by Brenda Joyce
Alice, soothed by her fantasies, fell into the deep embrace of sleep.
“A fortnight?” Ceidre echoed.
“Yes. The banns have already been posted,” Athelstan said.
Ceidre turned away. Her mind was racing. She could not allow the viper into their nest! She could not! But how, how to stop the marriage when her sister was willing? And was it even fair to do so, when Alice so desperately wanted to wed? Ah, but surely there were others—she did not have to wed the Norman! Not the Norman!
“We must stop them,” she muttered to herself.
“You will not stop that one,” Athelstan said. “He is not called the Relentless for nothing. What he wants, he pursues until ’tis his. ’Tis well known, Ceidre. And he wants Aelfgar and its lady.”
“Yes,” Ceidre said bitterly. She couldn’t help it, she remembered the warmth in his eyes and his voice when, after she had turned the babe, he had said “Well done.” Then she recalled the feel of his mouth on hers in his chamber, his body wet from the bath, hard, sleek, thrusting against hers. Something coiled tight within her. Would he be so ready to bed Alice? Why did that thought upset her? She had no place even concerning herself with such an affair, unless it was to feel sorry for her sister.
She had been given no duties. With resolution, Ceidre went to check on Tildie. The events of the night before were fresh, so very fresh, in her mind. Had her own friend shown her truest, deepest feelings —that she too was reviled and repulsed by Ceidre’s “evil” eye? Ceidre knew that Tildie had been hysterical, but still, it had hurt, it did hurt. And then there was her own sense of failure. Most of all, Ceidre wanted to help her friend through her grief.
Tildie was not, surprisingly, in the kitchens. According to the servants, she had been given a day of rest by the lord. Bemused at such unheard-of charity, Ceidre walked down the slope to the village. The sun was high and warm, shedding its strength, burning away the finest spun clouds. There was a faint breeze, carrying with it the familiar odor of sheep and the fragrance of baking bread and hyacinth. Somewhere just to her right a lark sang, and a mockingbird responded.
The palisade of the Norman’s new keep would be completed today, Ceidre thought as she came closer. The first floor of the tower had been framed as well. A drawbridge lay open, its wood pale and fresh. A knot of men stood there; working on the portcullis. Ceidre saw the Norman.
He was stripped to his hose and chausses, his torso, golden brown, glinting in the sun. His hair glimmered, its soft, thick curls threaded riotously with gold and flaxen and even spun silver. It was, she thought, becoming overly long for the Norman style. In the back, where it had been shaved, as was the mode, it was growing in. Unlike his fellows, he would never be able to sport the popular style with a neat fringe of bangs because his hair was so unruly, untamable; even close-cropped, it would not lie flat upon his brow.
He turned to stare.
Ceidre realized she had paused to study him, and she flushed. Whatever had possessed her to do so openly, in front of half of Aelfgar! He did not smile, but wiped his hands upon his muscular thighs and approached her. Ceidre wished she had not halted, but it was too late. She raised her chin a notch, tensing.
“Good morning,” he said.
She couldn’t help it—something fierce swept her. He was near naked before her, his body sculpted with muscle, his chest broad, darkly furred, his waist narrow, hips small. His thighs bulged. His hose was damp, clinging—cupping his sex, conspicuous even now, when at ease. Ceidre forced herself to meet his gaze. His eyes were hot.
“Do not look at me that way, mistress,” he said, low.
“’Tis unholy provocation.”
She knew she was coloring again. “You flaunt your elf and know very well every wench who passes will eye your form.”
“Do I flaunt myself?” He was smiling now, the transformation in his visage startling. “You think all the wenches look?”
Ceidre stared at the portcullis so as not to regard him. “You know they do.”
“So I am comely?”
She took a breath. “Nay, merely—different.”
“Different?”
“An oddity!” she shot, eyes flashing. “Taller than a tree, thicker than a mountain, gold and white—a most strange sight!”
He laughed. It was the first time she had ever heard him laugh, and she was stunned by the richness and the warmth of the sound. “We cannot all be dark and short and Saxon,” he said, eyes sparkling.
“’Tis too bad.”
“Nay, ’tis good.” He reached out a hand, and one strong forefinger touched her chin, raising it. “I am glad you are not short and dark, Ceidre.”
“Like Alice?”
“Like Alice.”
“Your gladness means nothing to me,” she gasped. “I must go.”
“Where do you go? I purposefully ordered your day to be free. You need rest.”
She eyed him warily, reluctant to answer. “And why does my well-being interest you?”
His eyes glinted. “Everything about you interests me, Ceidre.”
She inhaled.
“You belong to me,” he said, soft. “I guard well what is mine.”
Ceidre understood the reference to her status as serf. So Alice had spread the lie, and why should he doubt it? “I am no serf.”
“You deny you were born to your mother?”
“Of course not!”
“Then you belong to Aelfgar and thus to me. I repeat—where do you go this morning?”
She clenched her fists, controlling her frustration and the urge to make him comprehend the truth. Yet why should she care what he believed? It did not matter what he thought of her, for she had no intention of leaving. He would not remain lord anyway, of this she was sure. Her brothers would die before willingly relinquishing Aelfgar to the Norman. No, she would be patient, until this mess was untangled. Until the Norman was defeated—and retreated or died.
A chill swept her.
“I go to visit Tildie. Mayhap she has need of me.”
“After what she did last night? Her accusations? You have the goodness to go to her again?” He was incredulous.
“She was overwrought and grief-stricken. Tis always easiest to blame someone other than oneself or God.”
“Your heart is overly large.”
“You would stop me?”
“No. Go. But do not let anything she says upset you, Ceidre.” There was warning in his tone. “We both know the truth, you and I. ’Tis enough.”
“And you are so sure of the truth?” Ceidre heard herself ask.
He smiled. His blue gaze went from her eyes to her mouth, lingered, then raked her from breast to hip. “The only power you have, wench, is that of seductress, not witch. Your power is as old as the gods, the power of woman over man.”
She could not look away, spellbound by the low, sensual note in his tone. Something strangely uplifting like elation swept her from head to toe. Finally she found her voice. “I am no temptress.”
“No?” He laughed. “Then you are a witch—for you have bewitched me—as well you know.”
She folded her arms, tight. “No,” she cried. “No! You are a slave to your own lusts—when you are to marry my sister!”
His smile faded. His eyes were hard. “If I were a slave to my own lusts, I would toss you now, here, in the dirt, like any common wench, for all to see.”
Ceidre flushed.
“But I wed your sister in less than a fortnight.” “’Twill never be!” Ceidre hissed. Her vision had blurred.
“Do not think you can stop me,” he said. “Your powers are not that strong.”
Tears, of anger, of hurt, came into her eyes. “I will stop you, Norman! But not as you suggest, with my temptress’s powers. You mistake it if you think I want you for myself! ’Tis Aelfgar I protect—from you! And I will gladly die before I see the day when you are truly lord here!”
“You are alive, Ceidre,” he said coldly. “And I am truly lord here. So
put any thoughts of treason from your head. I warn you here and now.”
“May I take my leave—my lord?” she asked, blinking furiously, the effect of her sarcasm ruined.
He was fighting down his anger. “Go, before I act like a boy, not a man, and give in to my needs. But remember my words.”
She bit down a retort and, hands clenched at her sides, whirled away. He gazed after her for a long time.
“How are you feeling, Tildie?”
Tildie paused in the act of scattering feed to three hens and a cock. The two women looked at each other.
“I’m sorry, Tildie. I tried,” Ceidre said uncertainly.
Tears welled in Tildie’s eyes. “I know. I’m sorry too, for saying such awful nonsense. I didn’t mean it, Ceidre, I didn’t.”
You didn’t mean it, Ceidre thought, but you said it— how could you have said such things to me? Yet she did not voice her thoughts, instead managing a smile. There was a time when the two women would have embraced in their apology, but an invisible wall had come between them. “How are you feeling?” Ceidre asked.
“A little tired is all.”
They exchanged a few more words. What had happened created a tension between them that had never existed before. Then Ceidre said good-bye and turned away. She walked aimlessly, trying not to think.
“Ceidre?”
At the sound of Albie’s voice, Edwin’s most trusted man, Ceidre almost fainted. She whipped around, eyes widening at the sight of him. He was dressed as a simple serf, not as a thane’s son. She restrained the impulse to jump into his arms. “Albie! You have news?” Her voice was low and urgent.
“Let’s walk,” Albie suggested. He was her own age, sent to foster at Aelfgar when he was six. They had grown up together—he was practically a brother.
Ceidre twisted the sash of her girdle nervously as they strolled into the apple orchard. “They are fine?”
“Yes. Edwin took an arrow in his thigh, but he is healing well.”
Relief swept her, and sorrow that she hadn’t been there to see to his wound. “You are sure there is no infection?”
“You know Ed. Strong as an ox.”
Ceidre smiled, torn with missing both him and Morcar. Edwin was as strong as an ox, of average height, with her father’s strong, hawklike features and his raven hair. Morcar was taller, leaner, his hair brown and unruly, his eyes a dancing blue. Yet his quick smile hid as fierce a will and intelligence as Edwin’s. The brothers seemed opposite, the one brooding and intense, not one for excess words, the other quick to laugh and smile and shout, yet they were really of the same stuff. And loyal, the one unto the other.
“Where are they?” She glanced around again, but they were alone, the villagers going about their normal activity, the Norman still with his men at the drawbridge, now a good kilometer away.
“In the fens. Ceidre, Morcar is coming as soon as he can. Edwin will not allow this dispossession to occur. You must watch every move Rolfe de Warrenne makes. And listen as well. Anything of import that you see or hear you must relay.”
“I understand,” Ceidre said. “The Norman has fifty men, all seasoned knights. I’ve seen them in battle.” She shuddered, remembering how the Norman and his men had slain the Saxons at Kesop, effortlessly. “He may have more.”
“Of course he does, but they’ve been left at York. He’s the new castellan there, did you not know?”
“No, I did not.”
“William the Bastard still stays at York, with royal troops, to oversee the rebuilding of the castle. Rolfe must be in close correspondence with him. Ceidre, we need to know their plans. If they have written messages, you must find them, and you must try to overhear their conversations. …” Albie looked at her.
Ceidre thought of the price of treason: public flogging and the stocks, or even hanging. “I will try, Albie, but ’twill not be easy. The Norman is very smart.”
“Do your best.”
“You know he is to marry Alice?”
“No, I did not. I will relate the news to your brothers. When is the wedding?”
“A bit more than a sennight now. The time flies, Albie.”
“’Tis not good, I think. Morcar will come before, I am sure. Until then, watch and listen. I had better go.”
Ceidre took his hand. “God speed you, Albie. I was so afraid.”
“Your brothers are near immortal.” Albie grinned.
“Do not joke upon such matters, no one but God is immortal,” Ceidre said sharply. He shrugged, and she watched him trot off into the forest. A glance at the construction site told her the Norman and his men were still hard at work. Now was as good a time as any to hunt for royal missives. She started back to the manor.
Alice was in the kitchens, dictating the day’s fare. Ceidre slipped past the open doorway without being seen and entered the manor by the front of the house. At this time of day there was no one in the hall, save a serf wiping down the long trestle table. Ceidre hurried up the stairs.
She felt a tinge of apprehension as she pushed open the massive cedar door to the great chamber. She slipped inside, then thought the better of closing the door all the way—she left it slightly ajar so as not to look too suspicious should she be caught. She glanced around.
The room boasted a large bed, the bed her father had slept on, the bed that had been Edwin’s—and was now the Norman’s. There were several chests along the walls, where the Norman’s things were stored, also used to sit upon. They were not chests that belonged to Aelfgar—he had brought them with him. This seemed as good a place as any to start.
It struck her that he might not be able to read, as most men did not. She had not considered this sooner, because he was so shrewd it seemed unlikely he would not possess such a power. It occurred to Ceidre, then, that a man like the Norman would destroy any written missives—and that many could be verbal. Yet she must look. And, even if he couldn’t read, there would be the village priest to decipher anything written—if he could. Ceidre almost smiled. Father Green was drunk most of the time and wenching the rest. She supposed a monk could be sent for. Or—he could ask her to read a message to him.
Her heart sped. She must find out whether he could read or no. If not, she must make him aware of her usefulness to him. The situation would be ideal!
The first chest contained tunics and hose and mantles, brooches, a bag-beaker, shoes, an extra pair of garters. Another, fine silks from the Orient in the most beautiful colors Ceidre had ever seen, rich velvets in gold and red and a cape of tawny, cream, and red-streaked fur. But no missives. The last trunk contained Oriental rugs and an old, broken sword in its jewel-studded scabbard. She replaced it carefully. The Norman had brought his most valued possessions with him, she thought bitterly, but little did he know—he was not staying at Aelfgar. Aelfgar belonged to Edwin.
There was no other place for messages to be stored unless they were truly hidden.
“What are you doing in here?”
Ceidre, absorbed in her speculation, whirled at the sound of Alice’s harsh voice, immensely relieved to have finished her search and closed the chests. “I was looking for my herbs,” she replied smoothly. It was a lie, of course; she had retrieved it the other night for Tildie’s sake.
“Does he know you are in here?” Alice demanded. “Did he give you permission?”
“No,” Ceidre said carefully. “Alice, he would be very angry to know I was looking for my amulet.”
“Yes, he would be, wouldn’t he?” Alice sneered.
“Are you going to tell him?”
“Have you disclaimed your serfhood?”
“He did not believe me.”
Alice was triumphant. “Why should he? After all, you were born to that whore who was a serf. Did you find your witch’s potions?”
“No.”
“What did you do last night, Ceidre?”
She knew, Ceidre thought. She knew she had been with Tildie and had had her herbs with her. Ceidre fumbled for a response.
“Whore,” Alice cried, and slapped her hard across the face.
Ceidre drew back, shocked.
“I saw him sneak out after you,” Alice hissed. “You spread your white thighs for him—didn’t you? You are just like your mother, Ceidre, a rutting whore!”
She knew it was better to have Alice believe she had been with Rolfe than to know she had been healing Tildie last night. For Ceidre did not want Alice to know that now she was spying, not searching for her herbs. Still, she could not let Alice think the worst if she could help it, and Alice had no right to slur her mother so. “I only went for a walk,” she said, flushing.
“Truly.”
“He followed you!”
“Yes. He thought I was running away,” she lied hastily. “He has forbidden my leaving Aelfgar. But, Alice, he did not touch me, this I swear. You have no right to call me names. I am not a whore—my mother was not a whore. She loved Father so much she sickened after he died and died herself—you know this to be true! Why do you have to persist with such foul lies?”
“Your mother was a leman, Ceidre—that makes her a whore. Of course she loved your father—he was her lord and master and she dared not. But he only loved her on her back! What did Rolfe do when he followed you?”
“He demanded of me where I was going.”
“You liar! You were gone two hours—the two of you! Ceidre—you will regret this, I promise you! I will make your life unbearable if you do not stay away from him.”
Ceidre knew she meant it, her passion was evident. “I hate him,” she urged. “Truly I hate him, I did not lie with him!”
“Just remember,” Alice said with a snarl. “All you can ever be is his whore, being nothing more than our father’s bastard get. But I, I shall be his wife.”
Something stabbed through her, a pain of the heart. “Alice, one last time, do not turn your back on your family. I will help you to evade this marriage and to find another.”