Morcar was a worthy opponent with a sword as well. His thoughts became darker—he could still hear Ceidre’s screams when he had pressed his blade against the Saxon’s heart. Now, despite the wine and the hubbub of those eating boisterously at his table, he had a terrible image of her, eyes wide, frantic—desperate. She dearly loved her brother.
She had played at treason.
She unmans me, he thought grimly. He was no fool. She had been summoned to meet her brother, a traitor, and she had gone, defying him, knowing full well the penalty for her act. Yet he had not punished her. He had protected her instead. And by protecting her, by not punishing her, by withholding the fact of her treason from his king, he became culpable too. His standards were high, and strict. Yet for the first time in his life he had violated his own code of ethics. If he was not careful, he would become so unmanned Aelfgar would come careening down about his ears—or worse, he would fail his king.
Because of a woman.
’Twould not happen again. He would keep Ceidre firmly at heel, even if he had to keep her on a leash like a mutt. But she would not defy him and commit treason again, and he would not have to punish her for another betrayal. For, if she undertook another act of treason, he would not let her escape the consequences —he could not.
His thoughts could not get grimmer. Alice had been, again, overly attentive. She kept his cup filled. Her hand brushed his. She laughed long and false in his ear. She pressed her breast against his arm. He was indifferent—worse, annoyed. Ceidre, of course, would not look at him from her place at the low end of the table. He hoped she realized she was more than lucky to escape so lightly. Damn the ancient gods! He had lost his manhood. That witch had him protecting her when she was trying to destroy him and all he cherished.
His bride whispered something soft and sweet, but Rolfe did not listen. He stared at the bronze-haired woman seated below him and could not help comparing her to his bride. By God, it should be Ceidre he was wedding, not this spiteful little wench!
There was nothing that could be done, yet he could not shove his deepest wishes from his mind.
And then, hours later, just when he had decided to attempt sleep, just when he had stripped to his bare skin, she had appeared at his door, an echo of his basest thoughts. And suddenly the night was no longer grim. Darkness became light. She had answered his silent prayers, she had come to ease his mind, and, he hoped drunkenly, his tortured body.
But here, unfortunately, Rolfe’s memory of the day before began to grow hazy.
They had kissed. He had kissed her and she had flared like a hot flame. But then what? He could not remember another thing, his last thought being in Ceidre’s arms. He had not bedded the wench—had he? No, surely he would remember such a fortuitous occasion!
There was a knock upon his chamber door. Rolfe was jerked completely back to the present. He grunted a response, and Athelstan appeared, looking quite lighthearted. Rolfe scowled at the aroma of porridge wafting toward him. “Take that out of here,” he demanded. “At once!”
“Good morning, my lord,” Athelstan said cheerfully. “’Tis a beautiful day, is it not?”
Rolfe watched him warily. “I know not.”
“But ’tis your wedding day,” Athelstan said, setting the bowl down upon a chest. “And you have overslept. You must get dressed and be at the chapel in an hour, my lord.”
Rolfe held his face in his hands and groaned. “In an hour? ’Tis impossible.” His headache had just increased.
It was so very easy.
Preparations for the wedding feast had been underway since yesterday morning. The kitchens were a madhouse, with twice the number of serfs scurrying back and forth from pantry, to hearth, to chapel’s courtyard. A wedding was a celebration not just for the nobles, but for the entire village. As such, there had to be enough bread, mutton, and ale for everyone. And this wedding was an even more special event, for their lord was new, and no one wanted to displease him—rather, everyone feared his displeasure.
Ceidre’s heart was lodged in her throat, and her stomach had been queasy ever since she had awoken. It was, she knew, nerves, because of what she had to do. She had learned from gossip that the Norman intended to transport Morcar to York immediately after the wedding—thus it was now or never, do or die. But the timing was truly perfect. In this chaos she knew she could succeed. Indeed, she had to.
And she would not think about the penalty she might face. After all, hadn’t he shown her leniency once? But a slight shudder swept her, for he had warned her and warned her well.
And she would not think about the nuptials either.
Teddy came running out of the kitchen, trencher and beaker in hand, heading for the back of the manor —and the entrance to the dungeons below. Ceidre caught up to him. “’Tis for the guard?”
Teddy didn’t stop, he was breathless, sweating. “Aye, it is, an’ me arse is gonna get whupped if I don’t get back to turn the chickens!”
“Give it to me,” Ceidre said, grabbing his wrist.
Teddy halted, panting, but his eyes glimmered with shrewdness. Then the brief look of understanding was gone. He shrugged. “Thank ye, Ceidre.” He handed her his burdens and was running back up the hill.
He knew. Ceidre was certain, just as she knew if their deed was discovered, he would plead ignorance —and she herself would take all the blame. Her chest was so very tight. She wished she did not have to deliver the fare, but she could not give this terrible task to an innocent. She was holding bread, cheese, and ale. The same trick would not work, and Ceidre was prepared. She put everything down, then hurriedly opened a small basket she was carrying. Within was a soft goat cheese—made with herbs. She put a few generous slices between the bread, felt a twinge of guilt, threw aside the cheese Teddy had brought, and continued down the path.
Once he digested the cheese, the guard would not be able to control himself. Corncockle was a most efficacious laxative.
The dungeons were actually a dark, dirt-floored hole beneath the manor, entered from a rock latch-door in the ground. Ceidre had ventured inside once, when she was so very young—and she would never forget it. There was barely any air to breathe, and no light, none at all. Rats scurried in the darkness, and slime oozed between her bare toes. Her brothers had encouraged her to go down to explore it, and Ceidre had thought nothing of doing so. But once inside, the overwhelming closeness began to terrify her, and she felt hot and strangled for lack of air. “We are going to close the door so you can see what it is really like,” Morcar called.
“No!” Ceidre had shouted, but it was too late, the door banged shut, and she was enveloped in thick blackness.
Something happened. She could not breathe, and she thought her lungs would explode from lack of air. The walls seemed closer, caving in upon her. Ceidre screamed. She screamed and screamed, clawing the walls madly, knowing she was going to die, to be buried alive….
