The Conqueror Page 8

  Alice’s lashes flew up. “But she is any common serf!”

  “She is your sister.”

  “My half sister—some serf’s brat.”

  “She is still the eaorl’s daughter, Lady, and that raises her above the place you would have her. She will not work like a common peasant in the kitchens.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Alice waited a beat, until he had relaxed slightly. “My lord?”

  He waited, impatiently now.

  “What tasks should she perform, then? She is a mouth to be fed. Every serf at Aelfgar works for his fare, this you know.”

  “I will find her other duties. Enough of this topic.” He started down the stairs.

  Alice touched his sleeve. “My lord?”

  He made no effort to hide his annoyance. “What now?”

  “You have not said”—she took a breath—“when we will be wed.”

  A frown flitted across his features. “I have not? I thought I had. In a fortnight, if it suits you.”

  Relief brought a wide, happy smile to Alice’s face. “Oh, yes,” she cried. “It suits me well!”

  Ceidre did not appear for the noon meal, but Rolfe assumed she was resting, and was satisfied. However, at supper there was no sign of her either, and he began to worry. He knew she was not well. Anger rose in him again at the thought of his bride’s little scheme, for he was certain she had abused her power over her sister in her jealousy. He wondered if it had always been this way, Alice ordering Ceidre to unpleasant tasks, the girl, being low-born, having no choice but to obey. It was only natural that she obey, but it bothered Rolfe— and he had never in his life questioned the natural order of things, nor sympathized with a serf’s plight.

  He had not been aware of the fact that she was a serf until Alice had mentioned it. Now he felt pleased with the thought—she belonged to him. Before, when he had erroneously assumed her to be just another member of his household, she also had to obey his authority, but this was entirely different. She could not travel without his permission, not one foot off his land. To do so would be considered running away, a severe breach of the law. She could not leave Aelfgar without his permission, to reside elsewhere. She could not marry without his permission, and she owed him a certain amount of services each year—services he had not yet determined the nature of. She was his complete responsibility. Legally she belonged to him.

  Perhaps the reason she had not come to sup with them was because she was ill, even with fever. Rolfe lost his appetite. He knew he should send someone to check on her, but he decided to do so himself. He left his wife at the harp, his men dicing. He knew she often spent time with her grandmother, who lived in the village, and guessed she was probably there. However, first he would inquire of the servants.

  For the second time in his life, Rolfe entered the kitchens, now lighted with oil lamps. He would not have been more shocked if he had seen a ghost. For there she was, hard at work. Ceidre sensed his presence, and from where she was cleaning up, she half turned.

  He was so stunned at her complete defiance he gaped.

  Ceidre, already flushed, went crimson.

  He found his voice. “You dare,” he managed, livid, “you dare to defy me this openly.”

  She clutched the cutting table. “I can explain.” It was beyond belief. “My men do not defy me.”

  “Truly, there is a reason.”

  “My men fear just chastisement.” He was actually shaking.

  “My lord—”

  “But you—you do not fear me?” He stepped forward.

  Ceidre stepped back, holding her hands up as if to ward him off. She was too exhausted for a fight, and had dearly hoped he would not find out she had continued in the kitchens. “My lord! ’Tis Tildie—she has begun her labor. We are short of hands here, I had to help!”

  The anger was replaced with puzzlement. “You would work yourself to death in another’s place?”

  “She is about to have a babe, my lord,” Ceidre said softly. “She is my friend.”

  He shook his head. “Enough! You cannot disobey my commands, Ceidre. I cannot countenance it.”

  “Will you beat me?”

  He clenched his jaw. “I would dearly like to! This time, Ceidre, only this time, do you escape punishment. But harken well. The next time you disobey me ’tis at your own risk—for the price you pay will be most severe.”

  Her mouth trembled, and she consciously straightened her spine.

  “Enough. You are finished here. If ever aught like this happens again, you come to me—do not take it upon yourself to decide whether to continue or no, especially if it means defying me. I will see you to your bed.”

  She felt relief and was angry for feeling so. “To it— or in it?”

  “Are you suggesting the latter?” His tone was mocking. “No.”

  “You have only to invite me. You know I am willing.” Silky, now.

  “Well, I am not!”

  He almost smiled, and his gaze stroked over her breasts. “Your mind, perhaps—but your body is most willing.”

  Ceidre folded her arms. “Not true.”

  “Do not think you can ever spar with me and win,” Rolfe said softly. “What you begin, I will finish. Always.”

  “I hate you,” she said, low. “Norman!”

  “’Tis what I am. Where do you sleep?”

  “In the hall,” Ceidre said, dodging his proffered hand. When, in truth, she would have liked nothing more than to lean upon his solid, powerful frame.

  They stepped outside into the night, bright with stars and a three-quarter moon. Ceidre lifted her face to the air and sighed. Rolfe could not take his eyes away from her uplifted profile. He was mesmerized, ensnared. She caught him staring, and she blushed.

  “Come,” he said gruffly, taking her elbow.

  She trembled, but she came.

  Ceidre was in that strange state of exhaustion that makes sleep difficult to come by. She had just, finally, managed to drift off when loud voices and strange hands awakened her. “Ceidre, Ceidre, awaken! You must awaken!”

  Ceidre blinked and became aware of Athelstan and another man, a serf from his attire, bending over her, a rushlight in one hand. “What is it?”

  One of the hounds began to bark. The men began to stir. Someone called out angrily for quiet, and another dog yelped.

  “’Tis my wife,” the serf said, and Ceidre recognized him. “She is in a bad way, Ceidre! The babe won’t come! ’Tis her fifth and all the others came so easily, but this one won’t! Please, help her!”

  Ceidre was standing, her mantle already around her shoulders. “Of course I will come, John,” she said soothingly. But her mind was racing. She undoubtedly needed her herbs.

  “What is the meaning of this?”

  Ceidre whipped her head around at the sound of his voice. Rolfe was poised halfway down the stairs, clad only in woolen hose, but he held a sword. Athelstan answered. “’Tis the woman, Tildie. She’s birthing a babe and it’s not going well.”

  Ceidre was already pushing past the men, sprawled on pallets everywhere, to confront the Norman. Rolfe said, “Send someone else. The wench is overtired.”

  Ceidre felt a rush of anger, and paused before the stairwell to face him. “There is no one else, my lord,” she said very firmly. “I need my pouch.”

  Rolfe stared, then barked a command at Athelstan. The Saxon hurried upstairs to fetch the herbs while Ceidre waited, meeting his gaze unflinchingly. If he would order her to remain abed and not tend Tildie, she would disobey, but he said nothing—he only stared. Athelstan returned and handed her the pouch. Ceidre grabbed it and hurried out into the night.

  They were at the cottage five minutes later, Tildie’s moans carrying outside. Her four children, ranging from three to ten, sat huddled in the single room, the five-year-old crying. “Hush, sweeting,” Ceidre said, placing a hand on the boy’s head. “Your mama will be fine. Hush now.”

  She looked at John. “Comfort them.”

 
Tildie was drenched with sweat. Her waters had already broken. She thrashed and moaned, her contractions close together, but the baby would not come. Ceidre saw instantly what the problem was. The babe was a breech, turned completely around, trying to leave the womb feet first. ’Twas not good.

  “I will have to turn the babe around,” she said to John, without looking at him.

  “Have you ever done such a thing before?” Rolfe asked.

  Ceidre gasped, stunned that the Norman had followed them. He stood in the middle of the small cottage, seeming to take up every inch of its entire space. He had thrown his sinister black mantle over his bare torso, but had only slipped shoes, not chausses, on. Now Ceidre understood why the hut had become so very quiet. The children were gaping, bug-eyed. Even John was stunned, immobile.

  “Once,” she answered, turning back to Tildie and stroking her brow. “If you are here, fetch me fresh water and clean rags and soap.” Tildie had fainted.

  “I will get them,” John said, clearly relieved to flee.

  “How is she?” Rolfe asked, not moving from where he stood.

  “She has fainted. She is better off. Now she can rest a bit before the real work begins.” Ceidre kept stroking her brow.

  The five-year-old redhead began to cry again, pitifully, calling “Mama, Mama.”

  Ceidre, kneeling by the pallet, twisted to soothe the little boy. She stopped, amazed, to see Rolfe stroke his big hand through the child’s curls. She had never seen him gentle before, had never even thought he could be gentle—but he was. “Viens à moi, petit,” he said, his voice low, comforting. “Do you know who I am?”

  The boy blinked, staring. “N-no.”

  “’Tis our lord,” hissed the eldest, a girl of ten.

  Rolfe rewarded the girl with a smile, then lifted the redhead into his arms. “She is right, I am your lord, Rolfe of Warenne. Do you know where Warenne is?”

  The little boy shook his head, staring, awed, into Rolfe’s face, so close to his.

  “’Tis far away, across the sea. Would you like to know how I came to be here, how I crossed the sea on a big boat with all my men?”

  He nodded.

  Relieved, and still amazed, Ceidre turned back to Tildie, listening to Rolfe as he began the story, thankfully omitting all political details, his voice low and rich and soothing. John entered and handed her the items she had requested. Ceidre washed her hands and began wiping Tildie’s brow. The woman started to revive.

  “Tildie?” Ceidre leaned forward. “’Tis Ceidre. I am going to try and turn the babe. He’s facing the wrong way, and it must be done.”

  Tildie opened her eyes.

  Ceidre smiled. She reached out to stroke her temple again. Tildie cried out and shrank away. Ceidre froze. Rolfe halted in midsentence, and John and the children all stared.

  “No!”

  “Tildie—”

  “No! Don’t touch me! Please, don’t!” She began to weep.

  Ceidre hesitated only for a fraction. “She’s overwrought. I’ll give her a potion.”

  “No! I won’t take your witch’s brew!”

  Ceidre felt as if she had been punched in the stomach. She recovered, with effort. “Tildie, ’tis me. Tis Ceidre. Your friend. I—”

  “This is all your fault,” Tildie hissed. “You cursed me and the babe because I slapped you! Get away from me! Get this witch away from me!”

  Rolfe handed the redhead to John and was at Ceidre’s side. “Listen to me, mistress. I am your lord.”

  Tildie stared, tears streaking her face.

  “She is no witch. She is going to give you a potion to calm you, then she will turn the babe. Tis my command.”

  Tildie began to weep. “I’m sorry.” She sobbed. “Sorry. It’s just that I’m so afraid…”

  “Give her the potion,” Rolfe said tersely, his gaze riveted not on Tildie but upon Ceidre’s face. Her expression, sick and stunned, twisted his gut into knots. He wished he could curse the foul wench for doing this to Ceidre, when she meant only good.

  Ceidre recovered and, murmuring words of comfort, she administered the potion. Tildie was soon in a state of lethargy. Rolfe regarded her brisk efficiency, despite her being clearly upset. She did not shrink but boldly delved into the other’s body, yet her touch was gentle. Tildie gasped in pain. Ceidre began to turn the babe, perspiration filming on her brow. Rolfe admired her in that moment greatly—she had immense courage. He reached out to blot a drop of sweat on her forehead before it interfered with her vision.

  “There,” Ceidre cried, relieved. “The babe is turned, it should not be long now.”

  “Well done,” Rolfe said quietly.

  She glanced at him. His gaze was warm, unwavering. She flushed and concentrated on the task at hand. Tildie’s contractions were now strong enough to pop the babe out easily. Ceidre reached for the infant and knew instantly that it was dead.

  It had strangled in the womb, its birth cord wrapped around its neck.

  Ceidre blinked back tears and wrapped the infant in its swaddling. Rolfe reached down and took it from her. “I will bury it,” John said, resigned. He considered himself lucky to have four healthy children as it was.

  Tildie opened her eyes. “My baby?”

  Ceidre hesitated. Rolfe stepped into the breach.

  “The babe could not survive. ’Twas not meant to be. He died in the womb.” “No!”

  “I am sorry, but ’tis so. You are young and strong. God has gifted you with four healthy children, and if it is His will, He will gift you with many more.”

  “No!”

  Rolfe touched Ceidre’s stiff shoulders. “It is time to go. There is nothing more you can do. She must grieve herself.”

  “I will give her a sleeping potion.”

  “No!” Tildie screamed, somehow raising herself up to a sitting position. “No! I want my baby! Give me my babe!”

  Ceidre took Tildie’s hand as she wept. “I’m sorry. Oh, Tildie, I tried…” She broke off, unable to continue, thinking that if she’d come sooner maybe she could have saved the baby. Her heart ached for her friend.

  “Oh, my baby,” Tildie moaned.

  John came to his wife and Ceidre rose to her feet, brushing at tears. She really couldn’t see, everything was a blur. She had tried, she knew that, she had done the best she could, yet … If only she had thought to check on Tildie that afternoon, if only she had come sooner. She escaped the dark, dank hut and gulped in the fresh night air. She realized she was running. She didn’t care.

  She ran into the half-mown hayfield.

  “Ceidre—stop!”

  Him! He was the last person in this world she wished to see. Ceidre kept running. She stumbled on the furrowed earth but did not fall. She heard him calling again. Stalks of hay tore strands of hair free from her braid and whipped her cheek. She reached the far side of the field and paused, gasping for breath, at the edge of the dark, looming forest. Would he never leave her alone?

  She rested a shoulder against the rough bark of an ancient oak, and her knees gave way. She curled her fingers into the dirt and swallowed a sob. Her world was spinning. Her breathing was still ragged and uncontrolled.

  “Ceidre.”

  She turned her head slightly and saw his foot. She forced herself up, into a sitting position. “Leave me be.” To her dismay, her voice was husky with unshed tears and not fierce at all.

  Rolfe stood, tense and uncertain. He ached as if he were the one wounded. He wanted to reach down and touch her, stroke the dirt from her face and the tendrils of hair away from the corners of her mouth. Damn that peasant wench!

  “Come,” he said, the sound gruff even to his own ears, and he reached down to assist her up.

  She shrank away. “Leave me be!” she cried shrilly. “I do not want your concern!”

  His hands fell to his sides. “You have it whether you want it or not. All of Aelfgar is my concern.”

  She turned her face away, wishing he would leave, staring at her hands
, white against the black earth.

  Rolfe had never suggested anything to anyone, but now, awkwardly, he said, “Let us go back.”

  “You go. Just leave me alone.”

  He could order her, of course, but for some reason he was loath to do so. “You wish to spend the night here?” It was inane, his remark, but he did not know what to say.

  “No,” she spat, “I don’t wish to spend the night here. Oh—God’s blood!” She started to weep.

  For the first time in his life he felt helpless. Ceidre wept at his feet. His urge to touch her was strong, yet he had never touched a woman merely to comfort, without lust—he did not know how. He clenched his fists and just stood there, unsure, feeling weaker than the weakest of boys.

  She shoved herself abruptly to her feet, pushing past him. Rolfe was overwhelmed with relief. He followed. They said not a word. She held herself proud and straight, when he knew she was utterly exhausted. She had more courage and determination than most men. At the manor door, she nodded stiffly to him without meeting his gaze. He said nothing, going to the stairs. But there he turned, his gaze automatically seeking her out. He saw her shed the mantle, pause, almost ethereal in the thin white nightgown, and then she collapsed upon her pallet. He hesitated, thinking she would become cold, but he did not move to go to her.

  And then a form rose at Ceidre’s side. Rolfe went stiff, murderous. He held up his lamp—Athelstan gazed directly at him. Rolfe watched the old man pull the blanket up over her, murmuring something soft and unintelligible. Rolfe was seared with jealousy— and it was only Athelstan.

  Alice ran from the window in Rolfe’s chamber to the solar across the hall where she slept. She had barely dived onto her own bed when she saw his shadow passing her doorway and entering his chamber. She lay rigid, seething. She had known it—hadn’t she? She had known he was going to meet that whore when he had left earlier. Seeing them return together confirmed it. Alice had never hated Ceidre more—or Rolfe.

  She would pay. Alice would make sure of it. But first, more important, she had somehow to keep Ceidre out of her way—and out of her lord’s bed. Until after the marriage. Once Alice was securely wed, she would find a way to deal with Ceidre—to remove her permanently from Rolfe’s lusting perversions. Even if it meant marrying her off to some serf in a village at the far end of Aelfgar’s borders. Better yet—have her abducted by Scots! Then they would never see hide nor hair of her again!