by Brenda Joyce
His bride whispered something soft and sweet, but Rolfe did not listen. He stared at the bronze-haired woman seated below him and could not help comparing her to his bride. By God, it should be Ceidre he was wedding, not this spiteful little wench!
There was nothing that could be done, yet he could not shove his deepest wishes from his mind.
And then, hours later, just when he had decided to attempt sleep, just when he had stripped to his bare skin, she had appeared at his door, an echo of his basest thoughts. And suddenly the night was no longer grim. Darkness became light. She had answered his silent prayers, she had come to ease his mind, and, he hoped drunkenly, his tortured body.
But here, unfortunately, Rolfe’s memory of the day before began to grow hazy.
They had kissed. He had kissed her and she had flared like a hot flame. But then what? He could not remember another thing, his last thought being in Ceidre’s arms. He had not bedded the wench—had he? No, surely he would remember such a fortuitous occasion!
There was a knock upon his chamber door. Rolfe was jerked completely back to the present. He grunted a response, and Athelstan appeared, looking quite lighthearted. Rolfe scowled at the aroma of porridge wafting toward him. “Take that out of here,” he demanded. “At once!”
“Good morning, my lord,” Athelstan said cheerfully. “’Tis a beautiful day, is it not?”
Rolfe watched him warily. “I know not.”
“But ’tis your wedding day,” Athelstan said, setting the bowl down upon a chest. “And you have overslept. You must get dressed and be at the chapel in an hour, my lord.”
Rolfe held his face in his hands and groaned. “In an hour? ’Tis impossible.” His headache had just increased.
It was so very easy.
Preparations for the wedding feast had been underway since yesterday morning. The kitchens were a madhouse, with twice the number of serfs scurrying back and forth from pantry, to hearth, to chapel’s courtyard. A wedding was a celebration not just for the nobles, but for the entire village. As such, there had to be enough bread, mutton, and ale for everyone. And this wedding was an even more special event, for their lord was new, and no one wanted to displease him—rather, everyone feared his displeasure.
Ceidre’s heart was lodged in her throat, and her stomach had been queasy ever since she had awoken. It was, she knew, nerves, because of what she had to do. She had learned from gossip that the Norman intended to transport Morcar to York immediately after the wedding—thus it was now or never, do or die. But the timing was truly perfect. In this chaos she knew she could succeed. Indeed, she had to.
And she would not think about the penalty she might face. After all, hadn’t he shown her leniency once? But a slight shudder swept her, for he had warned her and warned her well.
And she would not think about the nuptials either.
Teddy came running out of the kitchen, trencher and beaker in hand, heading for the back of the manor —and the entrance to the dungeons below. Ceidre caught up to him. “’Tis for the guard?”
Teddy didn’t stop, he was breathless, sweating. “Aye, it is, an’ me arse is gonna get whupped if I don’t get back to turn the chickens!”
“Give it to me,” Ceidre said, grabbing his wrist.
Teddy halted, panting, but his eyes glimmered with shrewdness. Then the brief look of understanding was gone. He shrugged. “Thank ye, Ceidre.” He handed her his burdens and was running back up the hill.
He knew. Ceidre was certain, just as she knew if their deed was discovered, he would plead ignorance —and she herself would take all the blame. Her chest was so very tight. She wished she did not have to deliver the fare, but she could not give this terrible task to an innocent. She was holding bread, cheese, and ale. The same trick would not work, and Ceidre was prepared. She put everything down, then hurriedly opened a small basket she was carrying. Within was a soft goat cheese—made with herbs. She put a few generous slices between the bread, felt a twinge of guilt, threw aside the cheese Teddy had brought, and continued down the path.
Once he digested the cheese, the guard would not be able to control himself. Corncockle was a most efficacious laxative.
The dungeons were actually a dark, dirt-floored hole beneath the manor, entered from a rock latch-door in the ground. Ceidre had ventured inside once, when she was so very young—and she would never forget it. There was barely any air to breathe, and no light, none at all. Rats scurried in the darkness, and slime oozed between her bare toes. Her brothers had encouraged her to go down to explore it, and Ceidre had thought nothing of doing so. But once inside, the overwhelming closeness began to terrify her, and she felt hot and strangled for lack of air. “We are going to close the door so you can see what it is really like,” Morcar called.
“No!” Ceidre had shouted, but it was too late, the door banged shut, and she was enveloped in thick blackness.
Something happened. She could not breathe, and she thought her lungs would explode from lack of air. The walls seemed closer, caving in upon her. Ceidre screamed. She screamed and screamed, clawing the walls madly, knowing she was going to die, to be buried alive….
Instantly Ed threw open the door, leapt down, and lifted her in his arms. Ceidre was shaking and panting, weeping uncontrollably, and it wasn’t until she was back outside in the bright daylight that she realized what a silly fool she had been. Now she knew why she had always avoided exploring caves with her brothers, and since that day she had never ventured into a tiny, closed space again.
It was a travesty. Morcar, the second son, a prisoner in his own hold. But not, she thought resolutely, for long.
The guard, a burly oaf of a man, eyed her grimly. Ceidre did not smile. She set down the trencher, handing him the bag-beaker.
“I do not want your witch’s potions,” the guard said.
“Fine,” Ceidre said shortly, and she picked the trencher up and the bag of wine. She turned to go.
“’Tis not poisoned?” he asked.
“Am I stupid? The last time I was lucky, my lord graced me with his mercy. I dare not such a trick again. Look, I will take a bite of everything first if it soothes you.”
“Do so,” he said.
Ceidre did so, unperturbed. One bit of cheese would not harm her much. The guard watched and was much relieved. She left him eating merrily.
She was late. The procession for the chapel would be starting, and her absence would be conspicuous. Grimly Ceidre picked up her skirt and quickened her pace. For the ceremony she had donned black, for she was mourning this occasion. Already the villagers and Normans had lined the road from manor to church, which was at the edge of the village, a small stone building. Ceidre’s place was at the front, and she stood beside Athelstan. His regard was intense and she did not like it. She studied the ground. All around her was the happy laughter and conversation of Aelfgar’s people, joyous in anticipation of the festival to come. Rich aromas of bread, stew, and pies hung thickly about them. The sky was daringly blue, the sun warm and bold. Children frolicked, dogs yapped. Ceidre began twisting the cord of her girdle.
“Here they come,” shouted someone, and a cry went up.
Ceidre looked.
Alice, dainty and elegant on a blooded white palfrey, came first, led by Guy and Beltain. She wore a magnificent gown, virginal white, encrusted with a thousand pearls, which Ceidre knew she and her maids had been sewing on ever since the Norman’s arrival. A veil of lace, glinting with gold thread, hid her face. It could not hide her wide smile. Her dark, rich hair hung free to her waist, a riot of curls. She looked every inch the virginal bride, every inch the lady of Aelfgar. Ceidre almost felt uncontrollably sick.
And then she saw him.
In all truth, he took her breath away.
He sat his mean gray stallion as if he were born to the saddle. The destrier was bedecked with all his gear, including a royal-blue blanket, gold trimmed and beribboned. Blue and gold streamers waved from his mane and tail, from bit and br
idle, even from Rolfe’s stirrups. The animal pranced, held tightly by his rider to a slow, tortured pace.
Rolfe’s tunic was the same rich royal blue, but of the finest weave, so fine it shimmered, reflecting the sunlight, making him appear to dazzle, like a god. In fact, his appearance was greeted by the most absolute hush of reverence and awe. Indeed, he seemed too beautiful to be mortal. His cape, a red velvet lined with gold, waved behind him. His scabbard was encrusted with jewels—with rubies and sapphires and yellow citrines. One of his hands rested casually upon the hilt, and on it flashed a huge signet ring of black pearl. His hose were dark red, garters blue. His spurs were gold, and they gleamed.
He sat straight and still. He did not smile. Ceidre found herself staring, and thought how much she hated him. She hated him for everything—for his usurping of Aelfgar, for this marriage to her sister, for his lust for her, for his unholy beauty. Bitterness welled like bile. He was almost passing her now, and his eyes suddenly riveted upon her. Ceidre hoped he could see just how much she despised him.
If only her heart did not feel as if it were breaking.
The ceremony was, as usual, short. It took place outside, so everyone could be witness, and within a few moments of their arrival, it was over. Rolfe, holding Alice’s hand in his, turned to face the crowd. Everyone roared with approval, rice and ribbons were thrown. He was tall and golden, she was petite and dark. And now they were man and wife, the lord and lady of Aelfgar.
The guard had run frantically into the bushes.
Ceidre had left the boisterous feast, unremarked amid all the revelry. She had crouched, waiting, for her chance. A bay mare was bridled, tethered in a copse of trees just beyond her. As the guard ran, Ceidre darted for the latch-door.
No one was about, of course, the entire village being at the wedding celebration. Ceidre threw the bolt and pried open the heavy stone. “Morcar! Morcar!”
She saw him rise and stand directly beneath her. “’Tis you, Ceidre?”
She flung down the rope ladder. “Hurry! Hurry!”
He had only been in the hold two days, and he scrambled up quickly. But outside he blinked, dazed. “I cannot see.”
Ceidre slammed down the door and bolted it. She took his arm and they began to run. “’Twill pass,” she whispered. She noticed his leg was stiff—and bandaged.
In the copse they halted. Morcar, his vision returned, grasped her shoulders. “Bless you,” he whispered.
“Your leg, how is it?”
“I am fine. The Norman sent a wench to tend me,” he said, untying the mare.
Ceidre saw that his thigh and arm were both neatly wrapped, and she was stunned that the Norman had had him cared for. Morcar leapt onto the filly’s bare back. Ceidre jerked herself out of her reverie. “God go with you,” she cried.
“And you, Ceidre,” he said, blue eyes flashing. Despite his pallor, he was the Morcar she knew and loved, proud, handsome, nostrils flared now with the scent of escape. “I will be back,” he said.
He wheeled the bay and galloped into the woods. Ceidre watched him disappear, and only then did she sink trembling to the ground. She could not help it— she began to release some well-deserved tears.
Rolfe did not smile.
He sat beside his bride beneath an ancient walnut tree as his men and the villagers drank, ate, and danced all around them. He did not drink, nor did he eat. His headache had not lessened, and he still felt overly ill. In truth, he was somewhat dazed. He could not believe it had come to pass. He was finally married. He looked at his bride.
Her face was flushed. She was nibbling daintily, and feeling his regard, she turned to look at him. Her eyes were wide, tremulous, yet excited. She smiled.
Rolfe did not smile back. He turned away, wanting nothing more than a gallop in the fresh air—perhaps that would restore his natural humors. Barring that, he was ready for bed. He was very tired, like a laggard. Had he not slept at all last night? The aftereffects of the wine were worse than he had ever imagined, and now he understood what most men suffered from time to time.
“Are you not hungry, my lord?” Alice asked, for the third time.
“No.”
“Does the feast not please you?”
“It pleases me,” he said, wishing she would not bother to make aimless conversation. He was most distinctly not in the mood.
“Perhaps some wine?” She held up the bag.
He lifted a hand. “No, Lady, please, my head aches and I am most tired. Eat as you will, but leave me to my preferences.”
Alice replaced the bag and restrained herself from scowling.
Rolfe folded his arms and stared, unseeing and bored, out at the crowd.
And so the celebration went on.
It had been endless, but now it was finally over.
Rolfe paced the solar, waiting for word that he could enter his chamber where his bride readied herself. Never had he been so tired, his every joint aching, his head now, thankfully, numb. It was not late, but he longed to lie down and embrace the comfort of sleep. Yet this was his wedding night. He would be, he thought, very lucky if he could find any desire for the wench who was his wife. In truth, he was not just too tired to bed her, he was too tired to deal with this entire new circumstance of wedlock.
Alice was shaking. She could not help it. She had finally attained her heart’s desire, to be the Norman’s wife. But now, now she was clad in her finest nightgown, all sheer lace, awaiting him in his bed. Now she must pay the price—and she dreaded it.
She recalled very clearly his thick body, overly large with muscle and sinew. He was repulsive. At least her betrothed, Bill, now dead, had been more pleasing to her eye. He had been slim and slender and graceful— not in the least frightening. Nor had he been a boor! Oh, God, how she wished she could close her eyes and sleep through the upcoming ordeal. But she could not. Nor could she cry and scream. Ceidre enjoyed her husband’s embraces, so she must prove herself equally receptive. She must bear it, and pretend to be well pleased. Again Alice shuddered.
He entered.
Alice clutched the covers and stared. As usual, he had been rude and withdrawn all day, and now, now he was no different. He did not spare her even a glance! He began to strip, unashamed, right in front of her. Alice got a glimpse of his broad, hard chest and lean flanks and immediately turned her face away. She would not look if she did not have to.
The bed shifted under his weight as he climbed in from the other side. Alice froze, unable to breathe. He groaned and sighed. She waited, perspiring now. He did not touch her. In fact, he was absolutely still. Slowly, carefully, Alice moved her head.
He was lying on his back, one hand flung across his eyes, sound asleep.
Alice stared, shocked.
Her first reaction, relief, fled. On its heels came disbelief—he did not even desire her—then anger. He would brand her sister with his hot looks and his big lance, but her he would ignore! She was his bride, but until he lay with her, they were not truly wed, not in God’s eyes or the church’s. Alice seethed.
Rolfe awoke gradually, the deep sleep he had entertained leaving slowly. He was aware of the warmth emanating from the other side of the bed, and, groping, his hand touched the soft flesh of another, of a woman.
His first thought was ecstatic—Ceidre. She was here, in his bed, awaiting his pleasure. Then disappointment and remembrance reared itself at once.
’Twas not Ceidre.
He had only to turn his head to see his bride. The lady Alice.
Rolfe sighed, completely awake now. As usual in the mornings, his manhood was throbbing, hard and ready. He remembered all too well that last night he had not consummated the marriage, being impossibly weary. And already, aware now of the identity of the woman who lay next to him, who was his wife, his blood was beginning to slow, his ache to ease. He would consummate this marriage now, quickly, before he lost his desire.
It should be Ceidre here, he thought grimly, reaching for his bride.
&n
bsp; She gasped as he pulled her close, rolling on top of her. He kneed her legs apart, pulling her gown up and out of his way. He kept his eyes closed. He focused on the other—that bronze-haired witch who haunted him day and night. His need increased.
Alice let out a sob as he probed her dry flesh.
A horn of alarm sounded.
On top of Alice, but yet to make entry, Rolfe froze, all thoughts of bedding his bride fleeing, and then he was on his feet and lunging for his sword. The sound of alarm was called again. Rolfe threw on his tunic and yanked up his hose. He heard someone pounding up the stairs. He had his chausses on but not gartered when Guy banged upon the door.
“Enter,” Rolfe roared as the horn sounded again.
“My lord,” Guy shouted, panting upon the threshold. “I am sorry—”
“What passes?” Rolfe demanded.
“The Saxon has escaped!”
Rolfe froze.
“Morcar has escaped,” Guy repeated. “He is gone!”
“What happened?” Rolfe demanded.
“’Twas just discovered when a serf brought his breakfast, my lord. Louis opened the door to hand down the fare—but the prisoner was not there.”
Rolfe was already heading out the door.
“My lord,” Alice cried, clutching the sheets to her neck.
Rolfe paused, tension rippling visibly through his body. “Not now, Lady.”
“You know who had a hand in this,” Alice said triumphantly. “You know well it could only be my sister!”
Rolfe scorched her with a look and ran downstairs, followed by Guy. “Divide up the men into four groups to search for a sign. When did Louis begin his guard duty?”
“Last night at midnight.”
“Was the prisoner there then?”
“He does not know,” Guy said grimly.
“And it was Jean who had duty that day?”