by Brenda Joyce
“Have you never been forced by circumstance to act against your will?”
“Pretty words.” He laughed roughly. “Pretty words from a pretty whore. Proof lies in the deed, and you have indeed proven yourself.”
She gulped air. “Please listen, please!” She heard herself begging. “I had no choice! I sought only to protect Hereward, not to harm you! Never to harm you! I—”
He reached her in three strides, twisting her arm up behind her back and forcing her against the wall. “Stop!” he shouted. “Stop with your lies! Words spill from your lips like honey, but ’tis poisoned honey— like the honey that spills from here!” He grabbed her crotch.
She whimpered. “I love you.” He released her and laughed. “More honeyed words!”
“’Tis the truth.”
His face was filled with revulsion. His eyes were brilliant. “Do you love me, Ceidre?” A cold purr.
“Yes.”
“Show me,” he said. “Show me, prove it. Deeds— not words.”
Ceidre froze, her heart pounding, unsure of what to do. How to convince him? Was she really being given this chance? How to soften his heart, heal it? Take away the ugly hatred?
He laughed, the sound bitter, and turned to leave.
She catapulted against him, her cheek on his back, her whole length pressed to him, clinging. He froze. “Do not go,” she cried, choking on thick tears. “Let me show you, let me, I will!”
He did not move.
Her hands were shaking as she ran them over his shoulders frantically. She kissed his shoulder blades, his spine. She wrapped her arms around his waist and nuzzled his side. She curved her groin against his buttocks and held him, as hard as she could.
“I love you,” she whispered, and she slid her palm up to his heart, to feel its fast, hard beat. She slipped her fingers down, into his hose, to touch the silken flesh near his navel. She was instantly rewarded with the big tip of his aroused sex springing against her hand, and she felt a tremendous relief—he still desired her, at least! “Let me love you, my lord.” She gasped, her heart racing wildly. “I will show you—”
She was suddenly wrenched free of him and thrown backward, against the wall. She stumbled but did not fall. He was enraged.
“Save your whore’s tricks for a farm boy,” he rasped, blue eyes blazing, and then he was gone.
The lying whore sought to seduce him again.
Did she think he was a fool? Rolfe paced his chamber in a fury. He had been enraged since supper, nothing would quell the flames within him. He hated how his body had responded to the slut. He told himself he would respond like a man to any woman, ugly or fair, not just to the witch who was imprisoned in the chamber just beyond his door. God curse her! Maybe he should have let her work her wiles, see how far she would have gone to prove her “love”! Maybe he should have taken her and fucked her until she could not walk! He was a hair’s breadth from doing it now!
“Will you come to bed, my lord?” Alice breathed.
He looked at his wife with disdain, eyes blazing. He understood her husky tone. She wanted a fucking. Well, it would be no problem, because his groin was thick and swollen with his anger. He stripped methodically. He climbed into the bed and pulled her beneath him, impaling her instantly.
Alice gasped from the suddenness of his entry, and whimpered.
Rolfe moved hard and steadily, eyes closed, imagining it was Ceidre beneath him, crying out in pain, trying to push him off as his wife was doing. He plunged deeper, harder, wanting to hurt her, the bitch! Alice sobbed and writhed, clawing his chest. He caught her wrists, yanked them out of his way, driving himself mercilessly into her—the traitorous witch. The woman beneath him keened wildly in orgasm. Rolfe was still filled with the need to hurt Ceidre in the most basic, primitive way, and his angry, brutal thrusting did not cease.
Ceidre did not see Rolfe alone again, and two days after his hurtful, hate-filled visit, he rode out with a dozen men. She watched him leaving from the arrow slit, the pain in her heart as vivid and agonizing and heavy as ever. He was unbearably handsome as he sat his big gray, his face tight and closed—the way he had been that first day she had ever seen him at Kesop. It was hard to believe that this man was the same lover who had played with her in the orchard, teased her in the dark of the barn. He had learned to laugh and love so well, she thought, unbearably sad, and now he had learned to hate with the same fervor.
Mary was the only one to come to her chamber, bringing bread, cheese, and ale, once in midmorning and once at dusk. She was left with minimal amounts of water, and had not yet used the candle to test her captor’s generosity—as she suspected he had none and would not bring her another candle. Her chamberpot was emptied every other day, thankfully. She was denied a bath—told, in fact, that if she wanted to wash she should use what was given her to drink. So she became dirty, and did not care.
Mary was deep in Alice’s graces, and Ceidre knew this. Apparently the Norman knew it as well, and for this reason had chosen her to tend her. Mary, however, was a gossip. She was not malicious, just talkative, although Ceidre suspected Alice supplied her with the painful information she provided.
Mary was happy to tell her how the Norman had kept Alice awake all through the night with his big shaft, until she was begging—happily—for mercy. God. It hurt. He hated her, and she knew he would go to other women, had never even hoped he would be faithful to her, a mere mistress, but it hurt more than she could bear. She hid her feelings carefully though, sure that Mary would be questioned quite thoroughly by Alice for her reaction.
Ceidre learned that the Norman had ridden out to fortify a position on his northeastern border with Wales. He would be gone at least a fortnight, maybe two, building a lonely keep in the midst of the barren wilderness. When Beltain was well, she was told, he would be given this small outpost. She was also told that her husband, Guy, had returned shortly after the Norman had left.
The days passed. Monotony at first was relieved by reliving every moment since he had entered her life that June day in Kesop. This proved too painful, and Ceidre tried to stop her memories, but it was impossible. There was nothing else to do except stare at the four walls. She worried as well for her brothers, knowing as each day passed the rebellion they were planning was coming closer and closer—and praying they would survive once again. Ceidre knew she should not bother to keep count of the days, yet she did, telling herself she was not marking the time for his return. She wished with all her being she could strike him from her heart. It was not to be.
A week after the Norman had left she realized that her monthly course was late. Not only was it late, her breasts were sore and she was nauseous in the mornings. There was a distinct possibility that she was pregnant, for Geidre had been regular since she was thirteen. Her blood did not flow, and after another week passed, she knew she was pregnant with the Norman’s child.
It was a gift from God.
She hugged her belly and wept with thanks, for now she had a part of him to cherish and love, a part of him that would grow to be strong and proud and every inch the man his father was, or, a woman blessed with the best traits of both parents. She loved the tiny soul growing within her body, she loved it with all the passion she had given Rolfe, and even more, because she loved him so and this child was created by that love. All her emotions went to this new baby, and nurtured by this event, she became serene, content. She was sure that the babe had been conceived on her wedding night to Guy, six weeks ago, because her breasts were already swollen and she already had the morning sickness. That she had conceived the first magical night she had lain with Rolfe filled her with pleasure.
Her fare, although boring, was enough to sustain her—but not enough to sustain them both. She begged Mary for more, but the maid was afraid of her mistress and balked.
“I can’t, Ceidre,” she wailed. “I’d be whipped good if I did!”
Ceidre knew she had to have more food for her baby’s sake. “Mary, please!�
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Mary was panicky. “I can’t! You know Lady Alice will have my hide!” She turned to leave.
“Wait!” Ceidre called desperately. Mary paused reluctantly. “Mary.” She hesitated. Then abruptly she decided that more nourishment was the priority, the baby was the priority. Alice would learn of her pregnancy eventually anyway, when it was visible, so what difference did it make if she found out now, from the maid, when Ceidre was so desperate for the proper food?
“Mary, I am pregnant—you must bring me more fare!”
Mary’s eyes widened, her mouth made a big O, and then she exclaimed that it was no wonder Ceidre was blossoming like a rose in spring, despite her confinement. The maid acceded to Ceidre’s wishes, and promised she would be given extra bread and cheese and enough water to bathe twice a week. Ceidre was content. She was going to have Rolfe’s baby, and nothing could take that away, nor her joy.
It was not a surprise when the day after this confession, Alice appeared. She was livid. The chamber was cast in dim light because the only sunlight came through the two small slits. Ceidre sat up, having been napping, and although prepared, her body became rigid with tension.
Alice stared at her. “Mary said you have become more beautiful with each day, and I did not believe it! I said it’s not possible—she said it’s true! Then the little brat said you’re with child—are you? Are you?” she demanded.
Ceidre was overwhelmed with pity for Alice, for her jealousy and malice were so evident, making her seem small and vindictive and unhappy, as she was. “I am pregnant, Alice,” she said softly, smiling.
“The babe is Guy’s!” Alice cried, flushing thoroughly.
Ceidre smiled again. “I am having the Norman’s son, Alice.”
“No! Once again you lie! Do you think to deceive me, to deceive him?”
Ceidre was amazingly calm, for the truth was the truth, and Alice could not change it. “No—Guy never touched me. Rolfe is the father. Oh, we will have a beautiful golden boy, I just know it!”
Alice was breathing harshly, incredulous. Fury contorted her features. “You witch!” she screamed. “I must have his seed, damn you, you cannot have his baby! You cannot!”
Alice moved so swiftly, Ceidre, lethargic as always in the afternoon, did not react. Alice’s hands closed with superhuman strength around her neck. Instinctively Ceidre fought to free herself. Alice had the strength of a madwoman, but Ceidre was bigger and stronger and she broke Alice’s grip, coughing. She saw the blow coming too late—Alice slammed the clay water urn on her head. Stars exploded, but Ceidre, fighting for her baby, did not black out. Dizziness assailed her. Alice was dragging her by the arm, across the room, and out the door. Ceidre shook her head, trying to clear away the ballooning spots, stumbling as Alice pulled her into the master chamber. She heard Mary exclaiming in surprise.
Her head cleared just as Alice forced her to sit, hard, on a stone ledge. Ceidre was poised on the edge of the open window, and Alice shoved her, hard.
Ceidre’s palm, supporting her weight, slipped, and she saw the three stories to the ground that she would fall if Alice succeeded in forcing her out the window. She heard Mary screaming. She was still seeing a few spots. Alice yanked up Ceidre’s other hand, and Ceidre’s chin hit the edge of the outside of the window ledge, as she sprawled across it on her belly. Alice shoved her buttocks with all her maddened power.
Her jaw hit the side of the stone castle as she was shoved out, her hands clawing the walls within the window, fighting for a hold. There was nothing to grab on to in the smooth stone, and her breast passed the ledge, the ground looming beneath her dizzily. Alice shrieked.
And large hands caught in her hair, yanking her back into the room.
“No!” Alice was screaming. “No! No! No! Let me kill the witch! Let me!” she howled.
Gasping, her heart beating so hard she thought she might faint, Ceidre clung to the male body holding her.
There was the sound of a sharp slap. Alice’s insane screams ceased. Ceidre looked past the man’s shoulder and saw that Beltain had delivered the blow to Alice’s cheek. Athelstan held Alice as she panted and struggled. Ceidre turned her gaze to her husband’s. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Oh, thank you!”
“You are all right now,” Guy said, soothing her with his hand.
Ceidre began to shake, her face buried in his neck. “She—she tried—tried—to throw me—out—the window!” A sob rose, unchecked.
“You are fine now, Ceidre.” Still holding her, Guy spoke to Beltain. “She has gone mad. She must be locked up until Lord Rolfe returns and decides what to do.”
“I will have the carpenter board the window. I think we should lock her in here. I will post a guard within to make sure she does not hurt herself.”
“I am not mad,” Alice hissed. “I am perfectly sane! I hate her ’tis all!”
Beltain and Guy, shifting uncomfortably, did not look at her. Athelstan regarded her with pity.
“Is she all right?” Beltain asked Guy.
“Yes.” With his arm around her shoulder, Guy walked her out of the chamber. “Come, Ceidre, you should lie down. Mary, bring wine now.”
The maid, whose screams had alerted the men, fled to obey.
Ceidre leaned heavily against Guy, trembling. Alice had tried to kill her. Her baby had almost died. She sank onto the pallet, clinging to her husband’s hand. He knelt beside her. “’Tis all right now,” he soothed. “I am sorry I must bring you back here after such an ordeal, but nothing changes.”
“Oh, Guy.” Ceidre gasped, gripping his hand. “She almost killed my baby!”
Guy froze.
Ceidre started to cry.
Guy sat beside her and held her gently. “You are having his child, Ceidre?”
She nodded, violet eyes wide and wet, unable to speak.
“Does he know this?”
She shook her head, then grabbed his arm. “Promise me you will not tell him!” “Ceidre,” he protested.
“Promise! Guy, I love him!” she begged. “I love him and he hates me. I will tell him of the child when the time is right—please! I cannot keep it hidden, this you know!”
“He might think it is mine,” Guy said thoughtfully.
“No, I told him how it was between us.” At his look, she said softly. “He is very proud, and, for a time, I think he loved me a little. He is not a man to share.”
“No, he is not,” Guy said. Then: “Have you enough to eat? Ceidre! You must tell him at once to improve your conditions!”
“I have more than enough now. Mary is bringing me extra rations, bless her soul.”
Guy suddenly eyed her. “Mayhap,” he said. “You have put on a bit of weight, your hair has uncommon luster, as does your skin. Your breasts are fuller. I will make sure the kitchen knows to send you extra portions.”
“Do not tell him,” Ceidre urged again. She blushed. “I know he hates me, but I do not want his gratitude for this. I—I don’t know what I want, but not that.”
“You are foolish, Ceidre. Rolfe is not a man to love a woman, and he is a hard man with strict ideas of duty and loyalty. He will not forgive you your betrayal. I know him well.”
“I know,” she said, yet it was as if she had been hoping secretly, still, deep in her heart for forgiveness, for now her spirits crashed heavily.
“And ’tis doubly foolish not to tell him he will be a father, for the baby’s sake. Of course”—Guy stood—“I do not want to be cruel, but he already has many bastards.”
“I am not surprised,” Ceidre said with calm she did not feel. She had not considered this, and it was another numbing blow. “Where—where are they?”
“Three in Normandy, one in Anjou, and two in Sussex, I believe. They are with their mothers, of course. All six are sons,” Guy added.
All six were sons. Ceidre almost laughed hysterically. So she would now give him a seventh! Dear Saint Edward! She choked on a sob.
“I am sorry,” Guy said, “but these
are facts. He will treat you with courtesy for bearing him yet another bastard, but do not expect more.”
“We go the last day of September.”
Both Morcar and Hereward protested vigorously at Edwin’s quiet statement. “’Tis too soon,” Morcar said. “’Tis in two weeks.”
“My men are still recovering from Cavlidockk,” Hereward agreed. He was short and slim, dark, a few years older than both brothers.
They stood apart from the camp, almost out of the circle of firelight, speaking in low voices for fear of spies. “How many men can you muster?” Edwin asked calmly.
“Two dozen.”
“Good,” Edwin said, smiling for the first time. “Because I have three. We will outnumber de Warenne. He lost a dozen of his best at Cavlidockk, thanks to Ceidre.”
“You wish to take him by surprise?” Hereward asked.
“Yes. I fear to wait longer as well, because of spies. No one can be trusted these days. And he has yet to replace the dozen lost in the fens. We are the stronger now, it is the time to attack.”
“We will attack Aelfgar, then, my lord, not York?” Albie spoke up for the first time. He stood slightly apart, even deeper in shadow.
“Aelfgar.” Edwin’s tone was hard. “It is as strong as York now that he has rebuilt the fortifications. If we take it, we can hold off further attacks by William and he will have to sue us, eventually, for peace.”
“But as it is fortified so well, how will we take it?” Hereward asked.
“Through surprise, and treachery. One of the maids will open a secret back door, placed in the wall for the inhabitants’ escape in event of siege.” Edwin looked at Morcar, smiled slightly. “His wenching has been proving useful. Can we count on Beth?”
Morcar grinned. “Absolutely.”
“We go the thirtieth, then,” Ed stated, and with that, he turned away to stare out into the starless night.
Morcar approached as Albie and Hereward drifted back to the others. “Ed? I am upset with the news Hereward brought of Ceidre. That she was imprisoned as a spy in York, but sent to Aelfgar with de Warenne. I worry for her safety.”