The Conqueror

by Brenda Joyce

  She thought of Thor and grimly continued her quest. Thor was Edwin’s oldest wolfhound—why, he was almost as old as she was. He had been badly hurt in a dogfight that Athelstan said had happened yesterday. The sleeping potion she had given Guy, when mixed with mandrake and valerian, would numb him sufficiently as well as help him sleep. Now he was suffering greatly, and it hurt Ceidre unbearably, not just because he was Ed’s but because he was her old, trusting playmate as well. She had barely enough of the weed, and it was already approaching dusk. She thought of how much of the potion was left in her pouch and she cursed, wishing for once she were truly a witch. Oh, then she would make him suffer!

  A penance indeed!

  Why need she pay such a perverse penance to satisfy his perverse lusts? She flushed with fury—and dismay —-just to recollect it. And he was to wed Alice. Her heart leapt at the fact. She would not dwell on it yet she could not ignore it. She was upset, but surely ’twas only because of the thought of bringing her worst enemy into the bosom of her own home. Yet she had a vivid image of Alice toweling him dry. She imagined him kissing Alice—the way he had kissed her. Her sickness was so overwhelming she had to stop and gather her wits.

  She was not jealous. She hated the Norman and all he stood for. He was the enemy, the invader, the conqueror. He was dispossessing her two brothers, whom she adored and worshiped. He was cruel and cold—he had razed Kesop to the ground without a twinge of conscience. She was not jealous—but, oh, what a mockery of Fate, that finally a man should not fear her, should so greatly desire her—and he be the Norman whom she could only hate!

  Tonight she must talk to Alice. Alice could not truly want this marriage, and Ceidre would move heaven and earth to help her evade it—even if it meant poisoning the groom.

  No. She had never hurt another soul, not man, not beast. It would have to be a very grave situation indeed before she would use her powers, so carefully studied from her grandmother, to harm instead of heal. No, there must surely be another way.

  In the single hall of the manor, Rolfe sat at the head of the long table with Alice by his side. He was clad only in cross-gartered woolen hose, shoes, an undertunic, and his scabbard and sword. His men sat clustered around the table eating heartily, with those who had not managed to find a seat standing. Guy was on his right, Athelstan on Alice’s left. His bride touched his hand with her tiny white one. “My lord? You do not like the wine?”

  Truly, it was atrocious, even though he was verily sick of the Saxon ale. “’Tis passable.”

  “But you do not eat,” Alice persisted. “The fare does not please you?”

  “It pleases me,” he responded automatically, although in truth he did not know—he had yet to take a bite. Again his gaze raked the hall. Where was she?

  He hadn’t meant to go so far. He had been angry, he was still angry. Ceidre could not deceive him so on some capricious whim. Yet it was she who had dared to invade his chamber while he bathed, and he had not been able to contain his wicked impulses—and to soap him was surely the softest penance she could possibly pay. Yet when she had grabbed the leather pouch, he had responded not with rational thought but with a soldier’s instinct. He had seized her. If Alice had not returned he would have taken her, right there, as she stood.

  His need for her was out of hand and he knew it. He also realized it could not continue, for he was to marry the sister. Many lords would not blink twice at taking Ceidre while wed to Alice. After all, she was just Aelfgar’s by-blow. Yet he could not—it was not right. Before it had been different, when he had thought her just a passing peasant wench, and he intended to rape her. Now she was his bride’s sister. He wished sorely that he were a different man, that he could have the one for wife and the other for mistress. But it could not be.

  Therefore, he would have to control himself. And this, he vowed to God, he would do. But where was she?

  “My lord, shall I have something else prepared, more to your satisfaction?”

  Her concern would soon become annoying. He sensed it was because she feared greatly to lose him as a husband, that she was desperate to be wed. He understood her difficult position well, for soon she would be too old to turn any heads. He should reassure her, even though he was not in the mood. After all, the lady was his bride. “Lady Alice, the fare is fine, it seems only that I have no appetite. Why is your sister not here?”

  Alice stiffened. “Ceidre does as she pleases, she always has. Often she eats with the maids in the kitchen, as, in truth, she should. Sometimes she spends days away, the saints only know where, practicing her witchcrafts.”

  Rolfe was furious. He rose abruptly. “You dare to openly defy me?”

  Alice gasped, her hand covering her mouth. “I am sorry! I had forgotten you forbade me to talk of it! But ’tis only the truth!”

  “Your tongue drips with jealousy, and ’tis most unseemly.”

  She straightened. “I am not jealous of her, some whore’s brat.”

  “Leave me,” he said. “I am displeased.”

  Alice, white, angry, fled upstairs. Rolfe turned to Athelstan. “Why does she hate her sister so?” His tone was low, so only those closest to him could hear.

  “You have remarked it, my lord,” Athelstan said. “Jealousy, of course.”

  “Were she not so mean she would be passably fair.”

  “’Tis not her fault, ’twas her mother’s.”

  “Tell me.” Rolfe sat back down.

  “Aelfgar loved his first wife greatly—the lady Maude. He worshiped her doubly for the gift of two fine, proud sons. Yet she grew weak and feeble before her time, and many years passed that she could not receive her lord as a wife should.”

  Rolfe shrugged. “’Tis not unusual.”

  “But Aelfgar loved her, truly. He did not seek out others—ever.”

  Rolfe laughed skeptically. “No? Ceidre is not his get?”

  “After many years, he finally, being human, dallied with a pretty dairymaid, Annie, Ceidre’s mother. Maude was dying. Aelfgar was sick with despair—yet Annie was beauty, light, laughter—joy. Maude died— and Annie gifted him with Ceidre. She surpassed even her mother with her beauty and her laughter—Aelfgar worshiped the tiny babe. He offered Annie the hand of his reeve, the finest of the peasants, but she loved him and so refused. Thus Annie stayed in the kitchens here, and Ceidre grew up underfoot—everywhere. In the kitchens, in the hall, in the stables, in the woods. All knew, of course, she was the eaorl’s daughter, yet not being nobly born, she was left free to do as she pleased. Yet her father loved her, her brothers adored her, and all would have been well save that Aelfgar had married Alice’s mother, the Lady Jane.”

  “Yes?”

  “When Aelfgar realized that he was falling in love with Annie, a lowborn serf, he was determined to correct the situation. Jane brought him a small manor on his northern borders. It was just a year after Ceidre’s birth. Yet Jane was the opposite of Annie—dark, cold, spiteful, and very, very bitter to find her husband wanting another. Finally Aelfgar turned to Annie again. He never returned to Jane, who bore him Alice, but he treated her with respect. Yet Jane knew of his leman, and hated her and her daughter with all of her passion. Alice too grew up feeding on this poisonous hate. She has hated her sister from the day she could feel the emotion, before she could even talk.”

  “There were no others?”

  “Aelfgar was an unusual man, not needing more than one good woman. No, there was only Annie after Maude died, and Ceidre is his only by-blow.”

  “Lady Alice would have me believe Ceidre is one of many brats.”

  “Mayhap she believes it herself—mayhap not.”

  “You are as wise as your years, Saxon.”

  “You are wiser than yours, Norman.”

  Rolfe found himself smiling slightly—and Athelstan finally did so too. “Is it true that Ceidre disappears for days at a time?” He didn’t like the thought, not one bit. Nor did he like the way it made his innards cramp with tension.
r />   “’Tis rare.” Athelstan stared at him. “You ask many questions of the sister, my lord.”

  Rolfe met his gaze directly. “She is a beautiful woman—and I had thought her to be my promised wife. ’Tis normal, given these circumstances.”

  “You do not fear the eye?”

  Rolfe laughed, without mirth. “You think she is a witch too?”

  “Oh, she is a witch, all right,” Athelstan said gravely. “Even her father knew it. But a good witch.”

  “She is flesh and blood, a woman—made for a man.” And his traitorous thoughts sped ahead: My woman—made for me. He grew grim, not liking his own treachery.

  “Of course, my lord. But tonight she practices her witch’s arts.”

  “What in God’s name do you mean?” It was almost a roar, accompanied by a slap on the table, which nearly made the wood crack.

  “She has gone far afield to find a special herb for Thor.”

  “Explain, old man.”

  Athelstan dryly told him, and Rolfe was furious and incredulous all at once. “She goes off into the night, alone, unescorted, to fetch herbs to heal an old dog!” He was on his feet, ordering his men to rise. “We shall end this foolishness once and for all.”

  Alice’s face was a mask of rage. In her anger, she was taut and ugly, older than her years. She listened to her lord and his men as they rode out into the night, by torchlight, their massive steeds’ hooves rumbling like thunder. To find Ceidre.

  It was impossible—but true. Her betrothed wanted her sister. Ceidre had cast a spell on him, she was certain. Why else would he look at her the way he did —when no other mortal man dared? Or was he himself unnatural, maybe not flesh and blood, but Satan’s creation—the devil? Alice shuddered.

  No, he was man, of flesh and blood. She had seen his male body, hard, muscular, battle-scarred—so ugly. For some reason he was not afraid of Ceidre’s eye, and thus he was overwhelmed by her vivid, unnatural beauty.

  Alice hated her sister so much she felt as if she were choking.

  Alice had never been afraid of her sister, ever—her hate was too strong. And with the passing of time, she grew bolder, for Ceidre had never cast a spell upon her. Alice was sure it was because they were sisters— because it would have enraged their father. Or maybe Ceidre had no power where Alice was concerned. That thought pleased Alice greatly.

  Now Rolfe was riding out at night to search for her. Alice wished she could kill Ceidre. Rolfe, like her father, was not afraid of her and hence was bewitched by her unusual coloring, her beauty, her form. Thinking about her father made Alice ill. The way he had adored Ceidre, adored that whore, Annie, openly—while barely giving a smile to her own mother, since remarried, or to herself. Her brothers too had always favored Ceidre, oblivious to her eye, entranced by her smile and her laughter. Everyone who counted in Alice’s life had always preferred her sister to her—it was only those who didn’t count, like that young, pimply faced fool, Bill, her betrothed, who didn’t. Alice wished, just once, she could see Rolfe recoil in horror from her sister. She knew how much revulsion dismayed Ceidre.

  Ceidre was not going to ruin what was surely her last chance at marriage, Alice swore.

  And a plan began to form in her mind.

  An hour had passed at least—the moon had risen. Full and yellow, it glowed in the night. Rolfe reined in, listening to the silence. There was no sound, not even of crickets, owls, not even the wind. He raised himself in his stirrups. On an adjacent ridge, and in a dale, and across on another hill, he could see the flickering lights of the torches his men carried as they combed the countryside. His body was as taut as a bow string. Never would she roam afar again! “Ceidre! Ceidre!”

  There was no answer. Now he was truly worried, sure a terrible fate had befallen her—wolves, brigands. Then he heard a noise and whipped his head around. He knew instant disappointment, as he saw the light approaching—’twas one of his men. And then his heart leapt as he heard, “My lord! I have her, I found her!”

  His expression changed, worry evaporating, his mouth settling into a hard, ruthless line. He spurred his steed forward to meet Beltain. “Well done,” he said, low.

  “Put me down, you oaf,” Ceidre said through gritted teeth, a bundle squirming upon Beltain’s lap. “My lord?” Beltain asked.

  Rolfe’s fingers itched to spank her until she could not sit. “Put her down.”

  Beltain let her go, and she slid to the ground, panting. “What is the meaning of this!”

  Rolfe reached down and swung her up in front of him. “Do not test me,” he warned, and at the deadly sound of his voice, Ceidre ceased to protest. She went very still, sitting sidesaddle on his hard thighs. “Signal the others,” Rolfe said. And he spurred his mount back toward Aelfgar.

  Ceidre clutched her basket, anger fading in the face of his powerful presence. Tension reared, her heart began thundering. He was angry, very, very angry— which made no sense. And why were his men out looking for her? What she did, ’twas not his affair. She did not understand, not at all. And she did not like being treated like his property—which, if she accepted him as the new eaorl, she was.

  He said not one word and the ride was swift. At the manor he dismounted, dragging her quite rudely down with him. He handed his destrier to one of the pages, his grip on her elbow so firm it hurt. He yanked her into the hall.

  Alice looked up from her embroidery. She sat with her maid, a plump woman named Mary. A few of the men had returned already and were drinking ale and dicing. Alice regarded them steadily but said nothing.

  “Everyone leave,” Rolfe said, releasing Ceidre. She took one step. “Not you,” he said.

  She froze.

  “You stay.”

  She turned to look at him. He stared, only at her, unsmiling, his gaze dangerous. Everyone left.

  Ceidre fought to control the pace of her breathing, which had become shallow. No man had ever made her a coward before, and he, the Norman enemy, the usurper of Aelfgar, would not either. It was a valiant battle, which she won. Bravely she managed, “Do you have another penance for me to pay, my lord?” She spread her hands. “Perhaps right here, upon the floor? After all, we are alone, you have ordered it so.”

  His fine nostrils flared. “Do not test my good humor.”

  “Good humor?”

  “You are forbidden the right to leave the village or the manor,” he said shortly, eyes piercing her. Ceidre gasped. “Do you understand?” “You can’t!”

  “I can, and I do. I am the lord here, this is my law. You may, however, ask me for permission, and I might, if generous, grant it. But there will be no more wandering afield at night!”

  “You are still angry,” Ceidre cried, dismayed, “because I deceived you with my identity!”

  “Oh, yes,” he said softly. “I am still very, very angry. You are lucky to have escaped my wrath so lightly, Ceidre.” It was the first time he had addressed her by name, and the word on his tongue dripped like thick honey.

  She did not like the tone. “Lightly?” She choked. “I do not think this persecution light.”

  “Persecution.” His tone was heavy. “I do not persecute you, Ceidre.”

  “No? Then have you a better name for your actions?”

  “As your lord, I may chastise where I will.”

  “Had you not stolen my herbs, I would not have had to wander this eve!”

  “Had you not poisoned my man, I would not have had to seize your amulet.”

  “Had I not been prisoner, I would not have given Guy the draught!”

  “Had you been a true lady, there would have been no need to have Guy guard you.”

  Ceidre quivered, not sure if the slur was cast upon her origins or her eye. “Do you taunt me now with the name bastard or witch?” she said bitterly.

  “Neither,” he said, moving swiftly. He shook her. “I am a man who has no need to throw names. You misunderstand—I refer to your very nature—not that of a meek, boring lady, but as fierce an
d unpredictable as battle. And as exciting.”

  His words struck her and she could not move. Fierce … unpredictable … exciting. She was pinned by his bold regard. He released her, and she felt the lack of his touch. He looked at her mouth, his gaze lingering, hungry and wistful. Then he turned very abruptly and strode up the stairs, leaving her alone and bewildered. And feeling the desperate urge to cry.

  “Wake up.”

  Ceidre had fallen asleep before she could sneak upstairs to discuss with Alice her imminent marriage. It was a heavy sleep, dreamless, the oblivion she so badly needed.

  “Wake up!”

  Ceidre was rudely awakened as Alice pulled mercilessly upon her hair. She gasped, rising up on one elbow. She slept on a pallet on the floor of the hall with all the others. “What? Alice, what is it?”

  “Get up,” Alice hissed. “We are going to talk, you and I.”

  It was the middle of the night. The snore of the Norman’s men and Aelfgar’s own surrounded them. Ceidre got to her feet, reaching for a mantle to cover her long undertunic. “Couldn’t it have waited?”

  Alice took her hand and pulled her, until they were outside near the kitchens. The light of the moon was just enough to see by, and as sleep left, Ceidre saw that Alice was angry.

  “I am warning you, Ceidre, I am going to marry him and nothing you can do will stop me!”

  Ceidre stared.

  “You stay away from him with your whore’s tricks,” Alice whispered. “Do you understand?”

  “You can’t want to marry him!”

  “I do! He is mine! He might dally with you—as our father did with your mother—but he will never make you his true wife!”

  It hurt. It shouldn’t, but it was God’s truth, and for that reason the pain was overwhelming. “I hate him,” Ceidre said. “He is a killer, the enemy, a Norman. He is stealing our brothers’ land. I would not marry him if I were truly you, or even if he wanted me.”

  “Good.”