see that Ceidre slept still—and she could also see that her lord was waging an internal battle—which he won. He strode aggressively down the hall, and for a moment Alice remained, listening to the sound of his hard footsteps on the stairs. She seared her sleeping sister with a look, then hurried after her husband to see him off.
A dozen of his men were already mounted in the courtyard. They were all fully armed with sword, lance, mace, and shield. Pennants waved in the breeze from their lances. Their steeds stomped restlessly, blowing. All the soldiers wore leather-padded mail hauberks and chausses and helmuts. Alice shuddered. They were a frightening lot, and Ceidre and her brothers were fools for thinking the Saxons could even hope to win against these mounted soldiers.
Rolfe’s horse waited, held by one of his men, kicking out at anyone whose shadow came too close. His ears were laid back, and his massive head bobbed in temper. The man holding him had to dodge his lethal hooves on more than one occasion. Rolfe paused on the steps, his black cape swinging about him. Its red underside reminded Alice of blood.
“My lord, there is something I would like to ask,” Alice said softly.
His impatience showed, but he nodded.
“’Tis time, I think, that Ceidre be wed. Mayhap to one of the villagers, or the reeve.”
Other than the tensing of his jaw and the flashing of his eyes, Rolfe’s face remained expressionless. Alice hurried on, laying a hand on his sleeve, her voice sympathetic and earnest. “’Twould truly be better, my lord, for all of us.”
“I will think on it,” he said shortly.
“God speed you, my lord,” Alice said politely.
“And you,” Rolfe said. He turned abruptly and mounted the stallion, which even tried to kick out at its master. Rolfe hit the beast’s neck hard with his open palm, and the animal quieted. The column moved out, Rolfe’s own pennants, in black and red and royal blue, streaming behind him.
Alice lifted her gown and literally ran upstairs. As she had hoped, no maid had yet come to their chamber. She found her eating dagger and did not think twice, but cut her little finger. She dripped the blood onto the sheets. And smiled.
As an afterthought, she smeared blood between her thighs, then called for a bath.
The sheets could not be missed, but better yet, the maid who helped her to bathe would spread the news like a wildfire. The marriage had just been consummated.
Ceidre awoke with a strange feeling of remorse. She remembered the dream as if it were real—she could almost feel, still, his warm, hard body as he h
eld her so tenderly, soothing her in her anguish. She did not want to awaken. She wanted to sleep—and continue to dream.
But she was not asleep in the heavy, velvet embrace of a magical night. She was awake. The sunlight was pouring through her window, and with it came ugly reality. Ceidre shifted onto her side, wincing as she tested newly forming scabs, evidence of that reality. You are a fool, she told herself. He would never be like that. He is an ogre and the enemy and he had you whipped. To dream of him is insane. And, she thought helplessly, unfair.
Because there was something so compelling about the dream.
She was hot. She realized she was sweating slightly and knew she had taken a low fever. You have him to thank for that, she reminded herself. Anything to escape the dream’s clutches.
A maid was singing a wicked ditty in the great chamber as she did her duties there. Ceidre sighed and sat up, reaching for the urn of water. It was empty. She was so thirsty, so sore, so hot, and so tired. She fell back onto her stomach, head on her arms, trying to douse the remaining ashes of the dream. It had been so real.
She heard someone coming up the stairs but did not pay close attention. She drifted close to sleep again, wondering when her grandmother would come, wondering, foolishly, if he would come again. How dare he show his face here, she thought, as the two maids chattered, giggling, across the hall. One of them mentioned the Norman, giggling again, and Ceidre found herself listening despite herself.
“’Tis a lusty one, he is, I’ve heard all the stories,” Mary said.
“If he’s so lusty, how come he hasn’t touched none of us, not since he’s come?” complained Beth. “Sweet Mary, that day at Kesop, I’ll never forget—he was so strong…”
Ceidre had a graphic memory assault her, the Norman thrusting into Beth, his face dark and strained, his member red and slick and full.
“’Twould insult Lady Alice,” Mary said. “That’s why he doesn’t touch any of us now. But he will, in time.”
“’Twas a bigger insult, if you ask me, that he did not take her on their wedding night,” Beth said. “If it were me, he would not have slept till dawn!”
Ceidre sat up. She shouldn’t be eavesdropping. But she was. She could not believe what she was hearing— it could not be true. And if it were—why was her heart beating so rapidly? Why did she feel lighter? “Beth, Mary, come here,” she called.
The two maids entered sheepishly, Mary holding a pile of linens in her arms.
“What are you talking about?”
They looked at the floor. “Nothing,” Beth lied, blushing.
“Tell me the truth, ’tis most important—for Aelfgar. He did not bed Alice?”
Beth looked up. “He did not bed her until last night,” she said, looking at the pile of linens.
Ceidre didn’t really hear. She felt dismay and something else, worse, something sickening, and she stared at the sheets. While she had been in that foolish, soothing dream, he had been with Alice. Mary interpreted the look as a question and held them up, to show the bloodstain. Ceidre looked away. Why did it hurt now, when she didn’t care? When she had thought it done with days ago, on their wedding night? She had no right to be hurting! None!
“Please bring me water,” she said, lying back on her side. It was the fever, she was sure, why else would she be fighting accursed tears? “And Granny.”
“You laggards,” Alice said from the doorway. “Get going.” She watched them race away, then paused to lean smugly against the wall. “You don’t look well, Ceidre.”
“Go away, Alice,” Ceidre said wearily.
“Now I know why you spread your thighs for him, Ceidre,” Alice purred. “It’s good, isn’t it, having that big thing inside you? Why, he’s randy as a bull! I thought I wouldn’t like it—but I found I loved it.”
Ceidre imagined him rearing over Alice, powerful, his organ massive and ready, and shook away the image. She stared at the floor, her cheek on her arm. “Alice, I am not well. I have a fever. Would you send Granny to me and some water, please?”
“I won’t have that witch in my house,” Alice said vehemently. “But I will send you some water.” She turned and left abruptly.
Ceidre wanted to call out and tell her she needed poultices from her grandmother or she would get an infection, but she did not have the strength. All she could do was shed a few lonely tears. And it was evening before the cup of water came.
The stone of York gleamed diffused shades of tawny white. William was taking no chances; this time the castle would be stone and impenetrable. The wooden palisade surrounding the burned-out shell of the old timbered keep had been replaced with York’s glinting pale stone. It was completely finished.
Rolfe and his men rode past the construction site. Most of York’s villagers had been summoned to this task. Huge winches and pulleys were used to move the big blocks about on the site, but it was manpower that settled each block into its precise place. Oxen pulled sleds transporting the stone from the quarry. Activity was intense and constant, drays approaching with stone and supplies, serfs working the winches, men beneath the stone blocks, supporting them as they were raised or let down, knots of villagers shimmying blocks into place in the tower itself. Vendors hawked bread and pies, mutton and ale. Those too young to be enlisted in the royal effort ran barefoot, chasing one another, puppies on their heels. The first and ground story of the new tower had been nearly finished as well.
They had not wasted any time, and it was three days since he had left Aelfgar, a bright, hot late June afternoon. They rode through the city, because York, a trade center since the days of the Danes, had a wide thoroughfare. It sprawled right up against the moat and palisade of William’s castle. Immediately their arrival began to be communicated by the housewives and aldermen, by the peddlers and beggars, by vendors and pickpockets, through every alley and doorway and window of York. Rolfe heard his own name roil off someone’s lips in a hushed, awed excitement, not without a little fear, on more than one occasion.
William resided inside the palisade’s walls, of course. The purple pennant bearing his crest was visible from outside those walls, floating high above the village on a pole. They rode across a drawbridge and into the inner bailey.
Rolfe left orders for his men and rode directly to William’s tent. A page took his stallion, another announced him. William was closeted with Odo, his half brother and one of his most powerful nobles now that Odo had Dover, and the Bishop of York, a Saxon, Ealdred. It was common knowledge that Odo coveted this bishopric, and Rolfe was certain he would have it —sooner if not later.
William was clad, as usual for him when not in battle or afield, in a long cream-colored tunic and girdle, delicately embroidered in ivy green, a velvet purple mantle draping his broad shoulders. He was delighted to see Rolfe. “Get up, man,” he cried when Rolfe went down immediately on one knee. “Up, rise, dispense with the formalities. Where is he? I wish to spit upon that treacherous swine!”
Rolfe rose. His gaze was unflinching. No messenger could have come swifter than he, and in truth, he had not wanted to subject one of his men to William’s wrath. Not when it was his fault “Morcar has escaped, Your Grace.”
William, stared, just for an instant, and then he bellowed, cursing. He knocked over a table, venting a huge fury. Odo and Ealdred were standing. William turned on them. “Out, out,” he shouted, his eyes bulging, his face above his beard red. “No, you stay,” he roared at Odo when he too turned to leave. Ealdred ducked hastily outside.
William turned to Rolfe. “Explain yourself.”
“He escaped during the wedding feast. By the time it was found out, ’twas too late. He is gone. I am at your disposal.” Rolfe, expressionless, dropped again to one knee.
William shouted, cursed, and paced. Odo remained silent in the background. Finally he stopped in front of Rolfe, staring down at his bowed head. “I cannot believe this,” he said, under control, his famous temper reined in with an iron hand. “You are my most trusted commander
. How could this happen? Was it treason? Was your guard bribed to look the other way?”
Rolfe’s insides tightened. He remained on one knee, head bowed. “My guard was taken ill. He left his post because of the malady and has been stripped of his duties. I deemed further chastisement unnecessary.”
“Get up so I can look at you,” William said, and when Rolfe did, he continued. “He was poisoned?”
“Yes.”
“Damn.” William punched his fist into his open palm. “These Saxon are a nest of vipers, but I will break them, yes I will!” He pierced Rolfe with his black gaze again. “I take it the perpetrator of this deed of treason has been found?”
Rolfe’s heart leapt, then quieted. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“I want the details,” William said. “Are you reluctant?”
“No. ’Twas a serf. A woman. She gave my man the poison, then freed Morcar. She has been dealt with.”
“Dealt with? You had better mean hanged!”
Rolfe met his gaze. He was pierced with something he could not name, something that felt like fear. And it was not for himself. Yet the moment had come, and he could not lie to his king. “She was flogged, Your Grace. She will not commit treason again.”
William actually blinked. “Have you taken leave of your senses! This serf cost me the leader of the last rebellion—and she is merely whipped? What is the meaning of this, Rolfe?”
Now was the moment when he should reveal Ceidre’s identity to his king. Rolfe stared back at William. There was nothing compromising in his look, or in his tone when he spoke, but nor was there a challenge. “My lord, she is a serf—my serf. You have never had cause to question me before. I have punished her. She is in my keeping, under guard. In my judgment hanging would have incited the inhabitants to further treason, therefore I exercised restraint. ’Twould also have incited the brothers, personal vengeance added to political rebellion. I believe I have acted wisely. Yet I know that Morcar’s escape is, ultimately, my responsibility. I await whatever you deem just penalty for my failure.” Rolfe held William’s gaze and again dropped to one knee; then he looked down.
