The room boasted a large bed, the bed her father had slept on, the bed that had been Edwin’s—and was now the Norman’s. There were several chests along the walls, where the Norman’s things were stored, also used to sit upon. They were not chests that belonged to Aelfgar—he had brought them with him. This seemed as good a place as any to start.
It struck her that he might not be able to read, as most men did not. She had not considered this sooner, because he was so shrewd it seemed unlikely he would not possess such a power. It occurred to Ceidre, then, that a man like the Norman would destroy any written missives—and that many could be verbal. Yet she must look. And, even if he couldn’t read, there would be the village priest to decipher anything written—if he could. Ceidre almost smiled. Father Green was drunk most of the time and wenching the rest. She supposed a monk could be sent for. Or—he could ask her to read a message to him.
Her heart sped. She must find out whether he could read or no. If not, she must make him aware of her usefulness to him. The situation would be ideal!
The first chest contained tunics and hose and mantles, brooches, a bag-beaker, shoes, an extra pair of garters. Another, fine silks from the Orient in the most beautiful colors Ceidre had ever seen, rich velvets in gold and red and a cape of tawny, cream, and red-streaked fur. But no missives. The last trunk contained Oriental rugs and an old, broken sword in its jewel-studded scabbard. She replaced it carefully. The Norman had brought his most valued possessions with him, she thought bitterly, but little did he know—he was not staying at Aelfgar. Aelfgar belonged to Edwin.
There was no other place for messages to be stored unless they were truly hidden.
“What are you doing in here?”
Ceidre, absorbed in her speculation, whirled at the sound of Alice’s harsh voice, immensely relieved to have finished her search and closed the chests. “I was looking for my herbs,” she replied smoothly. It was a lie, of course; she had retrieved it the other night for Tildie’s sake.
“Does he know you are in here?” Alice demanded. “Did he give you permission?”
“No,” Ceidre said carefully. “Alice, he would be very angry to know I was looking for my amulet.”
“Yes, he would be, wouldn’t he?” Alice sneered.
“Are you going to tell him?”
“Have you disclaimed your serfhood?”
“He did not believe me.”
Alice was triumphant. “Why should he? After all, you were born to that whore who was a serf. Did you find your witch’s potions?”
“No.”
“What did you do last night, Ceidre?”
She knew, Ceidre thought. She knew she had been with Tildie and had had her herbs with her. Ceidre fumbled for a response.
“Whore,” Alice cried, and slapped her hard across the face.
Ceidre drew back, shocked.
“I saw him sneak out after you,” Alice hissed. “You spread your white thighs for him—didn’t you? You are just like your mother, Ceidre, a rutting whore!”
She knew it was better to have Alice believe she had been with Rolfe than to know she had been healing Tildie last night. For Ceidre did not want Alice to know that now she was spying, not searching for her herbs. Still, she could not let Alice think the worst if she could help it, and Alice had no right to slur her mother so. “I only went for a walk,” she said, flushing.
“Truly.”
“He followed you!”
“Yes. He thought I was running away,” she lied hastily. “He has forbidden my leaving Aelfgar. But, Alice, he did not touch me, this I swear. You have no right to call me names. I am not a whore—my mother was not a whore. She loved Father so much she sickened after he died and died herself—you know this to be true! Why do you have to persist with such foul lies?”
“Your mother was a leman, Ceidre—that makes her a whore. Of course she loved your father—he was her lord and master and she dared not. But he only loved her on her back! What did Rolfe do when he followed you?”
“He demanded of me where I was going.”
“You liar! You were gone two hours—the two of you! Ceidre—you will regret this, I promise you! I will make your life unbearable if you do not stay away from him.”
Ceidre knew she meant it, her passion was evident. “I hate him,” she urged. “Truly I hate him, I did not lie with him!”
“Just remember,” Alice said with a snarl. “All you can ever be is his whore, being nothing more than our father’s bastard get. But I, I shall be his wife.”
Something stabbed through her, a pain of the heart. “Alice, one last time, do not turn your back on your family. I will help you to evade this marriage and to find another.”
