The Conqueror

by Brenda Joyce

  “What do you think, Guy?” He was grinning, not tearing his gaze from her as he asked his knight the question. For a moment their gazes held.

  Guy didn’t answer. His dismay was answer enough.

  Ceidre didn’t like the possessive way the Norman’s eyes were stroking her body, and her anger returned in full force. Anger and something else, uneasiness. She started to get up, and he was there. His touch infuriated her, and she wrenched away; she did not need his help, would never need it. But why wasn’t he afraid of her now that he knew the truth? Instead, he was angry at her response, but he was obviously a man of discipline for he held himself carefully in check. Gone, though, was the beautiful smile. “My lady,” he said stiffly. “What are you doing away from Aelfgar? Dressed as you are? It is not safe in these times.”

  He would show concern for her safety? It was a mockery! “And what affair is it of yours? Am I your prisoner?” she demanded, chin high, eyes flashing. Yet inside she was quaking.

  His own jaw came up. His mouth was tightly compressed. A few moments passed before he spoke— before, Ceidre thought, he trusted himself to speak. “You are not my prisoner, my lady. I will escort you back to Aelfgar to ensure no harm comes to your person.”

  “I don’t need an escort,” Ceidre managed. “’Tis not far, just six kilometers or so.”

  “Have you never learned respect for your men?” “For my men—yes.”

  He stared. “I will escort you to Aelfgar. We will camp here for the night.”

  “You are keeping me prisoner!” Ceidre cried.

  “You are my guest,” he said, very firmly. “And Guy will see to your welfare.” Rolfe gave Guy a hard look. “But you still have not answered my question.”

  She was a prisoner and she knew it, a prisoner of her hated enemy, maybe even one of those who, for all she knew, had captured, hurt, or killed her brothers! “Spying,” she said, oh-so-sweetly. “Whatever else would I be doing so far afield?”

  “Do not test my charity of spirit,” he breathed.

  “I am good with herbs.” She glared at him, remembering the sow. “I came to heal the sow.”

  He stared. “To heal a pig?”

  Her chin lifted. Was he dumb or deaf? Both, of course, being the Norman pig he was and no pun intended. “Yes,” she said through gritted teeth. “After all, I am a witch—or have you already forgotten?”

  His lips might have curled up in the slightest of smiles. “You did not cast your spell through the air?” he asked.

  Ceidre gritted—now he was making fun of her. “She was a prized breeder and suffering with congestion. Newly bred too. Of course, it no longer matters.”

  “You traveled six kilometers to heal a sow?”

  “Six and a half.”

  Rolfe turned to Guy.“C’est incroyable! Do you believe this?” He had automatically reverted back to French.

  “Perhaps we should let her go,” Guy said, low. “Lest she cast a spell on us.”

  Rolfe’s gaze was like a lance. “Perhaps she needs to be wedded and bedded. To learn a woman’s true place.”

  Momentarily distracted, his eyes brightened at some vivid imagery. Then they narrowed. “Guy—she is here, the rebels were here. Who better to pass along a message? Look at her clothes! To heal a sow? I think she came disguised as a peasant to pass a message to her traitorous brothers! I think she is very smart— thinking to fool me by so openly admitting such a thing.”

  “Jeésus,” Guy breathed. As one they turned to look at her.

  Ceidre hastily looked away, pretending she hadn’t understood. But she had. Oh, why hadn’t she kept her mouth shut! How, in this time of war, could she have declared herself a spy in her fit of temper? Now what would they do? She was already a valuable hostage, and that would keep her alive and safe, as long as they did think she was Alice. But if they thought she was a spy … And what was all this reference to wedding and bedding? She was struck with foreboding.

  “No wife of mine will spy against my king,” Rolfe stated savagely. And he seared Ceidre with a blazing look.

  Stunned, Ceidre stared back. No, it could not be. He could not mean …“I don’t understand.”

  Rolfe’s face darkened at the lack of respect in her address. “Soon you will have to call me my lord,” he said. “Whether you like it or no.”

  “No!” Ceidre cried.

  “Oh, yes,” Rolfe said. “We are to be wedded, my lady. You are to be my wife.” And he smiled.

  The lady Alice and Aelfgar were the attainment of his every fierce ambition after a dozen years of serving William, and serving him well.

  Less than a sennight ago, William had been pacing his tent furiously when Rolfe had arrived. Like Rolfe, he was still sweaty from the recent battle that had freed York from the Saxons and sent the Danes back to the coast and their ships. His bearded face was fierce with frustration, and Rolfe knew exactly why. “What news?” William the Conqueror demanded.

  “The Saxons are routed, Your Grace.”

  Their eyes met, William’s darkening with what was not being said. “Those bloody traitors?”

  “There is no sign of Edwin or Morcar,” Rolfe informed him.

  William’s brother, Bishop Odo, and one of his most powerful nobles, Roger of Montgomery, were the only others present. They sat relaxed, although alert, with refreshments. “I hope, Your Grace,” Odo said smoothly, “that there will be no clemency this time?”

  Rolfe and Roger both winced at Odo’s blunt referral to the past. Edwin and Morcar had not taken up arms against William at Hastings (fortunately for William, Rolfe knew), for they had been weakened in the years prior by an attack from the king of Norway. Both had sworn allegiance to William at his coronation, and had followed William and his court back to Normandy when the south of England was secured. Edwin had been given what amounted to one third of England, including most of his lands in Mercia, and Morcar’s Northumbrian holdings. He had also been promised William’s daughter, the lovely Isolda, as a bride. Any other Norman bride would not have been controversial, but even Rolfe was leery of the magnitude of power that this would give the dangerous Saxon eaorl. In the end, William had reneged, and Edwin and Morcar had gone home furious.

  A year later they had almost taken York, having roused the entire north to arms against the king. Although Rolfe had participated in the battle for York, abruptly thereafter he was sent to quell disturbances in Wales. Edwin and Morcar had repledged their allegiance, but this time William had left loyal vassals in their territory, to build and garrison and man royal castles.

  And now it had happened again. The two northern lords had again led a rebellion, this time with a concurrent (coincidental? Rolfe thought not) invasion by the Danes. This time they had escaped, and there would be no royal forgiveness for their treason. For York had been demolished. A hundred Normans had been slain.

  “Never again,” William was roaring. “Those two Saxon traitors will hang if it’s the last thing I ever do!” He turned abruptly to Rolfe. “Your place is here, it’s clear,” he said.

  Rolfe stared but did not let any of his consternation show. What of his estates in Sussex and Kent, awarded to him after Hastings for his valor and loyalty? As the fourth and youngest son of the Comte de Warenne, Rolfe had become a mercenary soldier, the only recourse left to him. His eldest brother, Jean, was the Comte de Warenne in Normandy. The second brother was a priest. His other brother, William, had small holdings in Normandy, but had also followed the Conqueror to England. After Hastings he had been given Lewes, just as Rolfe was awarded with Bramber, Montgomery with Arundel, Odo with Dover, William fitz Osbern with the Isle of Wight. This handful of powerful vassals immediately secured Sussex and Kent. Rolfe had not returned to Normandy that year, for he was busy with fortifying his position. For now, for the first time in his twenty-eight years, he had his own land, a patrimony for his unborn son. And he knew, as did all the vassals who had followed William to England, whether from loyalty or greed or land hunger, that the
possibilities were limitless.

  “I am giving Bramber to Braose,” William continued forcefully.

  Rolfe’s expression did not change.

  William smiled at him. “I give you castellanship of the new castle you will build at York.”

  Rolfe’s jaw tightened.

  William’s smile broadened. “And Aelfgar.”

  Roger of Montgomery gasped.

  Rolfe smiled. Aelfgar was a huge fief, and with castellanship of York … he would be one of the most powerful lords of the north. Aelfgar had been the seat of Edwin’s honor. He realized that this meant the two Saxon rebels were dispossessed. He also knew it would not be easy to secure his new fief, yet still, his pleasure with this vast reward was huge.

  “Your borders are uncertain. You may extend them north as far as you can go,” William said, smiling.

  “And to cement things nicely, you may also have their sister, Alice. After all, she is now sole heir.”

  Rolfe was grinning. The possibilities were limitless! The sister to secure his position!

  “A fine move,” Odo told his brother. “Holding these border countries is no easy task. If anyone can do it, Rolfe can.”

  “Yes, with Rolfe in the north, and Roger in the marches—I have given Shrewsbury to Roger,” William said. “I have high hopes these rebellions will become fruitless, quickly.”

  Rolfe remembered himself and dropped to one knee. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  William smiled. “Up, Rolfe the Relentless, up. Bring me the heads of Edwin and Morcar and I’ll give you Durham too.”

  That stunned everyone, including Rolfe, who doubted that the king meant it. For if such should happen, his power would rival the king’s, and William was no fool.

  He had been on his way to inspect Aelfgar and claim his land and his bride a few days later when he had encountered the Saxon rebels. Now it looked as if his own bride might be a Saxon spy and was apparently thought to be a witch. He smiled. Rolfe was not a superstitious man. He supposed it was possible that such a thing as witches existed—but he had never met one, and doubted he ever would. Most so-called sorceresses were frauds, hoodwinking others for their own prosperity. A witch? She was no witch, but a flesh-and-blood woman. And even if she were a witch, she was first and foremost a woman. His woman.

  But she might be a Saxon spy. Just the mere thought infuriated Rolfe—and worried him. He was taking over his fief, an alien invader, surrounded by enemies. Morcar and Edwin were still alive, as far as anyone knew, obviously in hiding, but they would not take the granting of Aelfgar to a Norman lightly—they would fight for what had been theirs. Rolfe knew it without a doubt, just as he knew the two rebels, knew the quality of men that they were. It would be a tough battle, but Rolfe was confident that he would emerge the victor. His name was not Rolfe the Relentless for nothing. He was always victorious in his quests, and this time, with Aelfgar and with the woman, would be no different.

  She would be a difficult one to tame, and until she was tamed, a dangerous thorn in his side. But he couldn’t help it, he liked the sound of that—he liked the thought of that. Taming his bride. He felt the surge of his lust again. Her place was at his side, taking care of him and his needs. Her place was in his home, in his bed. She would learn this, maybe not quickly, but she would learn. And of course she hadn’t known, until he had told her, that the king had given her to him. He recalled clearly her shock. She would get over that too. He tried to imagine her reaction when she found out he was now the lord of Aelfgar. Unfortunately, he knew exactly how she would look. A woman enraged.

  His bride—his enemy.

  He must remind himself never to forget it.

  Alice was to marry the Norman.

  Ceidre realized she was pacing the confines of the tent. What did this mean? How had it happened? Ceidre feared the worst. If William had given the Norman Alice … Panic, icy cold, rose up to shrink her guts. If only there were news of her brothers! They had to be all right! But there had been nothing, no word, since the fall of York, and that had been a sennight ago.

  She would not think the worst.

  Maybe, just maybe, there had been another conciliation between the Norman invader and her brothers. It had happened a year ago. William had taken both Edwin and Morcar back, had forgiven them, and they had resworn allegiance. If it had happened again, maybe Edwin had given this Norman Alice, and maybe a Norman bride had been given in return to him. Ceidre desperately hoped so. For the alternative was too unbearable: dispossession … death …

  She imagined her half sister and the Norman standing side by side in the village church. He so golden, so tall and broad, she so petite and dark. Something tensed inside her. There was, unfortunately, no love lost between herself and her younger sister. But Ceidre would never, ever wish the Norman on Alice. She shuddered just to think about it, and, unbidden, a hot image of the Norman straining between her thighs taunted her. She pushed it grimly away, only to imagine him in the same position with her younger sister. Her body became so taut it felt like it might snap.

  Well, the marriage hadn’t occurred yet, and although Alice was desperate for a husband, ever since Bill had died at Hastings, Ceidre would help her avoid this suit. There was no way she could let her little sister walk to the altar with this beast—their sworn enemy!

  She paced. The tent was only a thin hide stretched over saplings, with a separate leather flap for a door, now closed. It was big enough to accommodate a few paces in either direction and the pallet—consisting of blankets and hides. It was his tent, she knew, just as she was certain it was his pallet. She would never lie on it.

  It was still light out, the days being long in summer, and Ceidre could see the shadow under the hide door that hadn’t yet moved—Guy.

  Her protector.

  She wanted to laugh. Oh, she was a prisoner all right, even if he thought she was his bride. Somehow she had to escape. Get back to Aelfgar, warn Alice of her dire circumstances, then maybe the two of them could flee together, to find her brothers. Surely, if Edwin had arranged the marriage he could unarrange it, surely he would protect them. And then, knowing the vast burden he carried on his shoulders for all of their safety, and for all their people, for the entire north of England, for Aelfgar, Ceidre’s hopes sank. She could not add to Edwin’s vast responsibilities. She would have to resolve this situation and help Alice herself. And there was no time like the present.

  Earlier they had brought her food, and thread, which Ceidre had used to mend her clothes. Now she eyed the cheese, bread, and ale. Then, in a rapid movement, she reached into the bodice of her gown, to the pouch she carried. Ceidre didn’t hesitate, but extracted some herbs finely ground into a powder and sprinkled them into the ale. She replaced the leather thong in her dress, smoothed back her hair, and calmly lifted the flap of the tent.

  Guy Le Chante straightened and turned immediately. “My lady?”

  Ceidre was well aware of Guy’s unease. He was tense, shifting slightly. She smiled at him. “Aren’t you tired, standing out here after riding all day?”

  Guy flushed. He was her own age, she suspected, a year or two past twenty. “No, my lady, I’m fine.”

  “I was about to eat,” Ceidre said, as gracious as any of full noble blood. “Please, join me in repast and conversation.”

  Guy’s eyes widened. “I don’t know …”

  “’Tis only for a few morsels and a few words,” Ceidre said. Then her eyes darkened. “Or is he such an ogre he denies you those rights as well?”

  Guy stiffened. “My lord is no ogre, my lady. He is the finest of men, the finest of warriors. He is the king’s best man, and all the world knows it.”

  Ceidre bit back a retort. “Am I allowed, then, to sit here in the fresh air with you?”

  “Of course.”

  Ceidre fetched the ale and food and sat delicately beside Guy, who, standing, shifted uncomfortably. The rest of the Norman’s men were scattered about, a good stone’s throw from her tent, for the
sake of her privacy, she guessed. A large cookfire was going, one of the lambs spitted and roasting, bread baking in rock ovens. She saw the Norman instantly, sitting apart on a boulder, papers at hand. He was staring at her.

  Ceidre went hot and jerked her glance away. “Please sit,” she invited Guy, her breath catching. The Norman’s regard was always like scorching embers— and she didn’t like it. Ceidre was no fool. She had witnessed lust most of her life—it was as natural as the wind and the rain. But never had she felt such intensity from a man before. It unnerved her.

  She dared another glance his way. His bold gaze met hers instantly. Ceidre folded her arms across her breast and quickly gave him her back. She was trembling.

  Her father, before his death five years past, had tried to arrange a marriage for her. Ceidre had been fifteen when he began, seventeen when he had died. The old, powerful eaorl’s first choice had been the second son of a northern lord, John of Landower. They had met once, at a joust. He was dark and lean and so very handsome, and there was also a softness to his brow that told of kindness. Knowing her father had picked this man to be her husband had overwhelmed her with unbearable joy—and Ceidre’s days and nights were soon filled with dreams of her wedding, her marriage, and a family replete with love and babes.

  John had refused.

  No amount of land or gold would entice him. No dowry could be large enough. He would not wed a witch.

  Oh, her father had told her he had changed his mind, that the boy wasn’t good enough for her, but Ceidre heard the truth—gossip ran rampant around the manor. She would never let her father or her brothers see her hurt, but alone, she had grieved, cried hot, miserable tears, and finally asked God why He should give her such a deformity that the world thought her a witch.