Instantly Ed threw open the door, leapt down, and lifted her in his arms. Ceidre was shaking and panting, weeping uncontrollably, and it wasn’t until she was back outside in the bright daylight that she realized what a silly fool she had been. Now she knew why she had always avoided exploring caves with her brothers, and since that day she had never ventured into a tiny, closed space again.
It was a travesty. Morcar, the second son, a prisoner in his own hold. But not, she thought resolutely, for long.
The guard, a burly oaf of a man, eyed her grimly. Ceidre did not smile. She set down the trencher, handing him the bag-beaker.
“I do not want your witch’s potions,” the guard said.
“Fine,” Ceidre said shortly, and she picked the trencher up and the bag of wine. She turned to go.
“’Tis not poisoned?” he asked.
“Am I stupid? The last time I was lucky, my lord graced me with his mercy. I dare not such a trick again. Look, I will take a bite of everything first if it soothes you.”
“Do so,” he said.
Ceidre did so, unperturbed. One bit of cheese would not harm her much. The guard watched and was much relieved. She left him eating merrily.
She was late. The procession for the chapel would be starting, and her absence would be conspicuous. Grimly Ceidre picked up her skirt and quickened her pace. For the ceremony she had donned black, for she was mourning this occasion. Already the villagers and Normans had lined the road from manor to church, which was at the edge of the village, a small stone building. Ceidre’s place was at the front, and she stood beside Athelstan. His regard was intense and she did not like it. She studied the ground. All around her was the happy laughter and conversation of Aelfgar’s people, joyous in anticipation of the festival to come. Rich aromas of bread, stew, and pies hung thickly about them. The sky was daringly blue, the sun warm and bold. Children frolicked, dogs yapped. Ceidre began twisting the cord of her girdle.
“Here they come,” shouted someone, and a cry went up.
Ceidre looked.
Alice, dainty and elegant on a blooded white palfrey, came first, led by Guy and Beltain. She wore a magnificent gown, virginal white, encrusted with a thousand pearls, which Ceidre knew she and her maids had been sewing on ever since the Norman’s arrival. A veil of lace, glinting with gold thread, hid her face. It could not hide her wide smile. Her dark, rich hair hung free to her waist, a riot of curls. She looked every inch the virginal bride, every inch the lady of Aelfgar. Ceidre almost felt uncontrollably sick.
And then she saw him.
In all truth, he took her breath away.
He sat his mean gray stallion as if he were born to the saddle. The destrier was bedecked with all his gear, including a royal-blue blanket, gold trimmed and beribboned. Blue and gold streamers waved from his mane and tail, from bit and bridle, even from Rolfe’s stirrups. The animal pranced, held tightly by his rider to a slow, tortured pace.
Rolfe’s tunic was the same rich royal blue, but of the finest weave, so fine it shimmered, reflecting the sunlight, making him appear to dazzle, like a god. In fact, his appearance was greeted by the most absolute hush of reverence and awe. Indeed, he seemed too beautiful to be mortal. His cape, a red velvet lined with gold, waved behind him. His scabbard was encrusted with jewels—with rubies and sapphires and yellow citrines. One of his hands rested casually upon the hilt, and on it flashed a huge signet ring of black pearl. His hose were dark red, garters blue. His spurs were gold, and they gleamed.
He sat straight and still. He did not smile. Ceidre found herself staring, and thought how much she hated him. She hated him for everything—for his usurping of Aelfgar, for this marriage to her sister, for his lust for her, for his unholy beauty. Bitterness welled like bile. He was almost passing her now, and his eyes suddenly riveted upon her. Ceidre hoped he could see just how much she despised him.
If only her heart did not feel as if it were breaking.
The ceremony was, as usual, short. It took place outside, so everyone could be witness, and within a few moments of their arrival, it was over. Rolfe, holding Alice’s hand in his, turned to face the crowd. Everyone roared with approval, rice and ribbons were thrown. He was tall and golden, she was petite and dark. And now they were man and wife, the lord and lady of Aelfgar.
The guard had run frantically into the bushes.
Ceidre had left the boisterous feast, unremarked amid all the revelry. She had crouched, waiting, for her chance. A bay mare was bridled, tethered in a copse of trees just beyond her. As the guard ran, Ceidre darted for the latch-door.
No one was about, of course, the entire village being at the wedding celebration. Ceidre threw the bolt and pried open the heavy stone. “Morcar! Morcar!”
She saw him rise and stand directly beneath her. “’Tis you, Ceidre?”
She flung down the rope ladder. “Hurry! Hurry!”
He had only been in the hold two days, and he scrambled up quickly. But outside he blinked, dazed. “I cannot see.”
Ceidre slammed down the door and bolted it. She took his arm and they began to run. “’Twill pass,” she whispered. She noticed his leg was stiff—and bandaged.
In the copse they halted. Morcar, his vision returned, grasped her shoulders. “Bless you,” he whispered.
“Your leg, how is it?”
“I am fine. The Norman sent a wench to tend me,” he said, untying the mare.
