Ceidre saw that his thigh and arm were both neatly wrapped, and she was stunned that the Norman had had him cared for. Morcar leapt onto the filly’s bare back. Ceidre jerked herself out of her reverie. “God go with you,” she cried.
“And you, Ceidre,” he said, blue eyes flashing. Despite his pallor, he was the Morcar she knew and loved, proud, handsome, nostrils flared now with the scent of escape. “I will be back,” he said.
He wheeled the bay and galloped into the woods. Ceidre watched him disappear, and only then did she sink trembling to the ground. She could not help it— she began to release some well-deserved tears.
Rolfe did not smile.
He sat beside his bride beneath an ancient walnut tree as his men and the villagers drank, ate, and danced all around them. He did not drink, nor did he eat. His headache had not lessened, and he still felt overly ill. In truth, he was somewhat dazed. He could not believe it had come to pass. He was finally married. He looked at his bride.
Her face was flushed. She was nibbling daintily, and feeling his regard, she turned to look at him. Her eyes were wide, tremulous, yet excited. She smiled.
Rolfe did not smile back. He turned away, wanting nothing more than a gallop in the fresh air—perhaps that would restore his natural humors. Barring that, he was ready for bed. He was very tired, like a laggard. Had he not slept at all last night? The aftereffects of the wine were worse than he had ever imagined, and now he understood what most men suffered from time to time.
“Are you not hungry, my lord?” Alice asked, for the third time.
“No.”
“Does the feast not please you?”
“It pleases me,” he said, wishing she would not bother to make aimless conversation. He was most distinctly not in the mood.
“Perhaps some wine?” She held up the bag.
He lifted a hand. “No, Lady, please, my head aches and I am most tired. Eat as you will, but leave me to my preferences.”
Alice replaced the bag and restrained herself from scowling.
Rolfe folded his arms and stared, unseeing and bored, out at the crowd.
And so the celebration went on.
It had been endless, but now it was finally over.
Rolfe paced the solar, waiting for word that he could enter his chamber where his bride readied herself. Never had he been so tired, his every joint aching, his head now, thankfully, numb. It was not late, but he longed to lie down and embrace the comfort of sleep. Yet this was his wedding night. He would be, he thought, very lucky if he could find any desire for the wench who was his wife. In truth, he was not just too tired to bed her, he was too tired to deal with this entire new circumstance of wedlock.
Alice was shaking. She could not help it. She had finally attained her heart’s desire, to be the Norman’s wife. But now, now she was clad in her finest nightgown, all sheer lace, awaiting him in his bed. Now she must pay the price—and she dreaded it.
She recalled very clearly his thick body, overly large with muscle and sinew. He was repulsive. At least her betrothed, Bill, now dead, had been more pleasing to her eye. He had been slim and slender and graceful— not in the least frightening. Nor had he been a boor! Oh, God, how she wished she could close her eyes and sleep through the upcoming ordeal. But she could not. Nor could she cry and scream. Ceidre enjoyed her husband’s embraces, so she must prove herself equally receptive. She must bear it, and pretend to be well pleased. Again Alice shuddered.
He entered.
Alice clutched the covers and stared. As usual, he had been rude and withdrawn all day, and now, now he was no different. He did not spare her even a glance! He began to strip, unashamed, right in front of her. Alice got a glimpse of his broad, hard chest and lean flanks and immediately turned her face away. She would not look if she did not have to.
The bed shifted under his weight as he climbed in from the other side. Alice froze, unable to breathe. He groaned and sighed. She waited, perspiring now. He did not touch her. In fact, he was absolutely still. Slowly, carefully, Alice moved her head.
He was lying on his back, one hand flung across his eyes, sound asleep.
Alice stared, shocked.
Her first reaction, relief, fled. On its heels came disbelief—he did not even desire her—then anger. He would brand her sister with his hot looks and his big lance, but her he would ignore! She was his bride, but until he lay with her, they were not truly wed, not in God’s eyes or the church’s. Alice seethed.
Rolfe awoke gradually, the deep sleep he had entertained leaving slowly. He was aware of the warmth emanating from the other side of the bed, and, groping, his hand touched the soft flesh of another, of a woman.
His first thought was ecstatic—Ceidre. She was here, in his bed, awaiting his pleasure. Then disappointment and remembrance reared itself at once.
’Twas not Ceidre.
He had only to turn his head to see his bride. The lady Alice.
