“You want me to kill him?” She gasped, appalled.
“Of course not,” he said. “I am no murderer—nor are you. I mean,” he said impatiently, “a potion to make him sick so that the wedding is postponed.”
“Morcar—do you intend for me to keep him sick from now until the day you and Edwin are victorious?”
“Damn,” he said. “That would probably kill him, would it not?”
“Most certainly, and ’tis not right, not godly. I cannot. I have never harmed anyone.”
He cupped her face tenderly, his tone urgent. “Ceidre, a potion then to make him impotent? If the marriage is not consummated when we retake Aelfgar it can be annulled, and he has less legitimacy as lord here, now and when ’tis done. A simple potion, Ceidre?”
“Oh, Morcar,” she said reluctantly, yet … What harm could it do? The man had more potency than a stud stallion, surely it could not harm him? Just something simple, to take away his desire…. To take away his desire for Alice.
Morcar saw her capitulation, and he laughed, sweeping her into his arms. “I love you, Ceidre,” he said. “You have more loyalty in your little finger than Alice has in her entire heart.”
Still unsure, yet strangely elated too, at the thought of keeping the Norman away from her sister, Ceidre hugged Morcar fiercely back, burying her face in his chest.
Rolfe had eyed Ceidre as she carried the basket, heading toward the orchards, every so often glancing over her shoulder. She was up to something, but what? Although immersed in the final stages of the destruction of the village, he kept one eye on her—and watched her disappear into the forest. He had a suspicious feeling, and he did not like her wandering alone. She was too enticing a wench for any passing stranger or brigand. Rolfe spurred his destrier after her.
From a distance, he watched her rendezvous with a tall, dark man. It was a reunion, this he could see, and see well. He was stunned as she leapt into her lover’s arms, stunned, and furious. But the embrace was short, fortunately, for Rolfe would have killed the man then and there. Instead they spoke quickly, seriously, urgently. His anger seeped and seethed and he edged his mount as close as he dared without their hearing him—but neither could he hear them, as he desperately wanted to. And then the man laughed and swept her up into his embrace again, and this time Ceidre clung, burying her face in the folds of his mantle. The man rocked her.
Rolfe drew his sword and, with a war cry, galloped into the glade.
Ceidre screamed as Morcar threw her aside, drawing his sword to meet his attacker. He was of fast reflex, but could barely get his sword up before Rolfe swung his own weapon, blade crashing against blade. Yet Morcar did not release his sword. He was knocked by the force of Rolfe’s charge to the ground, but nimble as a cat, he jumped to his feet and was poised to fight.
Rolfe reined in and leapt to the ground, weapon held high. His eyes went wide. “Morcar!”
Morcar smiled grimly. “I shall enjoy this, Norman,” he said. “I have dreamed of this day!”
“Stop!” Ceidre screamed, frantic, knowing that two such powerful men could not both survive this encounter—one would die. “Stop, please, God, stop!”
“Come to me, Saxon,” Rolfe said softly.
Morcar thrust; Rolfe parried. The two men’s blades clashed again and again, echoing in the forest, as they lunged and feinted, thrust and withdrew. Rolfe’s tip sliced open the sleeve of Morcar’s tunic, and his forearm, trailing blood. Morcar opened a gash above Rolfe’s right eye. Again and again they danced around each other, their blades ringing. Rolfe scored again, upon Morcar’s thigh. Morcar responded with a vicious thrust that forced Rolfe backward, until the Norman feinted, pretended to fall, and then reversed the process, relentlessly driving his foe backward.
The minutes stretched away. The glade was silent except for the sound of their harsh, heavy breathing. Sweat drenched both men, causing their tunics to stick damply to their frames. Blood trickled into Rolfe’s eye, but he did not wipe at it. Their movements became slower, like a dream, heavy with the sustained effort. Morcar swung his blade, Rolfe’s turned it back. At least fifteen very long minutes had passed, and it was apparent that the two men were evenly matched.
Ceidre watched, mesmerized, terrified. She could not go for help—’twould be the end of Morcar. Her brother had to win—so he could escape. And then the Norman’s strength proved superior.
Morcar tripped on a root. As he lost his balance, the Norman lunged for his heart. Ceidre screamed, loudly, shrilly. Morcar, one knee on the ground, froze, as Rolfe’s blade pressed against his breast. But the Norman did not break his flesh.
“Why do you hesitate, Norman?” Morcar gasped. He was still holding his sword, but at an angle impossible to lift to defend himself. “I am not afraid of death.”
“Drop your blade, Saxon,” Rolfe said, panting. “Drop it now, or you will be at her pearly gates.”
“No, don’t,” Ceidre cried, running to him. “Please, my lord, do not run him through.”
Rolfe ignored her. “Drop it now, if you wish to live. If not, I will send you on your way.”
Morcar stared boldly back at Rolfe, fearless and unflinching.
“Please drop it,” Ceidre cried. “Please, Morcar, please!”
Morcar dropped the sword.
Rolfe, without removing his own blade from his enemy’s heart, kicked it away. Then, exerting pressure, he forced Morcar onto both knees. “In the name of King William,” he said, “you are my prisoner.”
Ceidre was standing almost directly behind Rolfe. She did not think. She picked up the heaviest stone she could find and raised it, to send it crashing down upon his head.
