“We have many spies—and they are everywhere.” His gaze never left her.
“So you go to destroy him,” she said.
“Of course. He has been planning another rebellion.”
She felt guilty beneath his steady regard, but he could not know her innermost thoughts. She leaned forward and hugged him, hard. She was aware that for a moment he did not respond, but finally, slowly, his arms went around her. She clung. “When do you leave, my lord?”
There was something lacking in his touch, in his embrace. “As soon as Roger of Shrewsbury arrives— in two days.”
She thought: oh, my God, Roger Montgomery too! The Wake had not a chance against such a force! And with a part of her mind she was aware of the strange emptiness of his caress, and the way he was waiting for her response. “At least with such a strong force, I can rest easy knowing you will not be harmed,” she managed, into his shoulder.
She looked up and saw a dark thundercloud upon his face. “Do you care?” he demanded harshly. “Do you care, Ceidre?”
“Yes!” she cried, and it was the truth. But there were so many lies, and tears filled her gaze again.
He crushed her to him, twisting her beneath him. His mouth, upon hers, made up for all the passion his touch had lacked a moment ago; it was so fierce he cut her lip. Ceidre did not care. She welcomed his brutal touch, she welcomed him.
Rolfe did not leave her the next day until noon, to take his dinner with his lord. Ceidre had been sick with dread all morning, and trying, unsuccessfully, she thought, not to show it. He had appeared, somehow, oblivious to her anxiety. This increased her worry. She truly did not believe she was such a good actress, and she also knew he was very clever. Yet he was really unaware of her agitated state of mind.
The instant he left, Ceidre hurried to the village. She was cautious, unlike the day before, but no one followed her. The guards called out a greeting to her as she left the castle, and waved. Yesterday, before he had gone to see William, Rolfe had given her some coin, and today she asked him for more. He had gladly supplied it, without question, impatient, in fact, to be gone. Ceidre used the coin to pay the smith’s son to take a message to Hereward the Wake. Last night she had managed to find out from Rolfe that the Wake was hiding in the fens near the Welsh village of Cavlidockk. “Do you go far?” She had asked. “Not farther than Cavlidockk,” he had said. His gaze was level. “I trust you, Ceidre,” he added bluntly, shocking her. She had managed a smile, and turned her face away before he could see the damning blush.
She had no choice. She had to warn Hereward of the danger he faced. Otherwise, it could be a slaughter.
* * *
The next morning at dawn Rolfe held her slightly apart, gripping her arms, staring down into her face. It was chill out, without the summer sun, but that was not the whole reason Ceidre shivered, wrapped hastily in a mantle and quite naked beneath. He was fully dressed for battle, in chain-mail hauberk and chausses, his sinister black cloak hanging from his shoulders, the citrine brooch at his chest winking. His hands on her tightened.
“God speed you, my lord,” she said softly. She could not look away from his bright blue gaze.
A muscle in his jaw ticked. “Can you not, this once, call me by my name?”
She wet her lips. “God keep you—Rolfe.”
His nostrils flared, his eyes flamed, and he crushed her in his arms. She clung to him. “God keep you, Ceidre,” he whispered, then he claimed her mouth passionately.
He drew apart, gave her a last look, and turned on heel and was gone. Ceidre did not go out to watch him ride away; she couldn’t. Miserably she sought her pallet and refused to leave it until the sun was high in the sky.
She felt listless. There was nothing she wanted to do. She bathed, she dressed, she ate. She supposed she could drift through the days until he returned—he had said he would be back within a sennight. Or she could pull herself together, somehow, and shed this cloying fear. Fear for him, for her brothers, for Hereward, for all the rebels, for them.
Oh, God, she thought. I care for him, I care for the Norman, and this cannot be! I cannot let it be! He is the enemy, he is the usurper of Aelfgar, he is my sister’s husband! I am only his leman, and my duty lies to my brothers!
Frantic, she left the castle, striding into the village, wanting to outdistance these impossible feelings, these awful realizations. In an orchard, blackened grotesquely, the trees mere stumps, she paused to weep. She was about to pull herself together when a girl she vaguely recognized approached. Ceidre sat up, brushing her eyes.
The girl was shy, a pretty thing, almost a woman, blushing a fiery red. “I am sorry, Lady,” she said, flustered. “I must speak with you, but I shall come another time.” She turned to leave.
“No, stop, ’tis all right, I am being silly.” Ceidre managed a smile. “Your name is Maude, is it not?”
“Yes.” She blushed again. Then she glanced furtively around. “Your brother Morcar wants to see you.”
Ceidre gasped. “What?”
Maude smiled with pride. “I am his friend,” she said, and another blush swept her. “So I am glad to help him fight these Norman pigs! When you first came I sent him word that you were here. He expects me to keep him informed of all I see here at York,” she explained patiently. “I am to use my judgment,” she added proudly. “He has sent word back. His man Albie awaits you ten kilometers north of here, by the river Wade at the crossing. He will take you to them.”
Ceidre was ecstatic. She clutched Maude. “You are a good woman,” she said, then eyed her. “How old are you?”
“Fourteen next month,” Maude said defensively.
Ceidre intended to give Morcar a piece of her mind. He had a hundred women to choose from, but he had to bed a babe, even if she was pretty and pleasingly curved! “Thank you,” Ceidre said. “I will not forget this.”
