by Brenda Joyce
Alice stood up. “Go away, Ceidre. You can’t play with us.”
Ceidre didn’t move, but she felt a slow flush creeping up her face. She darted a glance at the others. “She can play,” Redric said. “C’mon, let’s start.”
The children dispersed.
“I won’t play with a witch!” Alice shouted.
Ceidre froze, confusion rearing up, dread ballooning. She blinked at her sister, not understanding, sure she had misheard. Alice sneered. “Witch!”
Ceidre folded her arms, shrinking up inside. “I am not.”
“Witch! Everyone says so! Witch!”
She was going to cry. Alice didn’t mean it. It wasn’t true. She fought the tears. The children were staring at her, the little ones with curiosity, but Redric and Beth with unease. A long silence descended, then Redric broke it. “It’s not true,” he decided.
Beth, also twelve, looked at him. “I’ve heard it too. Maybe we shouldn’t let her play with us.”
Ceidre looked at the ground. “I’m not,” she managed. Hot tears burned her eyes. But she could hear the echoes of Alice’s words, a familiar haunting echo, so familiar it was frightening. She was frightened. She looked up, wiping her eyes.
And then it happened.
“Look,” Alice screamed. “Look! Look! She is a witch!”
Ceidre backed up, truly afraid. The children were staring at her in horror. “It’s the evil eye.” Beth gasped. “I’ve never seen it afore!”
They were all staring, staring….
Ceidre woke up.
Her heart was pounding, and she felt the heat of a crimson blush. As always, there were tears in her eyes, tears, she supposed, for a little girl’s first brush with ugly reality. For the dream was not just a nightmare. It had happened, exactly as she dreamed it.
And after that, the children veered away from her. They would not let her join their games, and if she tried, they would stop playing and disperse. And then there was Alice, always hurling that vile epithet, flinging it in her face. “Witch!”
Ceidre sat up. She wished, this once, her father were still alive. She could remember running to him in tears, and when he had picked her up, swinging her into his arms, she had begged to know the truth. “Am I a witch, Papa? Am I?”
He had hesitated. Ceidre had clung to him, waiting for the worst, suddenly knowing it was true, so confused. “No, sweet one,” he had said, lifting her chin. “You are not, and don’t ever let anyone make you think otherwise.”
A child’s instincts are perhaps more accurate than an adult’s, unfettered with preconceived notions, and Ceidre sensed his own turmoil, his own lack of sureness. She was not soothed. She was not reassured. She was more confused than ever, and now, now there was no turning her back on the whispers that followed in her wake. It was a harsh reality for a child to face, but everyone believed her a witch.
She did not know if it was true or not. She clung stubbornly to her father’s denial, and she began avoiding the other children, who, quick to follow Alice’s lead, too young to be afraid, also called her vile names. She spent more time with her granny, helping her prepare her concoctions for healing, and much time alone, in the woods or the stables, always with Thor, Edwin’s favorite new wolfhound, who became her constant companion.
Time heals all wounds, and Ceidre adjusted to her status. The persecution of her peers ceased as they became young adults, marrying, making families, taking on a serf’s responsibilties. Ceidre became as adept as her grandmother in the arts of healing, and was much sought after. She was treated with a combination of awe, nervousness, and familiarity that was friendly as well. And then her father decided it was time she marry, and he began to seek a groom for her.
So life had dealt her another blow, another ugly reality to face. Ceidre had survived that one too, just as she would now survive this. She got up and folded back the door to the tent, letting in the first pink rays of dawn. She performed her ablutions with the urn of water left her, then stepped outside.
The man guarding her instantly stepped aside, with a hasty glance in her direction. Ceidre ignored it but, having withstood his kind of behavior her entire life and fresh on the heels of her dream, she was pierced with hurt. She looked out at the Normans breaking camp. And, as if metal drawn by a magnet, or the eye seeking the sun, she found herself gazing at him.
The Norman stood in deep discussion with Guy, the knight she had used the potion on last evening. But his gaze was on her.
Ceidre felt the instant flood of memories. How he had imprisoned her in his embrace, with his superior strength proving his mastery over her, her punishment his hot, hard kiss. Good God, she had reacted as pitifully as a helpless, ensnared hare. She stiffened at the very remembrance, anger and agitation making her blood pound. If he dared to touch her so again she would rake his eyes out. This time she would not miss! She shuddered, glancing at him again. And she would not wonder at his daring—at his complete lack of fear of her and her “evil” eye.
He didn’t smile, but he suddenly, abruptly, began striding toward her. Ceidre felt herself freeze. She did not want him to approach. She did not want to talk to him, even see him. Yet she could not move away. And now she was assailed with worries.
They were close to Aelfgar, which was normally her sanctuary. Alice would greet them, and the Norman would find out her deception. She knew he was, like any man, proud, thus he would not take kindly to having been deceived by a mere woman. He would be humiliated and angry at being made the fool. Of course, she knew his anger would recede, for he would be relieved to be wed to Alice, and not one such as she. But until it did recede, was she in jeopardy?
And how, oh how, could she help her sister to avoid wedlock to this man?
And what of her brothers? Did this Norman know something? Ceidre realized he would know more than anyone, being so close to the Bastard Conquerer, but how could she win his goodwill to ask and receive the truth? He was so shrewd, surely when he realized she was desperate for news he would use his position as a source of power over her. Yet she had to ask—she was dying to know something—anything.
He paused in front of her, his steely blue eyes riveted upon her face. “Have you passed a good night, my lady?”
And she could feel her cheeks flushing. “Y-yes.”
“You hesitate. Perhaps”—and he smiled—“you did not sleep well. Perhaps your dreams were filled with me?”
She would never ask him anything! “I slept unusually well.”
He studied her. His gaze drifted to her mouth. “Then I envy you.”
His meaning was clear. She went scarlet.
He turned abruptly. “We leave in half an hour’s time.”
She watched his back, broad at the shoulder, small and narrow at the hip. It was not what she thought, he did not mean what it seemed he meant. Did it?
He eyed her as she rode alongside him on a mule, as haughty and proud as any queen astride a blooded Arabian. And beautiful. Her profile stole his breath away, and once again Rolfe blessed Dame Fortune.
For it was rare, so unbelievably rare, for a man to want the woman who was his wife. Last night, after escorting Alice back to the tent, he had lain awake unable to sleep. Even having slaked his lust with the peasant, he was hot and uncomfortable again. He should never have touched her as he had, but he could no more stop himself than he could stop a summer storm. What a boon! Aelfgar and its lady, the most bewitching, seductive woman he had ever met. William had ordered the marriage performed as soon as his convenience allowed, and now Rolfe smiled, thinking that immediately would be at his utmost convenience!
It was early morning, the sun now pale and champagne-hued, the day still cool with the evening’s chill. The terrain was hilly and rocky, good for sheep raising, which was no surprise to Rolfe, for he already knew that the crux of Aelfgar’s prosperity was lamb and wool.
He could not stop himself from glancing at Alice again, just as he could not stop the sun from rising and setting. She had not loo
ked at him, not once in the past hour. This irked him. He knew she was not indifferent to him. Yet she would pretend to be so. He was a soldier, not a poet, not a priest, so polite conversation did not come readily or easily to his lips. Yet Rolfe resolved to try.
“’Tis still cool. Are you warm enough, my lady?”
She cautiously glanced at him. “Yes.” She hesitated. “Thank you.”
He was aware instantly, of course, that she refused to address him properly. No man would dare to show him such lack of respect by failing to call him “my lord.” Yet she dared. Last night, given the circumstances, he could let it pass. Today ’twas incredible. Today he could not allow it. His blue eyes scored her. “Say it, Alice.”
Her gaze flew to his. “Say what?”
“Do not play the confused idiot with me,” he commanded. “Say it: my lord.”
She stiffened. “You are not my lord.”
He could not believe his ears. His hands, on his reins, were so very white. She would defy him? Openly? She, his intended, a lady, a woman? He did not know which fact of her being made it worse!
He turned his furious gaze upon her, about to stop the column. He saw her eyes, wide, purple, he saw the fear there. It flashed through his mind to go softly, he who knew only how to wield his sword boldly. And then a locust of arrows swept down from the trees.
“Ambush!” Rolfe roared, wheeling his destrier in that same instant between Ceidre and the hail of arrows. A stone, shot from a sling, bounced off his helmut. From the corner of his eye he had already spotted one perpetrator, and he was swinging his mace, standing high in his stirrups. The Saxon in the tree above met his gaze, saw his ruthless intent, and opened his mouth to scream. Rolfe’s studded weapon hit him flush in the chest, ripping him open and knocking him out of his perch. He saw another archer, arrow leveled, bow twisted with tension. At the same time he knew the wench was right behind him, her frightened palfrey pressed against his right knee. “Do not move from me,” he roared without ever taking his gaze from the Saxon. He threw his mace as the Saxon released his bow. The arrow missed, Rolfe did not.
Rolfe had been a soldier his entire life; he had lived through a thousand battles. In one quick glance he saw the fighting around him, saw his men were in control, knew there were five dead or dying Saxons, knew a nearly equal number were fleeing, a few still in the process of being routed. He was reaching for the bridle of the palfrey as the animal bolted. Instinct made him whip around to see a huge Saxon with his broadsword charging toward him, on foot, from the woods. With a war cry, Rolfe raised his own sword, as long as he was tall, and faster than the eye could see, much swifter than the Saxon with the heavy broadsword, Rolfe cleaved the man in two, decapitating him.
The battle had ended. The glade was starkly quiet, except for the harsh blowing of their mounts and the panting of his men. Rolfe immediately noted that seven Saxons lay dead and that all of his men remained mounted. He was still holding the little palfrey, and scanning the area once more, he turned to the lady at his side. “’Tis finished,” he said gruffly. “Are you all right?”
Her beautiful purple eyes were wide, frightened. She was panting, her hand on her bosom. Rolfe clenched his jaw, furious now. He was enraged that she had been in the midst of this attack. His scouts had said no danger lay ahead. “Alice…”
With a cry, she slid off the far side of the palfrey and leaned against a tree, trying not to retch. Rolfe was stricken with the urge to go to her and somehow help her, yet he had not the slightest idea of what to do, and he was even embarrassed with his own desire. Fortunately, Guy rode up. “Two wounded, my lord: Pierre Le Stac and Sir de Stacy, but not badly.”
“Prisoners?”
“None.”
“How many have escaped?”
“Six, I think, my lord.”
“Send me Charles.” His tone was ominous.
Rolfe turned to Alice, who had straightened and was facing him, pale and shaking, visibly upset. Rolfe slipped to the ground, wiped his dripping sword upon the grass, and sheathed it. He strode to her. There he hesitated. “Come, we do not dwell here.”
She backed away. She blinked tears. “Have you no remorse?”
He stared.
Ceidre knew what she had witnessed. She had seen him effortlessly, efficiently, slaughter three men. In the back of her mind she also knew he had been attacked, that he had fought to defend himself, his men, and her, yet she refused to listen to this nagging voice. He was the invader, the enemy, the Norman. “You have killed three men,” she whispered. “Have you no remorse?”
“None,” he said. “For had I remorse, Lady Alice, you Would now be sporting an arrow in your pretty chest.” He turned abruptly away.
’Twas true, yet … Ceidre chased him, grabbed his sleeve. “They were my people, my people you have killed.” She felt the tears, and she wanted to weep, weep for the dead, the serfs and peasants she knew, and weep with the waste of it and with her hatred of war.
He looked at her but said nothing.
Guy approached with another soldier. Charles’s face was drawn, his eyes anxious. He dropped to one knee, head bowed.
“You have failed in your duty,” Rolfe said. “Because you failed in the task I gave you, we were ambushed. Fortunately, only two of my men have suffered casualties. Stand up.”
Charles stood.
Rolfe stared at him and saw that his eyes were red. He glanced at Guy for confirmation. Guy nodded. Rolfe’s mouth went tight. “You overimbibed last night, did you not? Your lust for women and wine makes you weak, not fit to be one of my soldiers. Take your sword and go. You are discharged from service to me.”
“But, Lord Rolfe! I followed you from Normandy. I have been faithful to you, ever faithful—”
“No man fails in his duty to me, not once, not ever. Get you gone, I care not where.” Rolfe turned away and the matter was ended.
Ceidre watched, stunned and horrified. Charles slumped, then proudly turned away. How could he be so cruel, to his own man? He truly was not human! She turned a wide gaze back to him and found him regarding her expressionlessly. “Can you not show mercy?” she asked, unable to stop herself. She was too overwhelmed to be frightened at her own audacity.
She watched a muscle spasm in his cheek. “You question me?”
She wet her lips but stood her ground. What had she done? She would never have questioned her father or her brothers, yet she was questioning the Norman! “He is your man—a Norman.”
He stood over her, crowding her. “You openly defy me, question me, disapprove of me?”
She bit her lip, panting slightly, and managed not to flinch when he took another hard step to her.
“Lady Alice,” he said, furious. “I am a soldier—only a soldier. And you, you are only a woman.” He paused for effect.
He was a bastard! Ceidre felt a rush of fear and knew she should capitulate. “At least,” she said, and there was the slightest tremor in her voice, “I am not a Norman.” A Norman pig, she wanted to add, but wisely refrained.
His voice was low, hard. “True. I am the Norman, you the Saxon. And”—his voice roughened—“because you are to be my wife, I will explain something to you. We escaped lightly only because my men are the best in the land. My men know what is expected of them, and they do not fail me. Ever. Should they fail, they are not the best. When they are not the best, I cease to be King William’s best. Should I fail my king, I fail myself. And I am Rolfe de Warenne.”
She looked at him as he stood there blazing in his glorious anger.
“Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“I am no ogre,” he said, and his look penetrated. She went red.
“After you, my lady,” he said stiffly.
Aelfgar.
Rolfe sat very still. Beneath him, his huge gray destrier shifted restlessly. The blood was pounding in Rolfe’s ears. For the first time that day, he wasn’t even aware of the beautiful woman mounted beside him. He was aware of only one t
hing.
Aelfgar.
Aelfgar itself was a vast fief, and they had been on its land all morning. But now, this was the heart of the honor. They had paused on a ridge. Below them ran a thick river, an estuary from the sea, and nestled in the hilly terrain was the village and the manor.
Truly it was not impressive, but Rolfe was unconcerned. The village boasted a dozen wattle huts, a mill, a cornfield, orchards, and vegetable gardens. Sheep were on the hills everywhere. The village was only slightly lower than the manor, which, compared to Norman keeps, was nothing more than a rectangular wood building, its roof timbered, boasting upper-level windows, open now to the summer breezes. There was not even a palisade. But Rolfe saw more, much more.
He saw a keep, three stories, set high on a mound, with a moat around it. In stone, of course. High, fortified walls. Below, another palisade, enclosing the bailey where his men and their women would live. Then, below that, finally, the village.
He smiled. Construction would begin immediately.
And with his practiced eye, he made instant decisions of where he would place each structure, pleased with the natural lay of the land. When he was finished, Aelfgar would be very defensible.
It was the Norman way, to crush the Saxons, destroy their homes, and erect timbered keeps in their stead in the Norman style, with motte and bailey. When time allowed, the fortifications were replaced with stone, first the palisade, then the keep, and so on. Rolfe himself had overseen this process a dozen times since coming to England four years past; he was sure he would oversee it another dozen times before he died.
He urged his stallion forward. Coming out of his reverie, he turned to smile at his bride. “We are home,” he said, his tone rich.
“This will never be your home,” she returned coolly.
His glance was lightning, filled with warning. She ducked her head. Not even her defiance could dispel his pleasure and his purpose.