“I am marrying the Norman,” Alice spat. “And when I am his lady, you will be dealt with—have no fear. For I shall not be made a fool of like my mother.”
“My lord, more wine?” Alice asked gaily.
Rolfe, in the act of knifing a leg of mutton, nodded curtly. His bride’s knee touched his. So did her arm. She was a bony thing. Did she truly think to seduce him? He was highly annoyed. She had been overly garrulous and attentive throughout supper.
Alice poured the wine, knowing the lout would not thank her, he was such a brute. Still, she could live without manners. She flashed him another charming smile, fluttering her lashes, but he did not see—for he was not looking. His gaze was on the low end of the table. On Ceidre. Alice felt like overturning the table and dumping the entire contents on her damned bastard sister.
Rolfe watched Ceidre eating, with a real appetite, but with utter feminine deportment. He was glad to see her at his table. It was a vivid reminder that she was a part of his household, and this thought was heady and provocative indeed.
She wore a simple tunic of rust wool, over another of deep blue. The two colors were perfect for her, complementing the rich bronze of her hair, the dark purple of her eyes. She nibbled a joint. She was too far away for him to see the whiteness of her teeth, but her lush lips opening upon the meat were fascinating, mesmerizing. He could not look away, did not want to look away; in truth, he wanted much, much more than to look. He was already thick with aching lust. He shifted and adjusted his hose.
“My lord,” Alice said sweetly, once again trying to gain his attention.
Rolfe sighed, not regarding her, draining his wine. She, of course, ever dutiful, promptly refilled his cup. “My lord, I found her in your chamber today.”
Rolfe was all ears. “Ceidre?”
Alice saw that she had his instant, complete attention—now that the topic was her hateful sister. “Yes.”
“What do you have to say to me, Alice?”
“She was in your chamber. Searching for her amulet,” Alice said, watching him closely.
Rolfe shot Ceidre a hard glance. Now what was the wench up to? He knew very well she was in possession of her herbs. She is your enemy, he reminded himself. No longer your bride, yet still your enemy. Do not ever forget it.
“Will you punish her?” Alice asked.
“I do not punish lightly,” he said, reaching for a hunk of bread. The topic was ended. Alice gripped the table, hard.
Ceidre was trying to ignore Rolfe’s impertinent, and so very hot, stares. But she was embarrassed—and flustered, uncomfortable. There was not a person in the hall, she was sure, who did not see the way the Norman lusted after her, so openly, with his bride seated at his elbow. Ceidre would not look at them. She had seen enough. Alice’s gentle trills had sounded all night, were even now ringing. Rolfe listened courteously to whatever she kept spouting—once he had almost smiled. And Alice, Ceidre had seen her flirt many times, but tonight she went so far as to brush her small breast against his arm. Ceidre felt sick, and wished it was because of the food. She knew it was not. She told herself it was because of the upcoming marriage—because he was cementing his position at Aelfgar at her brothers’ expense. Not for any other reason.
But this logic was starting to sound, and feel, feeble, even to herself. Ceidre wished she could escape the table. Of course, she could not, not until the “lord” and lady had risen first. How she preferred the sweltering kitchens to this!
From outside a horn sounded, warning of the arrival of a stranger. Another blast sounded, indicating there was no call to arms. One of Rolfe’s men, who was on guard duty, entered, followed by a royal messenger. Ceidre went stock-still.
He was obviously sent from William, for he wore the Bastard Conqueror’s colors. He was coated thickly in dust, indicating a long, hard ride. He dropped to one knee before Rolfe, who impatiently waved him up and dismissed the company in the midst of their meal. Ceidre’s heart fell. How could she find out what was going on if she had to leave?
She was slow to exit, letting everyone wander out of the hall ahead of her. A glance over her shoulder showed Rolfe holding a sealed missive in his hand— but making no move to open it. So he did receive written messages! Oh, could he read or not? If only she could read it to him! His glance swept the room impatiently and pinned her as she loitered. Ceidre quickly turned and left.
Ceidre stood outside restlessly, knowing there was no way for her to find out what was going on inside the manor. Rolfe could be reading the document, or he could be listening to a verbal report. Whatever the message was, it was brief, because the assembly was soon allowed to return. Rolfe was leaning back in his chair, sipping the red wine that was becoming tolerable, staring at the hearth. The messenger took a seat at Ceidre’s end of the table, across from her. Ceidre was no longer hungry, but could not let this situation pass. She smiled at him. He was blond like the Norman, but slight and of average face. He looked at her, startled.
“You look tired, sir,” she said. “I would not relish having to ride so hard and so far.”
“’Tis not easy,” he said, flattered at her interest. He tore off a hunk of mutton and began to eat. “But I am young and strong, and the most trusted of the king’s messengers,” he boasted.
“’Tis true?” Ceidre asked, awe in her tone.
“God’s truth,” he said, grinning, mouth full. “What is your name, wench? I have never seen so fair a damsel, not in all of France and England combined.”
“I am Ceidre. And you?”
“Paul.” He drained a beaker of wine. “Mayhap you will walk with me after I sup?”
She had only a moment to make her answer known, and thinking only of her goal, she said, “Yes, how nice.” She would deal with the problem of his expectations later, she decided.
Rolfe watched this interchange with growing irritation. When Ceidre first graced the boy with her smile, he was stabbed instantly with an emotion suspiciously like jealousy—something he had never in his entire life entertained. Distrust arose also—what was the little witch up to with her flirting manner? Then, as their dialogue progressed, the messenger as proud as any strutting, puffed-out cock around a hen, Ceidre coy, admiring, his irritation became vast annoyance. Did the wench think to provoke him, test him? Or was she so foolish to think to learn of the royal business at hand? Or did she truly like the mealy-mouthed boy, barely out of his swaddling?
It was as if Alice had read his thoughts. Her voice was undisguised in its pleasure, and in its spite. “You see, my lord, how she carries on with the king’s man? ’Tis disgusting. Why, she is no different from her mother! No different at all!”
