by Brenda Joyce
He turned to meet the attack, sword lifted, when he felt the blade piercing his side. There was a deafening roar all around him as Normans materialized from the shadows, engaging his men. He felt his own sword slicing flesh as the word sliced through his mind— betrayed. We have been betrayed.
Edwin was in the thick of battle in the inner bailey. His heart was sick with the disaster surrounding him. Saxons lay slain everywhere, yet still a dozen fought, as he did. He knew they had been betrayed.
He thrust his blade into the heart of his opponent, only to feel a blade enter his hip. Whirling, he met this new attack, his face grim, determined. He instantly recognized his foe, who also recognized him. ’Twas Le Chante—Ceidre’s husband.
Edwin met parry for parry furiously, with determination and skill. Guy, like himself, was covered with blood. Their blades clashed. Guy was tired, Edwin saw, and, like himself, wounded, bleeding from the shoulder. Another blow from Edwin’s sword forced the younger man against the wall, off balance. Edwin did not hesitate. He skewered him.
He paused, panting, not watching as Guy sank to the ground with a moan. They had lost. He would weep later. He saw no sign of his brother. He knew he must escape—as long as he remained alive, there was hope of another rebellion, hope of victory. Yet he was also on the keep’s steps—and his sister was within.
He was a fool if he tried to free her. His duty was to Aelfgar.
Rolfe paused, panting, his sword in hand. It dripped blood. He himself was unscathed. The battle was all but over, he thought, surveying the bailey grimly. His men were in control, driving the last of the Saxons to the wall. The rebels lay slaughtered, a few of his own men among the corpses. Yet he saw at a glance that he had suffered very few losses. There was no rejoicing. He was too pumped up with the battle, still alert, rigid with tension.
Where were the leaders, Edwin and Morcar?
Unable to stop himself, his glance strayed upward, toward the tower chamber where Ceidre was. She, of course, was safe, for no Saxon had penetrated the keep. He thought he could discern her by the arrow slit, and resolutely he pulled his glance away. Gripping his sword with renewed determination, he turned the corner of the keep and began a thorough search for the rebel leaders.
His gaze scanned everywhere, passing over the dead and dying and the few pairs of soldiers still engaged in combat. Then, like a pendulum, his glance swung backward over the path it had traveled, backward, over blood and gore, dirt and stone, the inert and the active, backward—to Guy.
Rolfe cried out.
Guy lay unmoving, and his mail hauberk was crimson with blood.
Rolfe ran to him and dropped to his knees. “Guy! Guy!” And before his hands even cupped his face, he knew he was dead.
He held his best friend’s face, blinking back the hot rush of tears. “Guy,” he croaked. “Aahhh.” He hesitated, then abruptly pulled him up against his chest. Still he fought the goddamn urge to weep.
“My friend,” he said hoarsely. “God keeps you now.”
Ceidre stayed near the arrow slit, watching, horrified. What remained of the fighting was on the other side of the tower, and she could barely see the last of the battle, just a few men thrusting swords and swinging maces, a few dead, mutilated bodies on the ground. But she had seen Rolfe earlier, wielding his sword methodically, fatally. He had decapitated a Saxon in one slicing blow, then turned to meet another Saxon about to stab him from behind, easily turning this new opponent back, then dismembering him, finally piercing his heart. Ceidre had watched because she was afraid—afraid for her brothers, who were out there somewhere, and afraid for Rolfe.
When she had seen the Saxon coming up behind him as he was engaged, she had screamed in warning. She doubted he had heard. When he had killed his attacker, she had wept in relief.
He was no longer in sight, yet below her a few men still fought, and she watched, praying.
Her door swung open; she whirled.
“Edwin!”
He was bleeding, limping, bloody sword in hand, but he was alive. “We must go, come with me!” he shouted.
She, who had always obeyed her brother unquestioningly, hesitated. Her mind was full with one thought—Rolfe.
“Come,” he cried, grabbing her arm.
Edwin was authority, the Norman hated her, and she could not decide—she went with him. Together they ran down the stairs. The hall was empty, but outside could be heard the shouts of men, the moans of pain, the ringing of swords.
Edwin had her hand. There was no time to talk, not even to ask him how badly he was hurt. He hustled her into the inner bailey, down the steps, and across the courtyard. Men lay dead and dying around them; men fought in isolated pairs around them. He suddenly froze at an open door, one Ceidre had not known existed. She was frightened and her blood coursed with the primitive need to flee and escape. She did not understand why he had stopped. “Go,” he suddenly shouted, shoving her through. “I will follow. Go with the fleeing men across the bridge and into the woods. Go!”
“Why do you wait?” she screamed from the other side.
“Go!” Ed shouted, shoving her. “Go!”
Ceidre’s hand was grabbed by a Saxon she recognized, and she was pulled down the hill and to the rope bridge that was swinging precariously as the Saxons fled over it, beneath a hail of arrows from the archers on the walls. She tried to look over her shoulder, but Edwin was gone.
Edwin dropped to his knees beside the utterly still body of his brother. His heart had stopped, as had his mind. There were no thoughts, other than please God. Gently he rolled him over to his back.
Morcar groaned.
“God!” Ed shouted in relief. And then he saw the gushing torrent of blood spewing from his brother’s chest, and, crazed, he jammed both hands down hard on the wound to dam the flow.
“Ed.” Morcar choked weakly.
“Don’t speak,” Ed cried. “Save your strength —don’t speak!”
“Can’t.” Morcar panted.
Furiously, desperately, Ed put all his power into his hands as he pressed them on Morcar’s chest. “You will be all right,” he said, panting. “You will not die!”
Morcar opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. He choked on the torrent of his own blood.
Weeping, Ed put more effort into stanching the flow.
“Betrayed,” Morcar said, and for an instant, his blue eyes blazed. “We have been betrayed, Ed,” he whispered hoarsely.
Edwin started to protest, to tell his brother not to talk, when he met his sightless stare. Vacant, when a moment ago it had burned with intensity. Lifeless.
“God, no!” Edwin shouted to the heavens above, fist raised, and then he lifted his brother into his arms and rocked him, sobbing.
He knew, as he wept, that he must get up and flee or be captured. Yet his grief was so unbearable he could not find the will to leave Morcar. He tried to look at his beloved, handsome face through his hot, thick tears. Morcar was angry and grim in death—not the laughing, handsome rogue he truly was. Oh, God, Edwin thought, the pain unbearable, ballooning in his heart, hurting, hurting … he had been slaughtered not moments after he had bravely led his men into their enemy’s stronghold.
Betrayal.
Edwin’s tears stopped with this comprehension— and the knowledge that the rest of his life would be dedicated to finding the man responsible for his brother’s death.
He rose, Morcar in his arms. He could not leave him, just as he could not have left Ceidre. He took one step, when the cold voice of Rolfe de Warenne halted him in his tracks.
“Halt,” the Norman ordered, sword raised. “You are my prisoner.”
Edwin stared into the cold blue gaze of his worst enemy.
Then he looked at the Normans surrounding him as he cradled his dead brother to his chest. His arms tightened protectively around Morcar, and he fought the fresh urge to weep. It was over.
He had lost; Aelfgar was lost. It was over.
“Can ye come, my
lady?” the old woman asked anxiously.
Ceidre wrapped her cloak more tightly around her. It was early January, and here in Wales in the tiny village of Llefewellyn, there had been a dusting of snow one night past. She barely understood the native tongue of the villagers, but this phrase had become familiar. Once her skill with herbs, her ability to heal, had been revealed, she had received many requests like this one. “Of course,” she said softly.
The woman, gray and thin, looked at the beautiful Saxon and wondered, as they all did, at the sadness that never left her eyes. ’Twas a shame, they all agreed, for one so comely to grieve so endlessly. They knew little of her story, only that their native son, Hereward, had brought her here and left her in his cousin’s cottage, the cousin long since deceased, then ridden out again to fight his endless wars. She was clearly pregnant, her belly and breasts straining her garments. Her eye made them all fearful and wary, but with time she had shown that she was good and kind. Hereward was something of a hero to the villagers, so his woman, pregnant with his babe, was received without too much consternation, despite the eye, and with a degree of hospitality. Mayhap, the villager thought, if her man would come home for a while the sadness would leave her.
Ceidre walked with the woman to her cottage and tended her husband, ailing from a chronic cough. She accepted a loaf of fresh bread and some smoked tongue in return for her services, then started home.
Home. A lump gathered in her throat as she saw the tiny hut she now called home. She hugged her mantle more tightly to her breasts, sore now in her seventh month of pregnancy. Would she ever see home again?
She knew she wouldn’t.
She had learned from Hereward the night after the battle what had happened: Morcar dead. Edwin captured. Albie the traitor. She had wept for days for Morcar, beautiful, blue-eyed, bold Morcar. Life was so unfair, to take the best she offered. Later, more news had reached them—that Edwin had been taken to York, his sentence imprisonment for life. He would be transferred to London when William and his troops left Westminster after Christmas. At least he still lived.
Rolfe had been given back the castellanship of York.
Ceidre wondered if she would ever see him again.
She knew she could never go back. To return meant giving up her freedom, sharing the same fate that had befallen her brother—imprisonment for life. Only a fool would agree to such, yet there were times when she missed Rolfe so terribly she was ready to pack up and leave, return to Aelfgar, accept her confinement— just to be with him.
He hated her. If he had loved her, nothing would have kept her away. She would return to Aelfgar, surrender herself, and accept her imprisonment. Even if she would see Rolfe only from time to time, those few shared moments would be worth it. But he had never loved her. As Guy had said, as even she had known, he was not a man who could love a woman, and he would never love her now, after her treachery. So she would not return—she could never go back.
One day, when she was old, her son full grown, she would send him his son, a final parting gift from her, proof of her everlasting love.
Rolfe reined in on the hill above Llefewellyn, looking down upon the dozen scattered huts. Smoke rose from the roofs, the sky was gray, foretelling rain or snow. His heart was thudding so thickly he could barely breathe.
He had been looking for her for months.
And now, at last, he had found her.
Immediately after Aelfgar was secured, he had gone to her chamber. His first priority was to make sure she was unharmed, as he fully expected her to be. But most of all, he just needed to be with her. Never had he needed her before as he did then. Only Ceidre could help chase away the pain of Guy’s death. He needed to hold her—and be held.
His disbelief to find her gone was overwhelming.
He stormed through the keep, shouting for her, but she was nowhere to be seen. ’Twas finally the prisoner who coldly informed him of her escape. Rolfe and Edwin stared at each other, Rolfe so enraged he could not speak. Then he thought of how he had treated her, as a whore, and knew he could not blame her for running away. His shoulders sank. She was gone. She probably hated him.
Her words came back to him, haunting him. “I love you,” she had said. Was it true? Was there any possible way it could be true, after he had abused her so badly? He knew, in that instant, that he desperately needed not just her body, but her love—that he could not live without it. He wondered if he loved her.
It was a shocking question. The answer was elusive. He had never thought love anything more than an excuse for lust, or the humor of the weak and foolish. He was not weak, he was no fool, yet he could not live without her. If this was love, so be it, then he had been struck.
His resolve became obsession. She was his. He wanted her back, and he would find her, and she would never leave him again. He would not keep her a prisoner, although in fact she would be such. He would keep her so pleasured and pleased that she would not think to leave him. He knew he could do it— he was a man who did what he intended. But first, he had to find her and convince her to return, for he would not force her. He would beg her for forgiveness. He, who had never begged anything from anyone.
He would find her when he found the rebels, and slowly, methodically, he encouraged a network of spies until he got a message to Hereward. The Wake was understandably reluctant to meet him, but Rolfe offered him peace on his northeastern borders. Hereward agreed. Then there was the problem of getting him to reveal Ceidre’s whereabouts.
“You want her back as a prisoner, Norman, or a mistress?” Hereward asked bluntly.
“She is mine,” Rolfe said. “She will be treated well, do not fear this. Yes, she is still William’s prisoner, but I will see that she does not lack for any comfort.” His gaze flashed. “Nothing will stop me from finding her.”
They made a deal. Rolfe released one of Hereward’s best men, whom he had taken prisoner during the battle for Aelfgar, and Hereward told him where she was.
Rolfe signaled to his men to wait for him there on the hill, and he spurred his gray down to the rutted road. He saw her instantly as she crossed the path ahead of him. She was walking in the same direction as he rode, her back to him, her hair in one thick braid, glinting like bronze fire. He could barely control himself; he wanted to sweep her into his arms and hold her, kiss her. He merely moved his mount into a faster walk and came up behind her.
She glanced casually over her shoulder to see who was passing and stiffened, eyes wide. It could not be!
“My lady,” Rolfe said politely, “I would have a word with you?” It was a question, not a demand.
Ceidre stared, her hand on her racing heart, wondering if she might faint. Oh, he was here, sitting like a king on that stallion, devastatingly handsome, golden and pagan, like one of the lost gods. She blinked the sudden rush of tears.
“Lady?” he asked unsteadily. His gaze slipped to her swollen belly and breasts, then back up to hold her eyes.
“Have—” She swallowed, “Have you come to take me prisoner, my lord?” Tears blurred her vision.
Rolfe slid off his gray, holding the reins awkwardly. “’Tis I who am a prisoner,” he said roughly. His gaze locked on hers. “You have imprisoned my heart, Ceidre.”
She stared, hands clasped tightly. “What do you say?”
“I want you back,” he said hoarsely. He looked at her belly again. “Ceidre—you carry my child!”
“Who else’s?” she quavered, half smiling, half crying.
“My child.” He gulped. He took an unsteady breath. Elation and joy warred with anxiety and fear and need. “I will not force you to return. Ceidre … can you forgive me? Can you forgive me and return to Aelfgar with me?”
“You are asking my forgiveness?” She gasped.
He slipped easily to one knee. “Yes.”
She could not believe it, this was a dream. He was here, bowing before her, asking her forgiveness. “There is nothing to forgive, my lord,” she said softy, tears of joy f
alling.
He rose. “Your generosity has always overwhelmed me,” he said huskily.
She touched his face. “I love you.”
He closed his eyes, a ragged sound escaping, then pulled her slowly into his embrace. He held her tightly for a long, long time. “I cannot live without you,” he finally said against her ear. “I cannot. If this is love, then I have been smitten.”
She leaned back in his embrace to look up at him and saw tears glimmering in his eyes. She knew better than to comment upon them, however, and she smiled though her own vision was quite blurred. “If you do not know how to love, then I will gladly teach you,” she whispered.
He smiled too, shakily. “You are a good teacher, you could teach me anything. Ceidre”—his tone lowered —“teach me love. Teach me—now.”
She took his beautiful face in her hands and kissed him, with all the tender love she felt. Yet, ’twas impossible, they were lusty souls, and the kiss turned deep and hard and frantic. When he pulled her against him she felt his sex, thick and hard, and she laughed, weeping at the same time.
“’Tis a sign of my love,” he told her, kissing her again.
They separated to walk hand in hand, with urgency and many sidelong, burning glances, to her cottage. He embraced her instantly, seeking her mouth with hot, hard lips. Ceidre clung, shaking. She could not bear to be apart from him for another moment.
He laid her on the pallet and undressed her, running his hands over her reverently, over her face, her neck, her breasts, and her hips. He stroked her swollen belly. “You are so beautiful, Ceidre,” he told her. “Yet your beauty is not just of the flesh.” He looked at her. “’Tis of the soul.”
“What a wonderful thing to say,” she whispered.
His eyes were shining suspiciously. “You grow my babe,” he muttered thickly, his hand exploring her stomach’s contours. Then he corrected, “Our babe.”