Her words burned, fueling his jealousy. Was she like her mother, who had been no more than the old eoarl’s mistress—his whore? Did she tease and tempt others as well? His tone was harsh. “I care not, my lady, what you think. If I want your opinion I shall request it. Otherwise, keep your malice to yourself.”
Alice went red.
Rolfe stood abruptly, his chair scraping the floor, and, face grim and angry, he strode from the hall. Immediately his men jumped up. Ceidre’s heart was pounding in both elation and anxiety. Now she must seduce this messenger into revealing what he knew!
Everyone had adjourned except for the Norman across from her and Alice, fuming as she sat on the raised dais. The messenger was grinning, sprawled comfortably, his back against the wall. His gaze was lewd.
Ceidre felt her heart take a nosedive. How was she going to do it? A lump of despair rose in her breast. With sheer will, she leaned forward and smiled enticingly. “The nightingale sings, can you hear?”
His grin widened. “Then we must not miss the tune.” He stood, waiting expectantly.
Alice’s chair made a grinding noise as she rose, and then she was passing her sister with a hateful yet triumphant look. “Have you acquired a taste for Norman meat, Ceidre? Was last night only the beginning?” she hissed.
Ceidre wanted to smack her, hard, but she refrained because of her goal, and the lout waiting for her hadn’t understood Alice’s whisper anyway. Grimly she extended her hand. To her shock, he pulled her abruptly forward and began kissing her wetly, fondling her breasts. Reflexively Ceidre tried to twist free, but only succeeded in maneuvering her back up against the table—and he pushed her resoundingly down upon it.
“Stop!” She cried furiously, all thoughts of spying gone. He had her skirts up to her knees as he pinned her down, his mouth smacking her neck, one hand on her breast. She fought to pull down her gown, remove his hand from her chest, and heave him off at the same time. Panic started to set in as she realized he was much stronger than she and not more than a mere moment from actually raping her.
The sound of Guy’s voice was the most welcome thing Ceidre had ever heard. “Hear, hear! What’s this?”
The messenger ceased wrestling with her, turning with irritation, although not quite releasing her. Ceidre pushed away from him and out from under his arm as if she were leaping off hot coals. “Sir Guy!”
“Rolfe wants you, Ceidre,” Guy said, his expression grim and fixed upon William’s man. “Is this how you abuse Lord Rolfe’s hospitality?”
Never had Ceidre thought she would welcome the Norman’s summons, but she did so now. She fled up the stairs, leaving the messenger sullenly defending his actions—and blaming her for enticing him in the first place. Once in front of the Norman’s door she paused to push at stray tendrils of hair and sweep a hand down her gown. She was damp from the lusty encounter, flushed, and still a bit out of breath. But before she could regain more of her composure, the door swung open and the Norman stood there, scowling.
His gaze swept her so thoroughly Ceidre’s relief was forgotten and in its stead rose bristles. His tone was abrupt. “I want a potion.”
Ceidre knew what she looked like and was both dismayed and furious. Did he think she’d actually been fornicating? “For what?”
He smiled unpleasantly. “It seems I have the devil’s hooves pounding right here.” He touched his temple.
He had a headache? He had summoned her for a headache? Suspicion came swift and hard. “I believe,” she said, quite sarcastically, “more red wine will ease your suffering.”
“Are you upset, Ceidre?” His tone equaled hers. “Disturbed? Have I disturbed you?”
“You are my lord and master,” she said, too sweetly. “How could you disturb me?”
“That’s right,” he said, leaning close, his gaze riveted upon her bruised mouth. “Your lord and master.” He smiled again, and Ceidre felt a frisson almost like fear. “I do not want red wine. I want a potion. Some of your witch’s brew. For my head.”
Witch’s brew. His words stabbed, so she turned away haughtily. He was so fast she didn’t take even a step, for his hand gripped her arm and he whipped her back around to face him. “And no loitering, Ceidre,” he snarled. “No dallying.”
Her eyes went wide with understanding and surprise. He was telling her in no uncertain words that she was not to rendezvous with the messenger! Something hot rushed along her veins, something like elation. She found herself smiling. “I will not dally, my lord.”
His ill humor increased. “Good! Go, then!”
Ceidre left to fetch his potion and was not at the top of the stairs when she heard his door slamming like thunder. She began to hum.
“He has ordered the village destroyed!”
Ceidre stared at her cousin Teddy. “Surely you jest!”
“No, ’tis true, the entire village, Ceidre, ’twill be burned!”
Two days earlier Ceidre had given Rolfe the potion he’d requested and then been promptly dismissed. Rolfe had taken a score of men and disappeared the morning after and had not returned until late last night. There was no way that Ceidre could find out where he had gone, nor for what purpose. She had once again been free to do as she pleased. She decided to stay out of Alice’s way, and had spent time with her grandmother, gathering herbs, crushing them, blending them carefully into potions for numbing pain, for curing sores, for inducing sleep, for fertility and impotence. It was early morning.
Teddy, clad in a tunic and wool hose, clung to her wrist. “Can you not curse him?” he begged. “I know you are a good witch, Ceidre, but can you not, this once, strike him dead? He is destroying all our homes!”
The Norman had not one human bone in his entire body, Ceidre thought furiously. She strode past the manor, staring at the keep, three stories high, square and ugly, its only windows tiny slits, gracing the barren hill above the village. A huge, deep ditch had been dug around its entire perimeter, excluding the orchard and the hayfield and the corn. Then she saw a cottage go up in flames.
