Now he truly smiled. “Come here, Ceidre,” he said quite amiably.
“I just came to get another tunic,” she mumbled hastily. “I—I did not want to disturb you.”
He was still smiling. “Come, Ceidre.” His gesture was expansive.
She came forward, out of the gloom of the corner, until she was an arm’s length from him. Her heart beat wildly, he was unruffled and calm. “Sit,” he said.
Her gaze widened. He pulled out Alice’s chair, and with a hand on her shoulder, she found herself sitting beside him. He casually draped his big frame back in his own chair. The messenger finished his pie, rubbed his hands together, and burped. “My lady,” he said.
“She is not my lady,” Rolfe drawled. “She is Lady Alice’s sister.” Then he proceeded to ask the messenger about his journey, about the villages he had passed through, the attitude of the villagers, the state of their harvest, the conditions of the road. Ceidre stared at the scroll, so near Rolfe’s hand. They discussed the weather. They discussed Hugh of Bramber, who was wedding a Saxon heiress. They discussed everything but the royal missive.
Ceidre sat very still, so as not to draw attention to herself, wondering what he was doing, why he had told her to sit, and trying not to look at the scroll. Her gaze kept wandering back to it, and Rolfe’s hand, relaxed on the table, a centimeter from the missive.
“I do not begrudge Hugh Bramber,” Rolfe finally said. “He is a good man, and he will secure his fiefdom well.”
“Yes, my lord,” the messenger said agreeably.
Rolfe reached for the scroll. He finally glanced at Ceidre, who felt herself flush. Then, to the messenger, he said, “You may go.”
The man bowed and left, swaggering away. The effect was ruined when he broke wind, loudly. Rolfe toyed with the scroll, and Ceidre tore her gaze from it again, with increasing difficulty. She was perspiring. He was playing with her, wasn’t he? She lifted her eyes to his. He was regarding her steadily, casually. Was there the hint of amusement in that cool blue gaze?
“Do you read, Ceidre?”
She could not believe her good fortune; she almost choked on it. “Y-yes.”
His head inclined slightly. “’Tis most unusual for a man, much less a woman.”
“Yes.”
“But then, you are most unusual, are you not?” She stared into his gaze. Was he referring to her evil eye? What did he want? He smiled, once, and began unrolling the scroll. Her heart sank when he held it up and perused it. Then he lowered it. “I do not read. Read it to me.”
Her heart stopped, then began racing again. Her hands trembled as she took the scroll. She dared not look at him. “First,” she said huskily, and coughed to clear her throat, “there are greetings from William. It says”—and her heart sank—“that a spy has been caught, a spy of—of my brothers.”
“Continue.”
“Another rebellion is planned, but the spy did not know when, or where. Maybe it will be soon. This is an alert.” She rerolled the scroll nervously. Her mind was racing. Who had been caught? Was Edwin truly planning another uprising—this soon? It was too soon! The Normans would be waiting now. She had to warn them!
She realized he was watching her intently. She blushed again, handing him his missive. He stuck it into the flame of a candle, setting it on fire. Rolfe held the scroll aloft, studying it as it burned. His face was impassive. But his mind was not.
The bait had been taken; the trap was set.
Teddy’s father was her uncle, her mother’s brother, Feldric. He was a dozen years older than Ceidre, and widowed. Teddy was his youngest, at fourteen. It was a few minutes later, and Ceidre was no longer feigning nonchalance, as she had when she strolled into the village with one of Rolfe’s men trailing after her. Feldric was stacking bushels of wood. “I cannot,” he said.
“Oh, you must, I beg you! Think about Annie!” Ceidre cried, referring to her mother.
“That is not fair,” Feldric said, pausing, a hand in his gray hair.
“What has happened to my brothers is not fair,” she shot back. “Feldric, we must warn them that the Normans are aware of their plans! We must! I know you can find them. Look,” she said urgently. “I would go if I could, but that brute outside guards me every minute of every day. Tonight you can slip away, Feldric. Once you are in the fens, as a Saxon, you will find them instantly. Please.”
He sighed. “All right,” he said. “I will do my best. But if I cannot find them in a fortnight, I am returning, and that is that.”
“Thank you,” Ceidre said, meaning it. “Thank you.”
That night Feldric left, on foot. Beltain followed.
Ceidre awoke the next morning with a strange, eerie feeling of anticipation. Mingled with this was worry, over what she had discovered the day before, and elation—she had sent her own messenger to find her brothers. She was finally doing something to aid Edwin and Morcar, and the taste of her activity was sweet. It was also heightened by a personal victory—she had fooled the Norman. She had actually succeeded in outwitting him!
His eyes stroked her lazily during the noonday meal. Ceidre felt as if her guilt showed, as if he could read it —she could not meet his gaze. Then she chastised herself, for there was no guilt to feel—it was her duty to abet her brothers, her duty to fight the Norman. But it was guilt she felt, or something suspiciously like it.
