Guy nodded.
“Find Ceidre,” Rolfe said. “And chain her in the stables, with a guard.” “Yes, my lord,” Guy said.
Rolfe turned and walked to the large trestle table, his back to the company. He stood unmoving, and then his arm rose. His fist came smashing down. All his raw power was in the blow. The noise was deafening; the table cracked.
Ceidre shifted and tried to find a more comfortable position upon the straw. Her wrists were tied behind her and from there secured to a post in the stable. Her guard sat upon a bale of hay, ten yards from her, arms folded, watching those who passed by. And the passersby were many.
She no longer flushed as, upon one pretext or another, the villagers strolled by to gawk and stare. She had been sitting here for half the day. She was used to their slack-jawed gaping and even to their pity. Everyone had made a point of coming to see this new attraction, and the whispered word treason abounded.
Alice had come too. Her stride had been hard and purposeful, eyes dark and bright. Ceidre had stiffened instinctively, the movement causing the rope to dig into her flesh and burn. She sensed the worst. “Now you will pay, witch,” Alice had hissed. “Now you will pay!”
Her sister had shaken her already shattered nerves as no one else had. Thankfully, she did not pause to stay and taunt, but hurried on. Ceidre blinked back tears, trembling. Her own sister hated her enough to gloat. And Alice was right, now she would pay. She knew the price well, she had been warned.
Oh, sweet Mary, what would he do?
Ceidre was afraid.
She had known the instant she saw Guy approaching this morning that he had come for her. There had been no point in running—where should she go? She had waited, near the village well, facing him valiantly, head held high. She had been very certain Guy would take her to the Norman. So despite her outward poise, there had been thick unease within her. Her heart had wings and fluttered like a trapped bird. She must not show fear. She must not shiver like a stray in winter. Yet instead she had been escorted to the stables and tied up. And here she had been all morning and all afternoon. With no food, not even a blanket to sit upon. Not that she could eat, she would surely vomit if she tried. An hour past she’d been brought a cup of water to wet her dry, parched throat, and was finally allowed to answer her body’s needs.
When would he come?
Fear lurched in her breast again. It was a formidable lump that she could not swallow. With the passing of time it grew, expanding uncontrollably. His rage would be beyond anything she had ever seen before. If only he would come and the confrontation could be gotten over with! This waiting was torture of the worst sort, and she could not stand it another minute! Perspiration had long since gathered under her arms and between her breasts and upon her brow. She knew, with certainty, he kept her waiting like this apurpose, to feed her fear. And it succeeded.
And her worst fears began to rear themselves in the darkest hours of the night.
Would he hang her?
She prayed for mercy.
Ceidre would not beg information from her guard, although she desperately wanted to. She would not beg for audience, or to know her fate. Yet the thought came—if she begged the Norman, if she wept, if she clung to him, perhaps he would show mercy. She imagined him standing there, stone-faced, ruthless, cold-hearted, while she clutched at his tunic, begging for leniency. She knew positively then that he would not spare her this time. Her mind, traitorous to her soul, sped on. What if she tried to use a woman’s wiles to gain his mercy? No! She could not! She could not weep, beg, or seduce! No, she would never beg—she would staunchly bear whatever she must, even if it were her own death.
She was going to be hanged.
She had committed treason, her life was forfeit.
She could not sleep. Nor could she cry. Instead, she sat huddled and frozen, her mind conjuring up the worst images of herself—dangling at the end of a rope.
Rolfe’s eyes were bloodshot, and they mirrored his frustration. He sat alone in the hall, as he had all night, after ordering everyone out. He had dozed. But his dreams had been nightmares of the worst sort. Ceidre screaming, her back bare and bloody, while his man whipped her with his lash. Rolfe had screamed for a halt, yet the gory flogging had continued. He realized, as he shouted again, that he was opening his mouth, screaming as hard as he could—but no sound was being emitted. And then he woke up, sweating and trembling, to find himself sitting at the table in the hall where he had passed the entire night.
He could not do it.
He had to.
Rolfe rubbed his face and his eyes. He was a commander. His word was law. He controlled his men and the occupied territories because the threat of punishment for a breach or treason was real. His fist was iron; it had to be. He rarely showed mercy. His men rarely disobeyed. Traitors were whipped, if boys or women; male adults hanged. Harsher lessons were dealt in the more difficult territories, as just due to more serious instances of rebellion. At Kesop, the village had been razed for the villagers had harbored a dozen Saxon archers. ’Twas the declared policy. If a policy was declared, it must be the law, with no exceptions. Or soon, very soon, there would be chaos and anarchy.
He could not do it.
“My lord?”
Rolfe had not heard Guy enter. He gestured for him to sit. “I cannot do it.”
Guy, ever his closest man, understood. “She has bewitched you from the first, my lord.”
“Aye, that is true.”
“My lord,” Guy said urgently, “there is not a soul in the village who does not know what she has done.”
“I know.”
