Ceidre felt suddenly strangled. “What if …” She drifted off, unwilling to voice her fears. What if he guessed that she had been involved in warning Hereward away? There would be no proof, yet … She would not entertain it. Nor would she alert Ed to her thoughts. She was afraid he would fear for her and order her to remain with him and his men. Ceidre realized she did not just have to return to York and the Norman—she desperately wanted to.
A hundred Normans rode in double file, still ten kilometers south of Cavlidockk, deep in the forested hills known as the fens. Rolfe rode with his men in the lead, William in the middle, Roger at the back. There had been no sign of rebels so far. In another hour they would stop, scout out the Wake’s camp, then surround and attack. Rolfe smile grimly. Soon another nest of vipers would be wiped out—if all went well.
Someone screamed a death cry.
Rolfe was aware of the ambush at that same instant and was shouting to his men to wheel and fight. Arrows flew from the trees above them, and Beltain, at his side, gasped when one pierced his shoulder. Rolfe was already riding at an archer in a tree, sword raised, and with one blow he hacked off the branch holding the man. The archer fell, and Rolfe effortlessly cleaved him in two.
A full-scale battle ensued. Wielding his sword ceaselessly, Rolfe slew half a dozen Saxons methodically, efficiently, without pause. And then the glade fell into a hoarse, panting silence.
Rolfe saw that the last of the Saxons had fled, and he called for a halt.
With horror, he stared at the ground before him. It was littered with a score of rebels, all dead or dying and dismembered. But another dozen of the dead and dying were his own men, who, in the forefront of the cavalcade, had taken the brunt of the attack.
“We were betrayed,” William shouted, galloping up. “I saw Hereward myself, even exchanged blows with the traitor! I have lost three men, Roger one. How have you fared, Rolfe?”
Sickness choked him. “Much, much worse,” he said. A dozen of his men, the best in the land … He spotted Beltain, his shoulder and torso drenched with blood, and spurred his mount to him. “How badly are you hurt?”
“I will live, I think,” Beltain said, although he was ghostly white.
Rolfe called for aid as he vaulted from his stallion. He helped his captain down, stanching the flow of blood with a quickly placed tournicot. Beltain mercifully fainted from the loss of blood.
He was bandaged before he revived. Rolfe grimly did so himself, concentrating wholly on his task, his hands efficient and dexterous. Yet his mind, his mind was spinning—a dozen of his best men … ambush … Litters were made, the wounded tended to, the dead lashed onto the sleds to be brought to York for a Christian burial. William paused by his side. “I am sorry for your losses,” he said sincerely.
“Shall we go on?” Rolfe asked harshly.
“We will burn Cavlidockk to the ground for harboring these rebels, though they have long since gone,” William said. “Roger, as my marshal in Shrewsbury, will do this. You and I will return to York—to lick our wounds.”
Rolfe said nothing. He stared at his dead men, bloody and gored, young William decapitated. Twelve of his men—the best fighters in the world—dead … betrayed….
“These damned Saxons have spies everywhere,” William gritted.
“Everywhere,” Rolfe echoed. Betrayed.
He was so sick, he thought, in that moment, he would heave up his guts like a boy after his first battle. And suddenly, he did.
He had returned!
The garrison was alive with talk of the return of William and his men, spotted as they entered the village. Ceidre wanted to run out into the outer bailey and launch herself into his arms. Of course she could not do this. Instead, she retreated to his tent, pacing nervously, excitedly. Oh, she could not deny it—she had missed him! At the same time, she dreaded his return, certain her guilt would show. And—what had happened? Had Hereward managed to elude his attackers? More important, was Rolfe all right?
The tent door swung open.
Rolfe stood there, backlighted by the sun, and Ceidre could only make out his imposing bulk. “My lord?” she breathed, her eagerness etched upon her face.
He stepped in, dropping the flap closed behind him. His face was stone. His eyes were ice-cold shards. Ceidre shrank inside. “What—what happened?”
He stared at her, his mouth a firm, hard line. “What happened? We were ambushed just south of Cavlidockk.”
Her eyes widened. “Ambushed!”
His jaw clenched. “At least,” he said harshly, “I know you did not know of that!”
Her hand covered her palpitating heart. She took a step back. “What do you mean!”
He stepped forward, crowding her. “Do you not know what I mean, Ceidre?”
“No,” she squeaked, so afraid now.
“The truth! Tell me the truth, damn you, Ceidre!”
