“The Wake is planning a rebellion against Roger Montgomery. Near Shrewsbury or not, I do not know.”
“Good,” Edwin said. “We will go to Aelfgar, and after, we will meet with Hereward the Wake.”
“What are you thinking?” Morcar demanded.
For the first time Edwin smiled. The sternness of his face was relieved, revealing handsome features and even white teeth. “I am thinking, brother, that in September we go to war. You, me, and Hereward the Wake.”
“Will she die?” Alice asked.
The maid, Mary, stood next to her in the solar as they stared at Ceidre’s wet, trembling form on the bed. “I dunno,” Mary whispered.
Alice clenched the cord of her girdle as if it were a rosary, worrying it continuously. She had denied Ceidre her grandmother—after all, she was a witch, and Alice was not about to have another witch in her home—and, enjoying her immense, newfound power, she had also denied her any further care. A sennight had passed. No one had been allowed into the room except Alice, not even Mary, who would gossip. Ceidre had shriveled up before her eyes, wasting away with fever. She had lost her temptress’s beauty. She was a gaunt skeleton of her old self.
“Do you think she will die?” Alice demanded again impatiently.
Mary shifted nervously. “I think so,” she squeaked. She had never been asked by her mistress for her opinion before and was afraid to give it.
Alice had always hoped Ceidre would die. In the beginning, a week ago, when she had locked Ceidre in with a bare minimum of water and nothing else, she had felt triumph. The witch would learn her place, she would suffer; and when Alice had realized a day later that her sister was ill, she had hoped that she would die. But now there was no feeling of triumph, just anxiety:
If Ceidre died, would she be blamed?
She thought of the Norman and tried to imagine what he would do. Her anxiety made her want to vomit. She had no doubts he would lock her in some shed and throw away the key—forever. After whipping her, of course. Alice vividly imagined herself under the lash, she could even feel its excruciating pain as it sliced open her delicate skin. She shuddered. Tears came to her eyes. It wasn’t fair. Ceidre would die if left unattended, and it was what she deserved. But Alice would pay a price she could not afford and was afraid to face. Therefore, she would have to try to save her wretched sister. But what if she died anyway?
“Send for that old witch, Mary, and now. No.” Alice grabbed her arm. “You get her yourself, tell her Ceidre is dying, make her bring all her potions. Quickly. Go!” Alice pushed her hard out the door.
She walked forward to stand over her shaking, fevered sister. She wished the Norman could see her now. He would feel no lust, only revulsion. It was a wonderful fantasy, but reality intruded. Lord Rolfe would punish her, Alice, if he saw Ceidre now, so Alice realized she had better pray that Ceidre make a fast recovery before he returned. There were other ways to get rid of her bastard sister; hadn’t he said he would consider marrying her off? Maybe he would marry her to a Scot to secure his northern borders, and that would be the end of Ceidre. What a perfect idea!
Alice decided to go to the chapel. The whole village would know that she was praying for her sister’s health. And she would make sure to pray every day.
Ceidre saw Death.
Death was not a leering, grotesque old man. Nor was he the devil. Instead, she was sweet and beautiful and seductive, an enchantress offering peace ever after. The woman floated above her, around her, her ghostly flesh sweet and fragrant, her hair long and honey blond. She was perfectly formed too, and very beautiful. She smiled, and with her finger she beckoned.
Yes, Ceidre thought, I will go. I must, I cannot stay another moment in this living hell.
She hurt. Her entire body was in agony, as if crushed beneath stones. She was on fire. Throbbing. She needed water, but had none. A thought occurred —maybe she had died—maybe this was hell. Then she heard her sister’s voice, asking if she would die, and she knew she was still alive.
She thought of the Norman, and anger raised its head. Death still beckoned, smiling serenely. “No,” Ceidre tried to shout. “I cannot go yet. Go away!”
But she came closer, still smiling, so enchanting Ceidre wondered if she was a witch. Then she gasped, shocked. She realized that the woman beckoning her, floating so close, Death, was herself.
It could not be.
Ceidre reached out, to touch the womanly spirit in her exact image as it hovered nearby. Her other self, or Death, or whoever it was, reached for her, palm open, fingers spread. With horror, Ceidre realized Death wanted to touch her, to take her hand and lead her away from her earthly self. In confusion, she wondered if she were looking at her soul, about to depart this life.
“Come,” Death crooned, her voice sweet and soft. “Come with me now.”
Ceidre was panting and afraid. If her soul had left, then she was truly dead. An image of the Norman reared itself before her, his eyes hot and bright, his face hard and unyielding. “No,” she shouted, dropping her hand, no longer tempted to touch the ghostly apparition. “Go away, I will not come, not yet. ’Tis too soon.”
Death came closer.
Ceidre shrank away. But there was nowhere to go, and still the woman, her mirror image, approached. Ceidre knew she had lost, and she wept. When Death had put her face to hers, Ceidre closed her eyes for the end of all earthly time. Nothing happened. When she opened them, the eerie reflection of herself had gone.
And her grandmother smiled at her through thick tears. “Don’t cry now, sweeting, ’twill be all right. You have come back, Ceidre, you have come back.”
Ceidre fell back against the pillows, exhausted. She closed her eyes but gripped the flesh-and-blood hand of her granny, refusing to give it up. Had it been a dream? Or had she seen her own soul?
True to his word, Rolfe returned to Aelfgar within a fortnight of his departure.
