The Conqueror

by Brenda Joyce

  She sought her out after the meal, when the Norman and his men had ridden out hunting. An ever-present shadow followed her—one of the Normans whose name she did not even know. The shadow occupied herself with ogling Beth and smirking a stone’s throw from them. “What is this about?”

  Beth’s face was flushed with excitement. “I have seen Morcar,” she whispered, looking hastily around.

  Ceidre’s heart stopped, then sped on. Now she understood Beth’s flush, for Morcar had tumbled her many times and Beth, like all women, was half in love with the rake. “Where?”

  “Your grandmother’s.”

  Ceidre could not believe it. She gaped, and then she turned to go, only to realize her shadow awaited her. “Damn!”

  “I will take care of him,” Beth assured her. “Oh, Ceidre, if only they would throw this Norman out on his knees!”

  So much, Ceidre thought, for Beth’s attraction to her lord. Ceidre paced the kitchen impatiently while Beth strutted over to her man, apparently named Roger, and began a blatant seduction. Roger was no fool, but he was also not equal to withstanding Beth’s unfair tactics. Bluntly she delved into his trousers. He gasped. As Ceidre hurried past, Beth lowered her head to his full, naked organ.

  I owe her, Ceidre thought, glancing around her, trying to be casual. She wanted to run, she wanted to shriek—with joy, and anger. He is a fool, she thought, furious, for coming again. Only Morcar would dare to come into the village, right under the Norman’s nose! Ceidre rehearsed a vehement speech and flung open the door to her granny’s. The old lady sat at the table with not one man, but two.

  Ceidre closed the door and stared.

  Edwin stood, with a slight smile.

  He was so handsome. So strong, and tears of joy came to her eyes. He opened his arms, she rushed into them. He held her and rocked her. Ceidre clung, sniffing. Since her father had died, Edwin had taken that place, if possible, because he was the exact image of Aelfgar, within and without. “I cannot believe you have come, all the way to the village!”

  “Hush,” he said, a finger on her lips. “Do you not greet your wild brother?”

  Ceidre smiled and turned to embrace Morcar. He held her apart. “Are you all right? Is it true? I heard—”

  A gesture from Edwin interrupted his worried questions. “We have time.” He looked at Ceidre. “Truly, I did not intend to come this far, but when the Norman rode out with half his men, I could not resist.”

  “He is hunting. He will not be back until late today, maybe tonight.”

  Edwin’s gaze searched her. “Are you all right, Ceidre?”

  “Yes.” She suddenly remembered everything. “Ed, I just sent Feldric to find you!” And she quickly filled him in on the royal missive of the day before.

  Edwin paced thoughtfully, Morcar fretted. “It must be John,” he said. “He has not been seen in a sennight.”

  Ceidre spoke up. “Mayhap I should know where you are, to be able to—”

  “No,” Edwin said, his tone a whip’s lash. “What you did was right. A true Saxon can find us, just as the Normans can’t. It will take Feldric time, but he would, eventually, passing through many tests, reach us. I do not want you endangered, Ceidre.”

  She nodded, thinking of the Norman’s threat to find her a husband if she displeased him. “You will postpone whatever you are planning now?”

  Edwin looked at her, then shook his head.

  “Oh, Ed, please! ’Tis too dangerous!”

  “We are not afraid,” Morcar spat out.

  “The timing will be right, Ceidre,” Edwin said. “Trust me.” He smiled, becoming incredibly handsome. “As you trusted Father.”

  “I do,” she said softly.

  Morcar, as ever, was impatient. “Ceidre, were you hurt after I escaped? And is it true that the Norman lusts after you?”

  Ceidre flushed at the last question. “I am fine.”

  “Is that an answer?” Edwin asked.

  She could not lie. Never, to her brothers. “He had me flogged. But ’tis finished now.”

  “Damn him!” Morcar cried furiously. “I’ll kill him!”

  “You are very brave, are you not?” Edwin said quietly, watching her.

  Tears came to her eyes. “You would have been proud. I did not beg for mercy, I did not cry out.”

  “I am proud,” Edwin said. “Will you help me, Ceidre? At great risk to yourself?”

  “You know I will.”

  “Good.” He smiled. “Continue to spy. What you’ve done is good. But now that I am planning a new rebellion, I need information. I cannot wait for it to fall into your lap, or mine. I must have it.”

  Ceidre waited expectantly.

  “Has he touched you, Ceidre?”

  It took her a second to understand this abrupt change of topic, and when she did, she flushed and looked away.

  “I see he has,” Edwin said. Morcar leapt up, swearing to castrate him. Edwin told him to be quiet. He lifted her chin, gazing into her eyes. “Are you still a maiden, Ceidre?”

  She was beet-red. “Yes.”

  “He does not fear you like the others. Is this true?”

  “Yes.”

  “The gossip is he wants you badly.”

  It was a question. “I—I think so.”

  He released her chin to pace away, then turned back. “He is very handsome.”

  Ceidre’s eyes went wide. An inkling began, and it horrified her. “Ed?”

  “Ceidre, you can have power over him if you are careful and certain. The power of a woman over a man.”

  Morcar gasped, Ceidre stared.

  Edwin’s voice was low, steady. “I do not ask this of you lightly. If you cannot bear his touch, or will not, I understand. But I have thought long and hard, Ceidre. What is one maidenhead in the course of this war?”

  She was stunned, she was devastated. Tears came to her eyes. He was asking her to give herself to the Norman, to be a sacrifice. Edwin, her brother, her god.

  “If you become his leman, Ceidre, willingly, cleverly, you can have access to his innermost secrets.”

  “I can’t believe you’d ask this of her,” Morcar said furiously.

  When Edwin looked at him, it was with resignation and something else, something tortured in the window of his soul. “I did not order it and I do not ask it lightly, and if I could give what she could, if the Norman wanted me …” He trailed off. Then his voice was strong. “For Aelfgar I would sacrifice my body.”

  Edwin was asking her to give herself to the Norman. To let him use her body, to become his mistress. The thought was an echo, laced with despair and hurt. Ceidre tried not to cry. Why was she so crushed? This was war. Her life, her virginity, was insignificant. What was significant was Aelfgar, her brother’s patrimony, the liberation of Mercia, the defeat of the Normans. Oh, Sweet Saint Cuthbert, she had no choice. “I will do it, Ed.”

  He did not smile. “I knew you would.”

  Her mouth trembled, tears spilled onto her lower lashes. “But, Ed,” she said, “what if he really doesn’t want me?”

  “Then you will lose nothing,” he said.

  Where did one begin a seduction of one’s enemy?

  Ceidre was curled up on her pallet, unable to sleep, debating this topic, when Rolfe and his men returned from their afternoon’s sport. Periodically, her eyes would burn and tear, and her heart would swell with pain. She shoved such despondency down, the best she could. She trusted Edwin, she always had. She wanted to help him. She was being a silly goose to overreact to his suggestion this way.

  She felt betrayed.

  And nothing would make the sick feeling go away.

  Rolfe’s men were a noisy lot, but Ceidre attempted to ignore them as they stomped in, demanding food and wine. Rolfe’s own voice could be heard, and he sounded well pleased. Ceidre rolled onto her side to face the crew, attempting to find the bane of her thoughts, the target of her new ambitions. He was warming himself by the hearth. His profile was to her, proud, perf
ectly molded. Ed was right—he was handsome. His hair glimmered molten gold in the firelight. Alice handed him a cup of wine, which he drained effortlessly. Then she said something, and Rolfe smiled one of his rare smiles. It was like a sunburst. As if suddenly feeling her gaze, he turned to look directly at her.

  She could not begin now, it was too soon. Ceidre abruptly dropped her regard and rolled onto her other side, her back to him. Despair welled again. Despair, and hurt.

  She was not a seductress. She did not even know where to start. Hadn’t she failed miserably with the first royal messenger? And although, prior to Edwin’s proposal, she had known the Norman wanted her, now she was filled with doubt and dread. What if it was just a game? What if his lust for her was a figment of her imagination? What if, at the last moment, he was suddenly repelled by her eye as most other men were? What if he rejected her?

  And she had the horrifying thought that if her plans did succeed, if he came to her bed and took her, she would weep as he used her body, betraying them all.

  Her sleep was riddled with a melange of half-waking dreams.

  She was the seductress. She walked past him in a thin undertunic. They were in a meadow, his gaze smoldered and burned. Ceidre felt powerful; she laughed. She danced for him. Whirling and whirling, her skirt lifting about her legs. And all the while he watched….

  She had taken off her clothes. Stark naked, she walked to him. He waited with that hot gaze. Ceidre did not feel fear, and she did not feel despondency. She felt exhilaration.

  She was very close when he started laughing.

  He laughed and laughed. Ceidre froze, confused. Then she understood—he was laughing at her. He did not want her, and she had been a fool to think he did. No man wanted her. Alice appeared, also laughing. “Witch,” she shrilled. “Witch! He is mine!” Alice embraced Rolfe, who was still laughing. Ceidre wanted to disappear, to die. This couldn’t be happening….

  “Witches are whipped,” Rolfe said.

  “A hundred lashes,” Alice said, sneering.

  Ceidre tried to beg for mercy but she found, to her horror, that she had no voice. And then she felt the lash, the brutal pain of the whip, and she screamed. She sobbed. Alice’s taunts echoed. Rolfe was still laughing, because he thought she was funny—he did not want her.

  Then someone held her, soothing her, the flogging over. It was incongruous, it didn’t make sense, but she knew it was Rolfe. “Shh,” he said, like a father to a babe. “Shh.”

  Ceidre woke up, her face still wet with tears. The men were all rousing, the dogs yapping. She lay very still, her heart pounding. She could remember every vivid detail of the dream. It was worse than her worst nightmare, the one she’d had recently, of the flogging. This one … She shuddered. She was a fool. It was only a dream. But it had been so real.

  ’Twas only a dream, she told herself sternly. And you know he wants you. And if he doesn’t, if he rejects you, you have suffered rejection before, ’twill be no worse than the other times—and you will be spared.

  She could not delay what must be inevitable.

  No fool, Ceidre, knew she must be subtle, maybe resist him a little even as she flaunted herself. Details of the dream reared themselves again, and angry, she swept them away from her mind. She must be strong, and brave. She got up and hurried outside to wash her face and throat, her arms and chest. An idea struck her, owing to the persistence of her shadow, this one a very young man, really a boy, named Wilfred.

  Usually, when free to do as she pleased, Ceidre performed her ablutions in a nook of the creek that ran through the village, one just outside town and shielded by the forest. This had no longer been possible, not since the Norman’s possession of Aelfgar, for she was afraid of his men. She would beg Rolfe to let her bathe without her guard. He, of course, would refuse—and she would very subtly suggest that he be the one to accompany her. Ceidre felt a touch of fear-laced excitement. She would order him to turn his back, then she would strip completely. In no time, she was sure, she would be his mistress. ’Tis better to get this over with, she told herself, her heart pounding. It would be a while before he trusted her enough to start revealing information to her, as it was.

  The only thing she worried about was if her plan lacked subtlety. Well, she supposed, she would soon find out.

  But sooner would have to be later, Ceidre discovered as she approached the keep, for the Norman was already mounting up with a handful of his men. He twisted abruptly, and Ceidre realized she was staring. Just in time she caught herself from a reflexive response to look away and held his gaze boldly.

  His eyes widened, surprise crossed his face. Ceidre held his gaze and watched the surprise gleam and transform itself into something bright, burning. Her stomach actually did somersaults. In fact, beneath his now openly smoldering regard, her entire body tightened and she felt breathless. I am not being subtle, she managed to think, and she tore her gaze away.

  She was blushing, and she thought to escape within the keep. She was almost at the outside stairs when he rode her down, his big horse practically brushing her back. Ceidre leapt and backed away nervously, but he moved the stallion in closer, until her spine was at the wall. He leaned down, smiling ruthlessly, with those hot blue eyes. “An invitation like that must be answered,” he murmured.

  Her heart was leaping into her throat. “’Twas not an invitation,” she squeaked, only too late realizing she should be thinking, planning, seducing, but most definitely not denying his words.

  “No?” He grinned, still boxing her in. His knee almost touched her breast. “Be careful with those looks, Ceidre. This thing between us is no game.”

  “I—I was only …” She trailed off. His leg was disconcerting her as it pressed into the fullness of her breast. He was disconcerting her, with his handsome face, his predatory smile, his bright, bold eyes.

  “Yes?” His grinned openly, apparently enjoying himself. “Perhaps you were admiring my form,” he suggested.

  She saw the opening and seized it. “You know,” she flung back, feeling in control now, “that the women eye you often. You like it.”

  “I like it when you eye me,” he corrected lazily. His horse shifted. By accident? His knee caressed her breast. Her nipples were hard and tight, and Ceidre looked down to see that they were quite evident. She felt color rising.

  “I am human, remember,” she mumbled, “no witch, as you know, just flesh-and-blood woman.”

  “You do not have to remind me,” he said softly, leaning down again. His finger touched her cheek. It trailed to her throat. His gaze dipped lower, blatantly assessing her bosom. Ceidre was almost strangled with something nameless, or something she refused to name. She knew well, from memory, how his hands felt on her breasts, and she wondered if he would touch her there now. She wanted him to.

  Of course he wouldn’t, they were in public, surrounded by his men. He shifted his horse backward, putting distance between them. His smile was twisted now, like the dog denied the bone. His glance now was just as derisive, and insolent. He turned abruptly and with an arm raised, to command his men to follow, he rode down the motte and through the raised portcullis.

  Ceidre folded her arms tightly about her. Slowly, as the fog of wanting that his presence had generated lifted, coherent thought returned. He wanted her, it was no wish, but clear and true. She would be able to carry out this seduction easily, very easily. Why, then, was there this choking feeling in her heart?

  She turned to go up the steps into the keep. It was then that she saw Alice, on the top step, staring down at her, her face flushed and pinched. Alice. A factor she had not considered. In fact, she had forgotten completely about her.

  What game, he mused, was this?

  Rolfe leaned back in his chair, replete with his noonday meal, staring at the bronze-haired wench below him. Throughout the meal she had cast brazen glances at him. Brazen, that is, for Ceidre. Because there was a vulnerability contained in them, an element of shyness, that, no matter how hard sh
e tried to be bold, she fell short of the mark. If he were not so hot for her he would be amused. But he was hot. Uncomfortably so, his groin swollen and thick. He had adjusted his hose many times. Why, now, after all the fear, the wariness, and the anger, was she attempting to be so bold?

  What did she want?

  Should he test her, see how far she would go?

  Or was he wrong? Mayhap it wasn’t a game. He knew she fought her desire for him. Perhaps finally, she was as smitten as he, the urges unbearable, and she was succumbing to them. Perhaps now, with the passage of time, she had forgiven him all his trespasses and saw him only as a man. He struggled not to give in to heady elation, to be cautious, wary, and cynical. It was impossible not to be thrilled.

  He had not forgotten his vows. If she continued, with mere looks, half shy, half bold, to provoke him, he would become undone, forsaking his vows, and enter a near-incestuous relationship. Rolfe’s mouth pursed grimly.

  He tore his gaze away from her, and to distract himself, he tuned in to the conversation between Guy and Athelstan. They were discussing the Scots, ever a problem in these far northern lands. William may have chased a clan of Campbells far into Cumbria, but reports had come in of raids upon his own lands, near the lonely village of Eoshire on the coast. Campbells again, Rolfe thought, from Tantalon.

  “A few sheep today, a dozen tomorrow,” Guy said vehemently. “But they do not know my lord. He will chase them into their rotten sea!”

  Athelstan smiled, as Rolfe would have if not so agonized, at Guy’s passion. “The Scots are wily, the Campbells the most of all. The best way is to make an alliance. Although they can’t be trusted to hold the peace for long, ’tis a respite.”

  Alice’s voice surprised everyone into absolute attention, even Rolfe. “Mayhap,” she said slowly, “if it were the right alliance, things would not become undone so quickly.”

  Rolfe was amused. “What do you know of these things, my lady?”