“You will never be my lord and master, never!”
“I am tired of your foolishness.” He addressed the crowd again. “As you can see, I have the lady Alice with me—she is my betrothed. There is nothing you can do to prevent what has been done. Treason to your new lord will be punishable by flogging and the stocks, or even hanging. There will be no mercy.” Rolfe signaled to his men, and they moved forward.
The villagers murmured openly, shocked despite all these years of warfare. “Lady Alice?” someone said.
“’Tis Ceidre!” And her name was echoed again and again.
Rolfe heard, of course. “Who is this Ceidre they are referring to?”
Ceidre’s anger fled in the face of an icy-cold panic. “I do not know!”
He stared at her.
They arrived at the manor, fifty of William’s fiercest troops, a mass of barely contained horseflesh, stomping, blowing, nostrils bugled, manes tossing. The knights’ chain mail, shields, and swords were glinting riotously, dazzling the eye, while above the royal blue, red, and black penants were flying, proud and sinister. Ceidre was certain that the half-dozen men-at-arms left behind by her brothers would not resist the Norman with his forces. They were greeted at the front of the manor by Athelstan, the eldest of the housecarls, left in charge of the six men by Edwin. With him were the other five.
Rolfe rode his mount ahead of the column, then reined in. His black cloak, lined in red, flew about his broad shoulders. “Lay down your weapons, Saxon. I am the eaorl of Aelfgar, Rolfe de Warenne, your new lord and master. To raise bow and arrow is only to die. Especially as I have with me my bride, and no man raises arms against the lady Alice.”
Ceidre felt sick.
“I know you,” Athelstan said grimly. “Rolfe the Relentless. Your name flies ahead of you on a falcon’s wings. But if you think you can take Lord Edwin’s patrimony from him, you are wrong.”
“Time shall tell. At present, I am only taking it from you.”
“We have laid down our weapons.” Athelstan indicated the ground at their feet, where their quivers and shields lay. “But when Edwin and Morcar return, we shall raise them up again.”
“Fair warning,” Rolfe said, and he smiled. “I believe you to be honest, old man, and I like that well.”
“I am honest, so heed me with care. What is this foolishness? The lady Alice? That is not the lady Alice.”
Rolfe’s smile disappeared. “Do not jest.” “This is no riddle. That is certainly not the lady Alice.”
Rolfe whipped his head around, furious, eyes blazing. “Just who are you?” he demanded.
She could barely get the words out.“Not your intended.”
Their gazes locked, his strong and enraged, holding her frightened, valiant one.
From behind Athelstan, a small, dark-haired woman stepped forward. “I am the lady Alice.”
Rolfe stared in disbelief at his bride. He recovered. “You are the old eoarl of Aelfgar’s daughter? Edwin’s sister?”
Alice, petite and slim, nodded, her dark eyes huge and wary. “And you, sir, are our new lord?”
“Yes,” Rolfe said stiffly, and Ceidre could actually feel his fury—it was murderous. “Who, may I ask, is this woman besides me?”
Alice smiled—it was a sneer. “Oh, her? No one, my lord, just one of the dairymaid’s brats.”
Ceidre flushed. “Father loved Annie and you know it.”
Alice laughed. “Love? Come now, Ceidre, we’ve been through this before. ’Twas my mother he loved, not that whore who raised her skirts for every cock about town!”
Alice had never openly talked this way before, although in private she had always insisted Annie a whore and her mother, Jane, their father’s love. Ceidre was furious. “How dare you!”
“’Tis the truth.” She turned to Rolfe. “My lord, you must be tired. Come. Let me take you to your bath.”
Rolfe turned to look at Ceidre, a spasm in his jaw ticking. “So you are old Aelfgar’s bastard?”
She raised her chin high. “Yes.”
