by Brenda Joyce
William stared at his bowed head, then paced away. He finally turned back. “Your duties as castellan of York are suspended. My sentence is light—because you I trust more than my own right arm. But know well, Rolfe, were you any other, I would strip you here and now of everything you possess. You may go.”
Rolfe rose gracefully. He supposed he had gotten off lightly—but he was angry and using iron discipline not to let it show. He could barely believe what had just happened—that he had been relieved of the castellanship of York—and with it, half of his power. He had expected chastisement, but nothing of this magnitude. And it was all because of that witch, he thought furiously.
Everything was because of that witch.
For he had, in fact, in deed, betrayed his king. Had he also betrayed himself?
“Rolfe.” William’s smooth voice halted him just before he exited the tent. “Bring me their heads and you will have redeemed yourself.”
Edwin paced.
Morcar, usually the volatile one, squatted by the campfire, poking it with a stick. He was not paying attention to what he was doing; he was regarding his brother. Edwin’s strides were long, slow, and deliberate. He was deep in thought. Albie stood silently, half in the shadows of the woods, regarding both brothers.
It was a starry night deep in the fens, those wild borderlands between England and Wales. Two dozen men graced their camp, nestled in the crook of a timbered hillside. Many were sleeping, their snores a steady punctuation to the night. One played a flute, the sound lonely, nostalgic, melancholy. Occasionally hoarse laughter broke the low hum of whispered conversation.
Morcar rose, hands in the folds of his mantle. It was chill in the evening. He kicked a twig. Edwin turned to him. “I am going, Morcar,” he said, low.
“You cannot! ’Tis too dangerous. By God, man, look what happened to me! My head was almost served up to that Bastard Conqueror on a silver plate!”
“I am going.” There was only authority and resolution in Edwin’s voice, and something else, something Morcar had never heard until recently, a tone he hated, and feared. Resignation.
“You are the thinker, the logical one. Surely you, of all of us, know this to be insane!” Morcar protested, blue eyes flashing. He meant every passionate word.
“I cannot stay away,” Edwin said wearily. “’Tis my heart I am separated from.”
A silence ensued. Edwin turned away, to stare up at the stars. Morcar watched his brother’s back for a long while before he spoke again. “Wait yet a few more days, Ed. You still limp when fatigued or put to the test. If we go, you must be in full strength of limb.”
Edwin almost smiled. “We? No, dear brother, I go with Albie, alone.”
“No,” Morcar said, warning in his voice. “We shall not be separated, nothing will keep me from following, I swear it. The Norman is a dangerous, deadly man, Ed, but the two of us together can prevail—if we must.”
“I have no intention of locking horns with Rolfe the Relentless,” Edwin said. The darkest of shadows flitted across his face. “Not yet.”
“You cannot take him,” Morcar said bluntly. “I am better with the sword than you, admit it, and he took me.”
“I will take him,” Edwin said slowly, his dark gaze steady. “When I must. Anyway”—he sighed—“this time ’tis moot. I go to spy.”
“We go to spy.”
Edwin gave in with a shrug of his broad shoulders. “It must be done. I must know, for myself, what passes, and if the rumors are true. By God, to think he’s moved the village?” Edwin’s voice rose in uncharacteristic temper. “He’s moved my village?”
“’Tis the Norman way; we’ve seen it time and again,” Albie offered from the shadows of the trees.
“But when ’tis seen in one’s own home, one’s patrimony …” Edwin trailed off.
“What else does our network say, Albie?” Morcar asked eagerly as the young man entered the glow cast by the firelight. His chausses and mantle were covered with dried mud, testimony to his hard riding earlier and his recent arrival at the camp.
“The marriage is done,” Albie said, hesitating. “And he builds new fortifications in the Norman style.”
Morcar cursed, Edwin grew grim. “Damn Alice,” Morcar said vehemently. “She thinks nothing of betraying us!”
“How is Ceidre?” Edwin cut in.
“My lord, there is a terrible rumor …” Albie trailed off.
“Out with it,” Edwin demanded.
“She is not hurt?” Morcar gasped.
“There is a rumor she was punished for your escape, Morcar. Flogged.”
Morcar cried out in frustration and outrage, Edwin clenched his fists. “’Tis only a rumor, and you know how a story can change through the telling of two dozen or more different tongues. Mayhap ’tis not true.”
“Why did I not take her with me?” Morcar cried in anguish. “I did not think, I never think!”
“Do not blame yourself, we do not know if it is the truth,” Edwin said, a hand on his brother’s back. But his lips were curled into a feral line. “We need Ceidre where she is.”
“There is another rumor,” Albie offered. “But not a better one.” Edwin’s look made him continue. “’Tis said the Norman openly lusts after Ceidre, his looks are so hot just to watch them is to get burned.” Albie shrugged. “So mayhap he did not flog her.”
“If he touches her!” Morcar shouted, enraged. Edwin restrained him, absorbing this before continuing.
“And news of Hereward?”
“The Wake is planning a rebellion against Roger Montgomery. Near Shrewsbury or not, I do not know.”
“Good,” Edwin said. “We will go to Aelfgar, and after, we will meet with Hereward the Wake.”
“What are you thinking?” Morcar demanded.
For the first time Edwin smiled. The sternness of his face was relieved, revealing handsome features and even white teeth. “I am thinking, brother, that in September we go to war. You, me, and Hereward the Wake.”
“Will she die?” Alice asked.
The maid, Mary, stood next to her in the solar as they stared at Ceidre’s wet, trembling form on the bed. “I dunno,” Mary whispered.
Alice clenched the cord of her girdle as if it were a rosary, worrying it continuously. She had denied Ceidre her grandmother—after all, she was a witch, and Alice was not about to have another witch in her home—and, enjoying her immense, newfound power, she had also denied her any further care. A sennight had passed. No one had been allowed into the room except Alice, not even Mary, who would gossip. Ceidre had shriveled up before her eyes, wasting away with fever. She had lost her temptress’s beauty. She was a gaunt skeleton of her old self.
“Do you think she will die?” Alice demanded again impatiently.
Mary shifted nervously. “I think so,” she squeaked. She had never been asked by her mistress for her opinion before and was afraid to give it.
Alice had always hoped Ceidre would die. In the beginning, a week ago, when she had locked Ceidre in with a bare minimum of water and nothing else, she had felt triumph. The witch would learn her place, she would suffer; and when Alice had realized a day later that her sister was ill, she had hoped that she would die. But now there was no feeling of triumph, just anxiety:
If Ceidre died, would she be blamed?
She thought of the Norman and tried to imagine what he would do. Her anxiety made her want to vomit. She had no doubts he would lock her in some shed and throw away the key—forever. After whipping her, of course. Alice vividly imagined herself under the lash, she could even feel its excruciating pain as it sliced open her delicate skin. She shuddered. Tears came to her eyes. It wasn’t fair. Ceidre would die if left unattended, and it was what she deserved. But Alice would pay a price she could not afford and was afraid to face. Therefore, she would have to try to save her wretched sister. But what if she died anyway?
“Send for that old witch, Mary, and now. No.” Alice grabbed her arm. “You get her yourse
lf, tell her Ceidre is dying, make her bring all her potions. Quickly. Go!” Alice pushed her hard out the door.
She walked forward to stand over her shaking, fevered sister. She wished the Norman could see her now. He would feel no lust, only revulsion. It was a wonderful fantasy, but reality intruded. Lord Rolfe would punish her, Alice, if he saw Ceidre now, so Alice realized she had better pray that Ceidre make a fast recovery before he returned. There were other ways to get rid of her bastard sister; hadn’t he said he would consider marrying her off? Maybe he would marry her to a Scot to secure his northern borders, and that would be the end of Ceidre. What a perfect idea!
Alice decided to go to the chapel. The whole village would know that she was praying for her sister’s health. And she would make sure to pray every day.
Ceidre saw Death.
Death was not a leering, grotesque old man. Nor was he the devil. Instead, she was sweet and beautiful and seductive, an enchantress offering peace ever after. The woman floated above her, around her, her ghostly flesh sweet and fragrant, her hair long and honey blond. She was perfectly formed too, and very beautiful. She smiled, and with her finger she beckoned.
Yes, Ceidre thought, I will go. I must, I cannot stay another moment in this living hell.
She hurt. Her entire body was in agony, as if crushed beneath stones. She was on fire. Throbbing. She needed water, but had none. A thought occurred —maybe she had died—maybe this was hell. Then she heard her sister’s voice, asking if she would die, and she knew she was still alive.
She thought of the Norman, and anger raised its head. Death still beckoned, smiling serenely. “No,” Ceidre tried to shout. “I cannot go yet. Go away!”
But she came closer, still smiling, so enchanting Ceidre wondered if she was a witch. Then she gasped, shocked. She realized that the woman beckoning her, floating so close, Death, was herself.
It could not be.
Ceidre reached out, to touch the womanly spirit in her exact image as it hovered nearby. Her other self, or Death, or whoever it was, reached for her, palm open, fingers spread. With horror, Ceidre realized Death wanted to touch her, to take her hand and lead her away from her earthly self. In confusion, she wondered if she were looking at her soul, about to depart this life.
“Come,” Death crooned, her voice sweet and soft. “Come with me now.”
Ceidre was panting and afraid. If her soul had left, then she was truly dead. An image of the Norman reared itself before her, his eyes hot and bright, his face hard and unyielding. “No,” she shouted, dropping her hand, no longer tempted to touch the ghostly apparition. “Go away, I will not come, not yet. ’Tis too soon.”
Death came closer.
Ceidre shrank away. But there was nowhere to go, and still the woman, her mirror image, approached. Ceidre knew she had lost, and she wept. When Death had put her face to hers, Ceidre closed her eyes for the end of all earthly time. Nothing happened. When she opened them, the eerie reflection of herself had gone.
And her grandmother smiled at her through thick tears. “Don’t cry now, sweeting, ’twill be all right. You have come back, Ceidre, you have come back.”
Ceidre fell back against the pillows, exhausted. She closed her eyes but gripped the flesh-and-blood hand of her granny, refusing to give it up. Had it been a dream? Or had she seen her own soul?
True to his word, Rolfe returned to Aelfgar within a fortnight of his departure.
The past sennight since he had faced William’s wrath had cooled him down—barely. He could not forget that it was because of Ceidre he had lost York, it was because of Ceidre he had lied to his king and betrayed him. This doubled his repressed ire. ’Twould not happen again. If she had to be kept under constant guard, drain though it might his resources, as every manjack was valuable to him, ’twould be done. And he was determined to recoup his losses. He would bring King William Morcar, alive or dead. And in so doing, he would banish his own betrayal of his liege lord from all existence. He would rectify the great wrong he had committed.
The sight of his domain lifted his spirits and brought with it a rush of exhilaration. Work had continued on the new fortifications. The tower was finished, the village rebuilt, the walls of the bailey just begun. In another fortnight his fortifications would be completed and the transition to stone could be begun. He did not intend to waste a moment.
And if that witch knew where her brothers were hiding, he would find out.
He couldn’t help it; he thought of her often, too often. It did not take much to make his manhood lift hard and high, just a thought, and this added to his temper. It was, he told himself, because he had not bedded a wench in a very long time, not since he had relieved himself with the peasant at Kesop. That was about to change too. His lack of desire around other women was ridiculous and annoying; if he had to force a different disposition upon himself, he would.
Lady Alice was waiting to greet him in the courtyard, making the foulness of his mood soar. He dismounted, turning to Guy. “Any problems?”
“No, my lord, and as you can see, everything has gone well.”
“Well done,” Rolfe said, placing his hand on Guy’s shoulder. The younger man could not contain a grin. Rolfe turned to Alice. “My lady, you fare well?”
She curtseyed. “Yes, my lord. I have already ordered a bath and wine. Are you tired?” Her gaze searched his face.
“No, but I am in desperate need of a bath.” He wondered where that witch was.
Rolfe followed Alice inside, glancing around. No sign of Ceidre. Good, she had better stay well out of his sight. In his chamber he stripped methodically with his wife’s help. The steaming water felt good. A knock on the door did not raise his attention. Alice ordered in the maid, bearing cheese and bread and wine.
Rolfe stared at the maid. He had seen her around before, of course, and vaguely recollected that he had fucked her at Kesop, but he had never really paid attention or looked at her closely. She was dark, plump, big-breasted, and comely. He eyed her wide hips. She caught his regard and threw him a sultry glance. Rolfe ignored it. So she was amenable, not that it mattered.
“This bread is stale,” Alice said. “I will fetch more.” She looked at Beth, who was gathering Rolfe’s filthy garments. “Launder those immediately.”
Beth murmured an affirmative, Alice skittered out. Rolfe was aware of her hasty departure, wondering why she was newly afraid of him. He could smell her unease, and the excuse to leave was poor—Alice was bossy enough to send the maid for more bread. The maid. She was slow to collect his things. He eyed her buttocks as she bent to retrieve his hose, big buttocks, fleshy and round. “Come here,” he said.
She straightened and turned. She was smiling.
Rolfe was leaning back in the tub, waiting. She did not have to be asked twice, but strutted over, hips swinging, still carrying his clothes. Rolfe looked at the clothes and looked at the floor. She understood and dropped them. He handed her a sponge. She knelt beside him, glanced at him briefly, and began to soap his shoulder.
Rolfe’s gaze was devoid of expression, but he looked at her full breasts. “Are you nursing?”
“Yes,” she breathed.
Casually he reached out to cup her, her flesh full and heavy with her babe’s milk. She went still. He leaned forward and took her nipple, through her tunic, in his mouth. He began to suck.
Beth gasped. She clutched his wet shoulders, shoving her bosom against his face. Rolfe released her, slightly disappointed. He was mildly aroused, he sup posed, but only half hard, surely not capable of performing. Yet. The woman, he noticed, smelled sour, and it was unappealing. He refused to compare her to another—one who smelled of violets. “Tonight bathe as I am doing. Meet me in the stable after I sup.”
Beth smiled, her face flushed, her gown wet, nipple distended. “Yes, my lord, gladly,” she murmured. “Shall I finish your bath?”
He waved her away. Later would be soon enough.
Something inside him quickened as he desce
nded to take his supper, but he refused to pay it attention. It most certainly was not eagerness, nor anticipation. Still, he knew damn well she would be at his table, and he paused on the threshold of the hall, his gaze sweeping it and all its occupants.
Ceidre. She was already seated at the table’s foot, where she normally dined. Her back was to him. His gut was so tight it ached, just from the real-life, flesh-and-blood presence of her, and he was angered at his response. At all of his responses, for now there was the tightening in his sac, the heavy weight, which had eluded him earlier with the maid. He strode to his place, Alice upon his heels, resolved to ignore her, and took his chair.
Everyone commenced eating at once. Rolfe had been ravenous, now he could barely get down his food. He found he could not fight himself; he looked down the table at her. Even from this distance, he noticed her pallor. In fact, he thought she looked smaller, defenseless, vulnerable. She did not look at him. Not once.
Of course, he thought, feeling ugly, like a bitten dog. She had hated him when he was merely the Norman enemy, now she would hate him more for the punishment he had inflicted upon her. He attacked his food. When he was done, but far from replete, Alice laid a hand on his arm.
Rolfe jerked his gaze to her, and at the look of contained wrath upon his face, Alice quickly let her palm slide to the table. “I am sorry,” she said.
“’Tis not you,” he managed gruffly. He swore to himself that tonight, once and for all, he would get Ceidre out of his system, out of his thoughts, out of his damn life.