Maybe, just maybe, there had been another conciliation between the Norman invader and her brothers. It had happened a year ago. William had taken both Edwin and Morcar back, had forgiven them, and they had resworn allegiance. If it had happened again, maybe Edwin had given this Norman Alice, and maybe a Norman bride had been given in return to him. Ceidre desperately hoped so. For the alternative was too unbearable: dispossession … death …
She imagined her half sister and the Norman standing side by side in the village church. He so golden, so tall and broad, she so petite and dark. Something tensed inside her. There was, unfortunately, no love lost between herself and her younger sister. But Ceidre would never, ever wish the Norman on Alice. She shuddered just to think about it, and, unbidden, a hot image of the Norman straining between her thighs taunted her. She pushed it grimly away, only to imagine him in the same position with her younger sister. Her body became so taut it felt like it might snap.
Well, the marriage hadn’t occurred yet, and although Alice was desperate for a husband, ever since Bill had died at Hastings, Ceidre would help her avoid this suit. There was no way she could let her little sister walk to the altar with this beast—their sworn enemy!
She paced. The tent was only a thin hide stretched over saplings, with a separate leather flap for a door, now closed. It was big enough to accommodate a few paces in either direction and the pallet—consisting of blankets and hides. It was his tent, she knew, just as she was certain it was his pallet. She would never lie on it.
It was still light out, the days being long in summer, and Ceidre could see the shadow under the hide door that hadn’t yet moved—Guy.
Her protector.
She wanted to laugh. Oh, she was a prisoner all right, even if he thought she was his bride. Somehow she had to escape. Get back to Aelfgar, warn Alice of her dire circumstances, then maybe the two of them could flee together, to find her brothers. Surely, if Edwin had arranged the marriage he could unarrange it, surely he would protect them. And then, knowing the vast burden he carried on his shoulders for all of their safety, and for all their people, for the entire north of England, for Aelfgar, Ceidre’s hopes sank. She could not add to Edwin’s vast responsibilities. She would have to resolve this situation and help Alice herself. And there was no time like the present.
Earlier they had brought her food, and thread, which Ceidre had used to mend her clothes. Now she eyed the cheese, bread, and ale. Then, in a rapid movement, she reached into the bodice of her gown, to the pouch she carried. Ceidre didn’t hesitate, but extracted some herbs finely ground into a powder and sprinkled them into the ale. She replaced the leather thong in her dress, smoothed back her hair, and calmly lifted the flap of the tent.
Guy Le Chante straightened and turned immediately. “My lady?”
Ceidre was well aware of Guy’s unease. He was tense, shifting slightly. She smiled at him. “Aren’t you tired, standing out here after riding all day?”
Guy flushed. He was her own age, she suspected, a year or two past twenty. “No, my lady, I’m fine.”
“I was about to eat,” Ceidre said, as gracious as any of full noble blood. “Please, join me in repast and conversation.”
Guy’s eyes widened. “I don’t know …”
“’Tis only for a few morsels and a few words,” Ceidre said. Then her eyes darkened. “Or is he such an ogre he denies you those rights as well?”
Guy stiffened. “My lord is no ogre, my lady. He is the finest of men, the finest of warriors. He is the king’s best man, and all the world knows it.”
Ceidre bit back a retort. “Am I allowed, then, to sit here in the fresh air with you?”
“Of course.”
Ceidre fetched the ale and food and sat delicately beside Guy, who, standing, shifted uncomfortably. The rest of the Norman’s men were scattered about, a good stone’s throw from her tent, for the sake of her privacy, she guessed. A large cookfire was going, one of the lambs spitted and roasting, bread baking in rock ovens. She saw the Norman instantly, sitting apart on a boulder, papers at hand. He was staring at her.
Ceidre went hot and jerked her glance away. “Please sit,” she invited Guy, her breath catching. The Norman’s regard was always like scorching embers— and she didn’t like it. Ceidre was no fool. She had witnessed lust most of her life—it was as natural as the wind and the rain. But never had she felt such intensity from a man before. It unnerved her.
She dared another glance his way. His bold gaze met hers instantly. Ceidre folded her arms across her breast and quickly gave him her back. She was trembling.
Her father, before his death five years past, had tried to arrange a marriage for her. Ceidre had been fifteen when he began, seventeen when he had died. The old, powerful eaorl’s first choice had been the second son of a northern lord, John of Landower. They had met once, at a joust. He was dark and lean and so very handsome, and there was also a softness to his brow that told of kindness. Knowing her father had picked this man to be her husband had overwhelmed her with unbearable joy—and Ceidre’s days and nights were soon filled with dreams of her wedding, her marriage, and a family replete with love and babes.
John had refused.
No amount of land or gold would entice him. No dowry could be large enough. He would not wed a witch.
Oh, her father had told her he had changed his mind, that the boy wasn’t good enough for her, but Ceidre heard the truth—gossip ran rampant around the manor. She would never let her father or her brothers see her hurt, but alone, she had grieved, cried hot, miserable tears, and finally asked God why He should give her such a deformity that the world thought her a witch.
The eaorl had chosen other suitors, but Ceidre, afraid they would refuse her just as John had, rejected them, outwardly pretending that they did not appeal to her. She knew her father would never force her into a marriage she said she did not want. She could not face such a rejection again. She knew no one wanted her—no one ever would. Somehow Ceidre feigned indifference as she casually refused each man her father brought to her attention. And she stopped dreaming her dreams.
Buthe, he looked at her with burning eyes, his hot lust bright and bold, for all to see.
He wantedher.
Guy was flustered by her invitation to sit and sup. “My lady …”
Ceidre poured the ale into a beaker and handed it to him. She felt a twinge of guilt. “Are you allowed to drink?”
“Of course,” Guy said. “Thank you.” He drained the cup.
