Ceidre looked at the paper. “I know not what it is.”
“It addresses you. ’Tis from your brother Edwin.”
Her heart stopped, then renewed its beat. “’Tis a lie! That is not mine! I have never seen it! I did not receive it! I did not!”
Beltain was very somber. “It addresses you, ’twas found in your chamber, and it is from your brother. Someone passed this on to you. Who?”
“No one, I tell you,” she cried, truly furious at this deceit. “This is all false, ’tis a trap!”
“You have committed treason before,” Beltain said. “The whole world knows this. Before your marriage, my lord had you guarded night and day because he did not trust you. Nor do I trust you, and the evidence is clear.” He paused.
“She is very shrewd, Beltain,” Alice remarked. “And she is a witch. If you do not throw her in the dungeons she could well escape—and my lord would be enraged.”
Ceidre froze.
“She will not escape,” Beltain said heavily. “She is Guy’s wife, I cannot throw her in the dungeons. But I, personally, will guard her.”
Ceidre closed her eyes briefly in relief.
“No!” Alice cried. “She will cast a spell and you, like the others, will be impotent to fight it! Believe me, I know!”
Ceidre could not believe this was happening, and she turned a cold, angry gaze upon Alice. “You did this, did you not? Tell me, as I know you cannot write yourself, who wrote this note, this forgery?”
Alice ignored her. “I warn you,” she said to Beltain. “I warn you! Remember Morcar’s escape!”
Beltain turned heavily to Ceidre. “I am sorry, but Lady Alice is right. Put her in the dungeons,” he said to the two knights.
“Wait!” Ceidre cried, frantic now. “Let me see that note!”
Beltain shrugged and handed it to her. Ceidre glanced at it, then lifted a desperate gaze. “This is not Ed’s writing!”
“It matters not whether he wrote it himself,” Beltain said. “He probably cannot write and had a friar write it for him. Take her down now.”
“No, please!” Ceidre grabbed Beltain’s sleeve. “Please, I beg you!”
She was propelled forward, Beltain regarding her with pity and disgust. She twisted to look at her sister. “Do not do this,” she pleaded wildly. “Alice, what will you gain? When the Norman returns—”
“He will have you hanged!” Alice cried.
With a thud, the rock door closed above her, immersing her in total blackness.
Ceidre did not move. She stood completely still, barely breathing, clutching herself. Her heart was thundering so hard she was afraid it might explode. She tried to take a deep breath and failed, choking. The air was thick and closed and foul with human excrement. Because it was summer, she had been barefoot, and now wet, slimy mud oozed through her toes. It was damp and cool in the dungeons, but that was not why she was trembling. Her tremors increased.
She was not alone, and she knew it. She could hear movement, slight, scuffling movement—rats. Tears came to her eyes. As much as she hated the Norman, she started praying frantically for his return. She was sure he would have her released the instant he returned, but even if they only stopped for a day at Dumstanbrough, that would still be two days away. At the earliest. She would not survive.
She moaned, a long, low sound. The shaking of her body became violent, her breathing became fast and shallow. And still she could not get air into her lungs.
Gasping for air, desperate to fill her constricted lungs, she started to cry. She had to get out of here! Somehow, she had to! She could not breathe—she could feel the walls caving in on her! She would suffocate, she was suffocating, she would be buried alive! With a scream, half a sob, Ceidre leapt for the trapdoor. It was way above her head, taller than two men, but she sobbed and leapt, tears streaming down her face, again and again, gasping for air, her heart speeding out of her chest. She had to get out, she had to! Somehow she had found the wall, the dirt hard and dry, and she began frantically, hysterically, to claw at it. “Let me out,” she screamed. “Let me out,” she sobbed. She clawed and clawed, ripping her nails, weeping, trying to climb up to the door. She would get a foot off the floor, only to slide helplessly back down. Finally she fell sobbing and panting onto the ground.
Something warm and alive touched her foot.
Ceidre screamed again, jumping up. She attacked the wall with all of her strength. Her nails ripped, warm blood oozing down her fingers, but she was oblivious. She renewed her efforts. They were superhuman—or those of a madwoman.
The advent of dawn carried with it the same potency Rolfe had felt the night before, except the intangible feeling had increased. Rolfe awakened with his instincts keen, as if alerted to and sensing out danger. ’Twas almost as if they were foretelling an ambush. Urgency crackled in the air. “We will not dwell,” he told Guy, and ordered his men to depart.
The feeling of urgency grew. Rolfe pushed his men at a faster pace than they had come, although not carelessly, his gaze attuned to every sight around them, his ears to every sound. He was expecting something thing ominous. But when they finally made camp, way after dusk, no event had arrived to shatter their tranquility. Rolfe could not sleep, tense with foreboding and filled with this urgent need to return to Aelfgar.
They arrived before noon the next day. Rolfe had half expected to find Aelfgar under attack or razed to the ground. The sight of his keep and the village, both intact, relieved him, but, annoyingly, he could not shake the dread apprehension clinging to his soul. Alice, ever dutiful, greeted him in the courtyard, telling him she had already ordered a bath. Rolfe nodded, waving her away, turning to Beltain. He instantly remarked the knight’s somber countenance. “What has passed? What has happened in my absence?”
