Conqueror

She slowly sat up, clutching her torn gown together. She fixed him with a stare of intense hatred. His gaze, cold and vividly blue, held hers. His look darkened and warred with hers. A nerve in his jaw ticked. She could feel his anger now and knew it was directed at her. For what? For her insolence in hating him? For what he had been denied--the rape of her body? Or because he knew who she was? He moved. He came to her swiftly. Ceidre started to shrink away, then caught herself and held her ground, raising her chin with defiance. She could feel the thick, unnatural beat of her heart, the cloying terror. He could rape her and then beat her before killing her, but she would not show fear of this man. But he had seen her initial reaction, and this too displeased him. His anger was a visible thing, darkening his eyes again, and his face. And then his expression changed. He stopped abruptly, staring. Ceidre had seen many people look at her the same way, when they first noticed her eye. Surprise, usually, was the initial reaction, then puzzlement, then comprehension and horror. Behind him, she saw Guy draw back. "I'd heard it but I didn't believe it," he whispered nervously, unable to tear his glance from Ceidre. "'Tis the evil eye." Rolfe's gaze was riveted upon hers. Ceidre hated the deformity that had haunted her her entire life: Her right eye sometimes wandered away at will. It was not a frequent occurrence; usually it happened only when she was extremely tired, and was only noticeable by those in close proximity. People thought she could gaze in two opposite directions at once--'twasn't true. Strangers who did notice this defect crossed themselves for protection when they saw her "evil" eye and kept well away from her. It had been that way her entire life, since she was a tiny toddler in swaddling. The villagers at Aelfgar, her own people, many her own kin on her mother's side, were long used to her, knew she wasn't evil. Yet that she could heal the sick as her granny did only confirmed their belief that she was a witch. So even her kin were overly aware of her, in awe. Only her brothers, well used to her, seemed entirely indifferent, and Ceidre had long since said prayers of thanks for this blessing. Yet even they were not beyond begging a boon--Morcar had once asked her to bewitch a lass who had been leading him on a merry chase! Now Ceidre flushed, hating this deformity more than she ever had in her entire life--hating being exposed before this man. His cool blue gaze swept her features one by one returning finally to her eye. Then he spoke. "She is no witch. She is flesh and blood. That is enough." "My lord," Guy protested nervously. "Be careful." He was standing above her, his sword sheathed, hands curled into angry fists on his lean hips. "Are you the lady Alice?" She blinked in surprise. And then she understood his misconception; he was confusing her with her half sister. Ceidre was no fool. Alice was not a by-blow. Being nobly born, she was of more import than Ceidre herself was. Depending, of course, on circumstance--on which game of war this Norman pig chose to play. For now she would go along with the false belief, to save herself from a certain rape, or worse. Ceidre said, "Yes." Her answer seemed to please him, for suddenly he smiled. Ceidre was momentarily stunned. Not by his response, or by the fact that he actually could smile. She remembered how he had looked charging after her on his destrier, like a golden pagan god. How he had looked, sitting there so impassively as she had pleaded with him to spare the corn.
Joyce, Brenda is the author of 'Conqueror' with ISBN 9780440206095 and ISBN 044020609X.