“It pleases me,” he responded automatically, although in truth he did not know—he had yet to take a bite. Again his gaze raked the hall. Where was she?
He hadn’t meant to go so far. He had been angry, he was still angry. Ceidre could not deceive him so on some capricious whim. Yet it was she who had dared to invade his chamber while he bathed, and he had not been able to contain his wicked impulses—and to soap him was surely the softest penance she could possibly pay. Yet when she had grabbed the leather pouch, he had responded not with rational thought but with a soldier’s instinct. He had seized her. If Alice had not returned he would have taken her, right there, as she stood.
His need for her was out of hand and he knew it. He also realized it could not continue, for he was to marry the sister. Many lords would not blink twice at taking Ceidre while wed to Alice. After all, she was just Aelfgar’s by-blow. Yet he could not—it was not right. Before it had been different, when he had thought her just a passing peasant wench, and he intended to rape her. Now she was his bride’s sister. He wished sorely that he were a different man, that he could have the one for wife and the other for mistress. But it could not be.
Therefore, he would have to control himself. And this, he vowed to God, he would do. But where was she?
“My lord, shall I have something else prepared, more to your satisfaction?”
Her concern would soon become annoying. He sensed it was because she feared greatly to lose him as a husband, that she was desperate to be wed. He understood her difficult position well, for soon she would be too old to turn any heads. He should reassure her, even though he was not in the mood. After all, the lady was his bride. “Lady Alice, the fare is fine, it seems only that I have no appetite. Why is your sister not here?”
Alice stiffened. “Ceidre does as she pleases, she always has. Often she eats with the maids in the kitchen, as, in truth, she should. Sometimes she spends days away, the saints only know where, practicing her witchcrafts.”
Rolfe was furious. He rose abruptly. “You dare to openly defy me?”
Alice gasped, her hand covering her mouth. “I am sorry! I had forgotten you forbade me to talk of it! But ’tis only the truth!”
“Your tongue drips with jealousy, and ’tis most unseemly.”
She straightened. “I am not jealous of her, some whore’s brat.”
“Leave me,” he said. “I am displeased.”
Alice, white, angry, fled upstairs. Rolfe turned to Athelstan. “Why does she hate her sister so?” His tone was low, so only those closest to him could hear.
“You have remarked it, my lord,” Athelstan said. “Jealousy, of course.”
“Were she not so mean she would be passably fair.”
“’Tis not her fault, ’twas her mother’s.”
“Tell me.” Rolfe sat back down.
“Aelfgar loved his first wife greatly—the lady Maude. He worshiped her doubly for the gift of two fine, proud sons. Yet she grew weak and feeble before her time, and many years passed that she could not receive her lord as a wife should.”
Rolfe shrugged. “’Tis not unusual.”
“But Aelfgar loved her, truly. He did not seek out others—ever.”
Rolfe laughed skeptically. “No? Ceidre is not his get?”
“After many years, he finally, being human, dallied with a pretty dairymaid, Annie, Ceidre’s mother. Maude was dying. Aelfgar was sick with despair—yet Annie was beauty, light, laughter—joy. Maude died— and Annie gifted him with Ceidre. She surpassed even her mother with her beauty and her laughter—Aelfgar worshiped the tiny babe. He offered Annie the hand of his reeve, the finest of the peasants, but she loved him and so refused. Thus Annie stayed in the kitchens here, and Ceidre grew up underfoot—everywhere. In the kitchens, in the hall, in the stables, in the woods. All knew, of course, she was the eaorl’s daughter, yet not being nobly born, she was left free to do as she pleased. Yet her father loved her, her brothers adored her, and all would have been well save that Aelfgar had married Alice’s mother, the Lady Jane.”
“Yes?”
“When Aelfgar realized that he was falling in love with Annie, a lowborn serf, he was determined to correct the situation. Jane brought him a small manor on his northern borders. It was just a year after Ceidre’s birth. Yet Jane was the opposite of Annie—dark, cold, spiteful, and very, very bitter to find her husband wanting another. Finally Aelfgar turned to Annie again. He never returned to Jane, who bore him Alice, but he treated her with respect. Yet Jane knew of his leman, and hated her and her daughter with all of her passion. Alice too grew up feeding on this poisonous hate. She has hated her sister from the day she could feel the emotion, before she could even talk.”
“There were no others?”
“Aelfgar was an unusual man, not needing more than one good woman. No, there was only Annie after Maude died, and Ceidre is his only by-blow.”
“Lady Alice would have me believe Ceidre is one of many brats.”
“Mayhap she believes it herself—mayhap not.”
“You are as wise as your years, Saxon.”
“You are wiser than yours, Norman.”
