The Conqueror

by Brenda Joyce

  They had entered the village. Rolfe reined in, his retinue halting. The villagers paused in their work in the fields and gardens, children, curious, approached the one road where they stood. “Rouse everyone, Guy,” Rolfe said quietly.

  “No!” Ceidre cried, stunned, recalling only too well that these had been his exact words yesterday before razing Kesop to the ground.

  Rolfe did not look at her.

  “You can’t.” She grabbed his sleeve. “Please, my lord!”

  The men came in from the fields, the women from their homes, children tugging at their skirts, babies at their breasts. Rolfe was pleased. They were a well-fed, healthy lot. Ignoring Ceidre, he turned to Guy. “I want a precise head count this afternoon. Listed by family. Every name, even a day-old babe.”

  “Yes, my lord”.

  “And possessions, be it scythe or sow.”

  Guy nodded. “’Tis done.”

  “Good.” Rolfe smiled, then stood in his stirrups. “Here now,” he said, raising his voice so it boomed. “In the name of the king, William of Normandy, you have before you your new lord, the eaorl of Aelfgar, Rolfe de Warenne.”

  A collective gasp went up.

  “No!” Ceidre cried. “’Tis not true!”

  Rolfe turned a hard stare on her. “Keep your tongue,” he warned.

  “How can it be?” Ceidre cried, hysterical. “Are they dead? Are Ed and Morcar dead?”

  “Your brothers are alive,” he said coldly. “Aelfgar is mine, just as you are mine. Your brothers are traitors, enemies of the crown. Their lands have been forfeit, and they will be lucky if their lives are not.”

  Dispossessed. Ceidre thought she might faint. Edwin and Morcar had been dispossessed, and this man —this Norman—was the new lord of Aelfgar. She wanted to weep. She wanted to kill.

  “I am your lord and master, Alice,” Rolfe said. “And the sooner you accustom yourself to this, the better ’twill be.”

  “You will never be my lord and master, never!”

  “I am tired of your foolishness.” He addressed the crowd again. “As you can see, I have the lady Alice with me—she is my betrothed. There is nothing you can do to prevent what has been done. Treason to your new lord will be punishable by flogging and the stocks, or even hanging. There will be no mercy.” Rolfe signaled to his men, and they moved forward.

  The villagers murmured openly, shocked despite all these years of warfare. “Lady Alice?” someone said.

  “’Tis Ceidre!” And her name was echoed again and again.

  Rolfe heard, of course. “Who is this Ceidre they are referring to?”

  Ceidre’s anger fled in the face of an icy-cold panic. “I do not know!”

  He stared at her.

  They arrived at the manor, fifty of William’s fiercest troops, a mass of barely contained horseflesh, stomping, blowing, nostrils bugled, manes tossing. The knights’ chain mail, shields, and swords were glinting riotously, dazzling the eye, while above the royal blue, red, and black penants were flying, proud and sinister. Ceidre was certain that the half-dozen men-at-arms left behind by her brothers would not resist the Norman with his forces. They were greeted at the front of the manor by Athelstan, the eldest of the housecarls, left in charge of the six men by Edwin. With him were the other five.

  Rolfe rode his mount ahead of the column, then reined in. His black cloak, lined in red, flew about his broad shoulders. “Lay down your weapons, Saxon. I am the eaorl of Aelfgar, Rolfe de Warenne, your new lord and master. To raise bow and arrow is only to die. Especially as I have with me my bride, and no man raises arms against the lady Alice.”

  Ceidre felt sick.

  “I know you,” Athelstan said grimly. “Rolfe the Relentless. Your name flies ahead of you on a falcon’s wings. But if you think you can take Lord Edwin’s patrimony from him, you are wrong.”

  “Time shall tell. At present, I am only taking it from you.”

  “We have laid down our weapons.” Athelstan indicated the ground at their feet, where their quivers and shields lay. “But when Edwin and Morcar return, we shall raise them up again.”

  “Fair warning,” Rolfe said, and he smiled. “I believe you to be honest, old man, and I like that well.”

  “I am honest, so heed me with care. What is this foolishness? The lady Alice? That is not the lady Alice.”

  Rolfe’s smile disappeared. “Do not jest.” “This is no riddle. That is certainly not the lady Alice.”

  Rolfe whipped his head around, furious, eyes blazing. “Just who are you?” he demanded.

  She could barely get the words out. “Not your intended.”

  Their gazes locked, his strong and enraged, holding her frightened, valiant one.

  From behind Athelstan, a small, dark-haired woman stepped forward. “I am the lady Alice.”

  Rolfe stared in disbelief at his bride. He recovered. “You are the old eoarl of Aelfgar’s daughter? Edwin’s sister?”

  Alice, petite and slim, nodded, her dark eyes huge and wary. “And you, sir, are our new lord?”

  “Yes,” Rolfe said stiffly, and Ceidre could actually feel his fury—it was murderous. “Who, may I ask, is this woman besides me?”

  Alice smiled—it was a sneer. “Oh, her? No one, my lord, just one of the dairymaid’s brats.”

  Ceidre flushed. “Father loved Annie and you know it.”

  Alice laughed. “Love? Come now, Ceidre, we’ve been through this before. ’Twas my mother he loved, not that whore who raised her skirts for every cock about town!”

  Alice had never openly talked this way before, although in private she had always insisted Annie a whore and her mother, Jane, their father’s love. Ceidre was furious. “How dare you!”

  “’Tis the truth.” She turned to Rolfe. “My lord, you must be tired. Come. Let me take you to your bath.”

  Rolfe turned to look at Ceidre, a spasm in his jaw ticking. “So you are old Aelfgar’s bastard?”

  She raised her chin high. “Yes.”

  “I will deal with you later,” he warned.

  Ceidre’s breast rose and fell and she fought to contain real tears. She watched Rolfe dismount, saw Alice smile up at his dark visage and place her delicate white hand on his sleeve. “Do not bother yourself with her, my lord,” Alice said. “As you remarked, she is just one of many by-blows, and of no import. Tell me, ’tis true? We are to be wed?” Her tone was bright and eager.

  “Yes.”

  They walked inside, arm in arm, Ceidre unable to look away, stunned with Alice’s enthusiasm. As they disappeared from her view, Ceidre heard her sister laugh, charmingly, coquettishly. Her hand found the mule’s neck, and she began to stroke its soft fur blindly.

  “I am sorry, Ceidre,” Athelstan said sympathetically.

  “See to these men,” Ceidre said, her voice high. “They need refreshment. Their mounts need feed, and the dun has lost a shoe.”

  “Yes, mistress.”

  Ceidre slid off the mule and only then did tears start to slip down her face. But she would let no one see. Just as she had never let anyone see her hurt and disappointment, not when strangers recoiled from her, nor when her father failed to find her a husband. Especially this time would she hide her feelings, for there was no reason for her to be hurt and disappointed.

  Rolfe was rigid with restrained fury.

  That witch had lied. She had deceived him. She was not the lady Alice, not his bride. She would pay dearly for her deception.

  And he was to marry another.

  “My lord? Your bath grows cold.”

  Rolfe had been scowling, nostrils flared, gazing at the tub in front of the hearth without seeing it. He was in the Lord’s Chamber, which had been hastily prepared for him. Now, at the sound of his bride’s hesitant voice, he lifted his gaze and pinned her. For the first time, he studied her.

  Alice was pretty, but it was a hard fact to discern after being in her sister’s presence for the past day. She was very pale, her skin a foil to her dark, curlin
g hair. She was short and petite, with none of Ceidre’s lushness. She could not compare to her sister, and Rolfe recognized the deep, yawning pit of disappointment for what it was.

  He also knew, had he never met the witch, he would have been satisfied with Alice and not given it a second thought. This, however, was not now the case.

  Alice smiled tremulously. “My lord? You brood so. Perhaps some ale would lighten your soul.”

  “Why do you not ask about your brothers?”

  Alice hesitated. “Your arrival has completely fogged my mind.” She laughed nervously.

  “Will you resist this marriage?”

  “Oh, no!” She was clearly pleased with him for a husband.

  “You find me to your liking?”

  She blushed. “I am in need of a husband, my lord. My betrothed died shortly after Hastings, and in the past few years, with all the rebellions, Edwin has not had time to arrange another match. And I am getting old.”

  He nodded, she made perfect sense. “You are younger than your sister.”

  Briefly Alice’s face tightened, then the look vanished. “I am twenty, she is two years more.” Her nose went in the air. “Why do you concern yourself with her? She is just one of countless brats my father sired. Why, he did not even see fit to arrange a marriage for her! And now”—she smirked—“no one will have her, because of her evil eye! She is a witch, you know.”

  Rolfe’s jaw tensed. He was no fool. Alice clearly despised her sister, but he found it hard to believe that she actually thought her a witch. “There will be no more talk like that of your sister,” he commanded. “She is no witch.”

  Alice bit her lip, then lowered her head in obedience. Rolfe stripped off his mail hauberk, tossing it onto the floor. Alice rushed to his side. She helped him remove his vast sword, then his undertunic. She stared at the pouch hanging around his neck. “Why, ’tis hers!”

  “And now ’tis mine,” Rolfe said calmly, piercing her with a look. He removed it and placed it carefully with his things. Alice began removing his garters. Rolfe looked down on the top of her bent head and wished it were Ceidre performing the task. When he was naked, he turned his back to her and stepped into the steaming water. Alice hastily averted her eyes from his hard, powerful body with a shudder.

  “Would you like your back soaped, my lord?”

  Yes, I would like to be soaped, by that bronze-haired witch. “What I would like,” he said, “is some wine. Is there any wine on this manor, Lady?”

  “I think so,” Alice said.

  Rolfe grunted and she hurried away, leaving him alone in the great chamber. His thoughts grew dark, more ominous than a hurricane. She had deceived him. To gain what? Respite, he guessed, from his intentions to rape her. Damn her. He was more than furious. She could not defy his authority, could not continue to do so—and it seemed she did so at every turn! And this, to withhold her identity, have him believe she was his bride, this was very serious indeed. But … what penance?

  He was so angry he forced his thoughts from her, to deal with more pleasant matters. He leaned back and began to plan his afternoon. There were still hours of light left—he would inspect the eastern side of his holdings as far as the coast. And tomorrow, first thing in the morning, construction of a modern Aelfgar would begin. He smiled at the thought.

  His pleasure died. And what of the marriage? When would it be? A fortnight, he decided, would be soon enough. After all, he had much to do in the next days, and wouldn’t it be better to have most of the new construction under way before wedding?

  He snorted derisively. Had it been Ceidre, he would wed her tomorrow and bed her soundly tomorrow eve!

  A flash of gilt caught his eye. He straightened, eyes locked on the open doorway. Ceidre stood in the frame.

  Rolfe smiled slightly, his eyes never leaving her. He was struck again with her beauty, her bold coloring, her seductive form. Maybe she is a witch, he thought, momentarily and slightly amused, for already he was responding, just to the sight of her. He was thickening, swelling … “You seek me—Ceidre?”

  “I beg for the return of my potions—my lord.”

  Rolfe did not look at the chest where her herbs lay atop his garments. “They are not here,” he said silkily.

  She fidgeted. “My lord, please, I truly have need—”

  “Come here, Ceidre.”

  At his sensual tone, she froze.

  His smile, predatory, grew. “Come here.” A beat passed and she did not move, frozen like the netted lark. “And I will give it to you.”

  Ceidre hesitated, then boldly came into the room, and Rolfe watched the swing of her hips. His pleasure was so vast it was more like pain. She paused an arm’s length from the foot of the tub, eyeing him warily, a hunted doe. “I will have it now.”

  “Will you? First, penance.”

  “Penance?”

  “For your lies.” His tone was silky soft.

  “What would you have me do?”

  “Come here.”

  Her gaze widened. She only looked at his face.

  “There is no one to wash my back.”

  Her breath expelled. “Here, Ceidre.”

  Slowly she inched toward him, then, in a burst of desperation, she was suddenly behind him, dipping the cloth in the water. “I expect my amulet back,” she warned, touching his back with the wash rag so lightly it was like a feather’s tickling.

  “Not if that is the best you can do,” he purred. And he leaned forward, exposing the long length of his hard, muscled back from shoulder to hip.

  Ceidre stared at the superb, glistening flesh. His back was flawless; his torso had one long diagonal scar running from hip to nipple, and half a dozen smaller ones. Her heart, of course, was slamming wildly in her chest. She took a breath, grimly, and touched the rag to his nape.

  His body stiffened under her hand. Her own chest grew tight. “Finish,” Rolfe said.

  “Yes, my lord,” she muttered bitterly. “But are you sure you don’t want the good lady Alice to do this?” She put all her strength into the task and began scrubbing his shoulder.

  He winced, but she did not see. “She is not here,” he said calmly. “And you are.”

  She scrubbed harder. She hoped to tear the flesh from his body—’twould serve him right!

  “Ceidre,” he warned.

  She was panting from her exertions. And then she spied the pouch on the pile of his tunics. In a flash she was on her feet and at the chest, packet already in hand. She made two more steps to the door. His hand, large and powerful, closed over her wrist, yanking her around to face him, and his other arm came around her waist like the jaws of a trap. She was pressed, immobile, against his wet, naked body.

  “You play with fire, Ceidre.”

  She stared wildly into his bright, triumphant blue eyes. She could feel the dampness of his body. Her own gown and even her undertunic were becoming wet. Her breasts were crushed against the rock-hardness of his chest, achingly so. But mostly she was aware of his shaft, throbbing and hard and pressed against her hip. She tried to move away from it, he jerked her tighter against him. She gasped.

  “Fire,” he said harshly. “Now, penance.” And then he claimed her mouth with his.

  His kiss was fierce, hard, utterly uncompromising— but not hurtful. Ceidre gasped as her hands came up to resist, bracing away. Yet that too was a mistake. Instead, they spread against warm flesh, softly furred. He growled, the sound animal, warning. His teeth clashed against hers. With a cry, she wrenched away, only to be caught again and yanked back against his body.

  “No!”

  “Oh, yes,” he purred, the light in his eyes brilliant, momentarily stunning her already stunned senses.

  For one instant it was a standoff: she braced to fight yet held hard against him, as their gazes warred. “And what of Alice!” she cried, desperate and furious. “What of your bride!”

  His expression became cruel, even ugly. “You should be my bride.”

  Ceidre�
�s mouth opened to protest, but she made nothing more than a choked sound. For his palm anchored her head and his lips claimed hers, his tongue thrusting deep into her mouth. One of his hands closed over her buttock and lifted her groin completely against his erection.

  His mouth left hers. “No,” Ceidre managed again, but it was weak, a lie—she was on fire, trembling with wet heat, aching unbearably, unable to stand. His mouth moved voraciously against her throat, nipping, tugging, kissing her skin. And then he bent to bite a puckered nipple through her gown.

  Ceidre cried out, clinging to his broad shoulders in a feeble attempt to push him away. Then, abruptly, he pushed her from him. Panting, stunned, shaking, Ceidre tried to recover. Rolfe was holding his undertunic, shielding his blatantly aroused manhood. He pierced her with a look—a warning—and then Alice and a servant entered the room with refreshments.

  Alice stopped short, looking from Rolfe to Ceidre. Ceidre knew everything must show—her lips had to be bruised, her face flushed, her gown wet, her hair escaping from its thick braid. Oh, Saint Edward! Realization of what had just happened cut her like a knife. She was horrified.

  “Thank you, my lady,” Rolfe was saying smoothly. He stood casually, the tunic draped over a forearm, still covering him. With his other hand he took the beaker of wine and drained it. The cup shook.

  Alice seared Ceidre with a look of hatred. Then, angelically, innocently, she said to Rolfe, “Another, my lord?”

  “No, ’tis enough.”

  “You are finished already?”

  “Yes.”

  Alice handed the bag-beaker to the servant, picked up a towel, and began rubbing his shoulders dry. Ceidre felt a sick stabbing at the sight—and she hated him. She forgot the herbs—she fled.

  He did not call her back.

  Ceidre was angry.

  She stomped through the bracken, swishing her skirts. Every now and then she paused, face flushed, to inspect a cluster of yellow flowers and to pick a few delicate tiny green leaves, placing them in her basket. Then, stomp-swish-stomp. All because of him. Had he given her the pouch she would not have to be doing this now, when she was so very weary and so very hungry. When all she wanted to do was lay her head down on her pallet and sleep a dreamless sleep.