It was a roar. He shoved her away, and she stumbled. Then she fled.
She could run away.
It wasn’t too late.
This was Ceidre’s last thought the following evening before sleep claimed her, and it was her first waking thought the morning of her wedding.
The time since the Norman had informed her of her marriage had passed in a blur. She was aware of panic and fear. She was about to be married to a man she barely knew, a Norman, her enemy, and one day, maybe soon, she would be leaving Aelfgar—forever. Panic and fear swelled, strong and nauseating. This was happening too fast. She could not let her fate be decided like this!
She was aware of failure. She had a mission to fulfill, for Ed and Morcar. Even now they probably thought her warming the Norman’s bed, his mistress. Yet she was no closer to this goal than she had been when she had agreed to do her brother’s bidding; in fact, she had never been farther from it. She was not about to become his mistress, she was about to be married to one of his men.
Hurt. It was there, raising its awful, multifanged head. She fought it, denied it. But it was there. She hurt inside, like a wounded cub. He did not want her. He had rejected her. He had married her sister. Alice warmed his bed every night. She, she was nothing but an amusing diversion, a light dalliance. This was now proven—because he had rejected her overtures of the past few days and was now, in the crowning rejection of them all, marrying her to his own best man.
Ceidre cried. She did not want him, she told herself furiously. She hated him, she always had. But the rejection was foul and bitter. She, who had been rejected so many times, was rejected again. Why was she not used to it? Why was she not immune to these crushing feelings? Why did she feel as crushed as she had the time her father lied, telling her the suitor he had approached was not good enough for her, that he had changed his mind, when in truth she knew she had been rejected again?
She told herself she cried because she had failed Ed and Morcar. Not because the one man who had ever dared to treat her as a woman had only been amusing himself, and had now cast her off, finding a better use for her, while he slept with her sister.
It was not too late. She could run away. Yet where would she go? To Ed, wearing her failure like a banner upon her arm? Should she hide in the woods, like a wild animal? She would be hunted, this she knew, and she even supposed he would eventually find her. She did not doubt his prowess over her. Ultimately the end result would be the same—the altar.
Ceidre stared at the ceiling of the great hall. Everyone had long since risen and left, but she did not care. Depression was vast, weighing her down. The best she could do, she decided, was marry Guy and spy upon him as well as the Norman. At least, that way, she would still be fighting for Aelfgar.
It was no consolation.
Ceidre’s best gown was a bright, sun-gold yellow. She had always loved it. Today she hated it. Alice watched while Ceidre allowed Mary and Beth to help her don it. Alice abruptly cried out for them to halt.
“Take it off,” She said.
Ceidre barely looked at her, not really caring what she was up to. Alice turned and ran across the hall into her and Rolfe’s chamber. Ceidre was being dressed in the solar. The ceremony was to take place shortly thereafter at the chapel. A small feast, nowhere as elaborate as the one given upon Rolfe’s wedding day, had been prepared. Rolfe had given Guy his old chamber in the original manor, now in the bailey. Ceidre felt sick.
Alice returned, carrying something. “Take off that wretched undertunic,” she ordered Ceidre. “’Tis most unseemly for a bride.”
Ceidre did not care. Her undertunic was plain wool, ivory, worn in places, a simple shift. Mary helped her draw it off, and Alice handed her a tunic of her own. “You want to look your best for your groom, Ceidre,” she purred.
The tunic was virginal white, almost new, the finest weave, so fine it was sheer. Ceidre hated it. Mary slipped it over her head. Alice was much smaller than she was, so it fit like a glove. “’Tis too small,” she noted listlessly.
With a needle and thread, Mary let out the bust and hips. It still fit like a second skin, but at least this time it would not tear at the seams. The brilliant yellow gown followed, with a purple girdle. Beth began brushing Ceidre’s long, flowing tresses, murmuring all the while about how she was the most beautiful bride ever to be. “And all this hair! Incredible, so long, and so thick! Guy will be a lusty one, he will, when he sees you! Like a goddess, you are—”
“Shut up, Beth,” Alice snapped.
Mary wove yellow carnations into her hair. They formed a wreath around the crown of her head, then trailed down through the loose mass. Ceidre refused to look at herself in the proffered looking glass.
Rolfe was waiting for them downstairs, outside on the steps of the keep. He regarded her without expression. Ceidre, seeing him, felt an awful stabbing, and humiliation followed the hurt. She allowed herself a moment’s anger, seeking it, relishing it, and she glared, wishing she could smite him dead on the spot. He was completely indifferent, gesturing to the white palfrey awaiting her, the same one Alice had ridden to her wedding. Her feeling of being sick increased.
Guy was waiting at the chapel. Rolfe, as her lord and master, would give her away. He held the palfrey’s bridle and they descended down the motte and through the portcullis. The chapel was in the bailey, and everyone from Aelfgar had turned out for this event.
Ceidre did not look at anyone. She stared, instead, somewhat blindly at her palfrey’s dainty ears. Her gaze wandered to the squared shoulders of the man leading her mount. He was dressed for the occasion, in a royal-blue tunic and red mantle. She had a flashing image of how he had looked as he rode his stallion to his own wedding, godlike, pagan, beautiful, and ruthless. Recollections started to tumble, one after the other, through her mind—Rolfe stroking his own sex, Rolfe carrying her inside after the flogging; Rolfe drunk, smiling, cajoling a kiss from her; Rolfe as he sat his steed, ordering the razing of Kesop. As if feeling her regard, he abruptly glanced at her. Ceidre hoped her hatred showed. He looked away.
Guy was standing nervously in front of the chapel with Father Green, who, if in his cups, was hiding it well. Guy had also dressed for the occasion, in a fine green velvet mantle and tunic, with red hose. He blushed, not looking at her but once.
Rolfe helped her dismount, his touch impersonal, and led her to Guy. He stepped back. Father Green raised his voice, coughing once. To Guy, he said, “Hast thou will to have this women as thy wedded wife?”
“Yes, sir.”
“May thou well find at thy best to love her and hold ye to her and to no other to thy lives end.” “Yes, sir,” Guy said.
“Then take her by your hand and say after me I, Guy Le Chante, take thee, Ceidre, in form of holy church, to my wedded wife, forsaking all other, holding me holiest to thee, in sickness and health, in riches and poverty, in well and in woe, till death do us depart, and there to I plight ye my troth.”
Guy repeated the words, and it was done.
