Ceidre wanted to call out and tell her she needed poultices from her grandmother or she would get an infection, but she did not have the strength. All she could do was shed a few lonely tears. And it was evening before the cup of water came.
The stone of York gleamed diffused shades of tawny white. William was taking no chances; this time the castle would be stone and impenetrable. The wooden palisade surrounding the burned-out shell of the old timbered keep had been replaced with York’s glinting pale stone. It was completely finished.
Rolfe and his men rode past the construction site. Most of York’s villagers had been summoned to this task. Huge winches and pulleys were used to move the big blocks about on the site, but it was manpower that settled each block into its precise place. Oxen pulled sleds transporting the stone from the quarry. Activity was intense and constant, drays approaching with stone and supplies, serfs working the winches, men beneath the stone blocks, supporting them as they were raised or let down, knots of villagers shimmying blocks into place in the tower itself. Vendors hawked bread and pies, mutton and ale. Those too young to be enlisted in the royal effort ran barefoot, chasing one another, puppies on their heels. The first and ground story of the new tower had been nearly finished as well.
They had not wasted any time, and it was three days since he had left Aelfgar, a bright, hot late June afternoon. They rode through the city, because York, a trade center since the days of the Danes, had a wide thoroughfare. It sprawled right up against the moat and palisade of William’s castle. Immediately their arrival began to be communicated by the housewives and aldermen, by the peddlers and beggars, by vendors and pickpockets, through every alley and doorway and window of York. Rolfe heard his own name roil off someone’s lips in a hushed, awed excitement, not without a little fear, on more than one occasion.
William resided inside the palisade’s walls, of course. The purple pennant bearing his crest was visible from outside those walls, floating high above the village on a pole. They rode across a drawbridge and into the inner bailey.
Rolfe left orders for his men and rode directly to William’s tent. A page took his stallion, another announced him. William was closeted with Odo, his half brother and one of his most powerful nobles now that Odo had Dover, and the Bishop of York, a Saxon, Ealdred. It was common knowledge that Odo coveted this bishopric, and Rolfe was certain he would have it —sooner if not later.
William was clad, as usual for him when not in battle or afield, in a long cream-colored tunic and girdle, delicately embroidered in ivy green, a velvet purple mantle draping his broad shoulders. He was delighted to see Rolfe. “Get up, man,” he cried when Rolfe went down immediately on one knee. “Up, rise, dispense with the formalities. Where is he? I wish to spit upon that treacherous swine!”
Rolfe rose. His gaze was unflinching. No messenger could have come swifter than he, and in truth, he had not wanted to subject one of his men to William’s wrath. Not when it was his fault “Morcar has escaped, Your Grace.”
William, stared, just for an instant, and then he bellowed, cursing. He knocked over a table, venting a huge fury. Odo and Ealdred were standing. William turned on them. “Out, out,” he shouted, his eyes bulging, his face above his beard red. “No, you stay,” he roared at Odo when he too turned to leave. Ealdred ducked hastily outside.
William turned to Rolfe. “Explain yourself.”
“He escaped during the wedding feast. By the time it was found out, ’twas too late. He is gone. I am at your disposal.” Rolfe, expressionless, dropped again to one knee.
William shouted, cursed, and paced. Odo remained silent in the background. Finally he stopped in front of Rolfe, staring down at his bowed head. “I cannot believe this,” he said, under control, his famous temper reined in with an iron hand. “You are my most trusted commander. How could this happen? Was it treason? Was your guard bribed to look the other way?”
Rolfe’s insides tightened. He remained on one knee, head bowed. “My guard was taken ill. He left his post because of the malady and has been stripped of his duties. I deemed further chastisement unnecessary.”
“Get up so I can look at you,” William said, and when Rolfe did, he continued. “He was poisoned?”
“Yes.”
“Damn.” William punched his fist into his open palm. “These Saxon are a nest of vipers, but I will break them, yes I will!” He pierced Rolfe with his black gaze again. “I take it the perpetrator of this deed of treason has been found?”
Rolfe’s heart leapt, then quieted. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“I want the details,” William said. “Are you reluctant?”
“No. ’Twas a serf. A woman. She gave my man the poison, then freed Morcar. She has been dealt with.”
“Dealt with? You had better mean hanged!”
Rolfe met his gaze. He was pierced with something he could not name, something that felt like fear. And it was not for himself. Yet the moment had come, and he could not lie to his king. “She was flogged, Your Grace. She will not commit treason again.”
William actually blinked. “Have you taken leave of your senses! This serf cost me the leader of the last rebellion—and she is merely whipped? What is the meaning of this, Rolfe?”
Now was the moment when he should reveal Ceidre’s identity to his king. Rolfe stared back at William. There was nothing compromising in his look, or in his tone when he spoke, but nor was there a challenge. “My lord, she is a serf—my serf. You have never had cause to question me before. I have punished her. She is in my keeping, under guard. In my judgment hanging would have incited the inhabitants to further treason, therefore I exercised restraint. ’Twould also have incited the brothers, personal vengeance added to political rebellion. I believe I have acted wisely. Yet I know that Morcar’s escape is, ultimately, my responsibility. I await whatever you deem just penalty for my failure.” Rolfe held William’s gaze and again dropped to one knee; then he looked down.
William stared at his bowed head, then paced away. He finally turned back. “Your duties as castellan of York are suspended. My sentence is light—because you I trust more than my own right arm. But know well, Rolfe, were you any other, I would strip you here and now of everything you possess. You may go.”
Rolfe rose gracefully. He supposed he had gotten off lightly—but he was angry and using iron discipline not to let it show. He could barely believe what had just happened—that he had been relieved of the castellanship of York—and with it, half of his power. He had expected chastisement, but nothing of this magnitude. And it was all because of that witch, he thought furiously.
Everything was because of that witch.
For he had, in fact, in deed, betrayed his king. Had he also betrayed himself?
“Rolfe.” William’s smooth voice halted him just before he exited the tent. “Bring me their heads and you will have redeemed yourself.”
Edwin paced.
Morcar, usually the volatile one, squatted by the campfire, poking it with a stick. He was not paying attention to what he was doing; he was regarding his brother. Edwin’s strides were long, slow, and deliberate. He was deep in thought. Albie stood silently, half in the shadows of the woods, regarding both brothers.
