Rose of Hope (4 page)

Hope burst upon her from fathomless inner depths, as brilliant light would illumine dark halls. Mayhap, she was
not
to die this day, though how or why that might be, she knew not. She had believed she longed for death’s final caress. Instead, came springing a surge of joy and relief that she might not feel upon her spirit that black and endless touch.

She started as the still peace of the morn exploded in noise and mayhem. Fierce cries mingled with shrieks of pain and shock. She cocked her head to gaze upon the scene, slow to comprehend the sight of warriors battling to the death. Doubt floated in her tangled thoughts.

Tis the tumult of battle, but it cannot be real. We have seen no war since ere my birth. Nay! ’Tis truly happening. My home is attacked, yet by it I may be saved. Strange that my executioner has suffered the fate meant for me. But I must move from this place or I may follow him. Would that be not the ultimate irony?

Bound feet shuffling, she managed a half turn away from the dangerous edge, but the movement unbalanced her. Shivering uncontrollably, she swayed toward the gulf below as a man with hair like deepest shadow and shoulders broad as the hills appeared on the wall. He raced in her direction.

She beheld him as if in a dream, a tall man garbed in black from head to toe, even to the blackened chain metal of his hauberk. Naught broke the unrelieved pitch save a scarlet sash around his waist. Within its folds, she glimpsed twin gold lions passant, the insignia of the House of Normandy.

Little shocks pulsed through her frame, vying with the bedeviling shivers.

Norman! He is Norman. The enemy is come. A dark knight sprints toward me. How very odd that he…oh! I am falling!

Her knees buckled, but determined intent blazed from the knight’s eyes. He vaulted onto the parapet.

***

Fallard swept his arms around the Lady of Wulfsinraed and drew close her slight, quivering form. His jaw tightened.

Saint’s teeth! That was too close. But a moment longer and I would have lost her to the river.

He cradled her to his chest, startled at the intense heat that radiated from beneath her tattered cyrtel. He raked her features with his eyes. Dusted beneath a gaze unnaturally bright were dark smudges. A large bruise marred the left side of her face, and more ringed her slender throat. Her face was drawn and flushed.

She is afire, aye, blazing with fever. Will she understand my words?

“My lady, surrender. I have won you fairly, and with honor.”

He awaited her response. She blinked, a languid movement of the lids over eyes the color of the emerald moss that grew beneath the forest canopy. She inhaled, slowly, deeply, the cool air of the freshening morn.

***

His voice was deep as the realms of the sea-gods. In that moment, in the feverish imagining that ruled her thoughts, he seemed a fantasy emerging from a vision of mists, destined to rescue her from death. Handsome as the gods, he was a lover who held her with an embrace both powerful and gentle. He appeared the epitome of all of her youthful, maidenly reveries, so ruthlessly crushed by her husband.

He was but a fancy, naught more than imagination. Could she not say what she would to a dream-warrior, and ’twould make no difference? She burned as her look met his, and whispered her answer. “My lord, I surrender in truth. Do with me as you will.”

His smile was triumphant and altogether male. “Aye, lady,” he said. “That is how it will be.”

***

Fallard doubted the lady knew whereof she spoke, yet the words were said. He would not allow her to recall them later.

He turned to take in the scene in the courtyard below as a misty rain, its touch soft on his face, cooled the fierce battle heat from his body. Trifine oversaw the incarceration of Ruald of Sebfeld and the surviving rebels to the upper floor of the gatehouse. They would be interrogated before transport on the morrow to London for trial. William’s footsoldiers would provide escort, while Sir Gyffard, their commander, would carry to the king any particulars pertinent to William’s battle strategies against the rebels.

Except for his men, none but a few retainers of Wulfsinraed Hall remained in the courtyard. As planned, the villagers had fled to their homes once the attack began. As he regarded each countenance staring up at him, he spoke loudly, in the Saxon dialect, that all might hear and understand. “I am Fallard D’Auvrecher, Baron of Wulfsinraed! In the name of William, King of England, who has granted to me honorial rights, I claim Wulfsinraed Burh and all its fiefs and burhfolc. I grant mercy to all who foreswear to take up arms against me, and offer their oath of fealty to me and to the rightful king. Oppose me, and you will explain your reasons to William. Oppose me not and you will learn I am a fair man, and will protect and provide for you well.”

He waited. A breathless silence descended. No one moved.

He set Ysane on her feet. Bracing her sagging figure upright against him with one arm about her waist, he pulled his boot dagger to slice through the bonds securing her hands and feet. He gently massaged her strained shoulders and bruised, chafed wrists. The pain of returning circulation brought forth from her a low moan.

“Easy, my lady.” His words reached only her. “’Twill ache for but a moment.”

He returned his look to those who watched his actions. Reflected in their eyes he discerned apprehension, relief and uncertainty…all at once. He understood, but he could show no weakness, no hesitation in his intent. They must choose, and now, this very moment. His eyes narrowed as if he still peered through the visor of his helm. He hardened his voice to brisk command.

“Answer me! What say you? Will you have me as lord, or must I impose upon you all a journey to King William? Before you decide, know this—you will find him not so forgiving as I.”

A lone man, a nondescript elder of average height and build stepped forward. A shock of thick white hair hung below his shoulders. His pale, lined face was furrowed with the same anxiety as the rest. “I am Ethelmar, my lord, dish-thegn of Wulfsinraed.”

He swallowed visibly and glanced around at his companions, who bobbed their heads. He took a breath, faced Fallard, straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin. His voice was firm and carried clearly. “My lord, we accept.”

***

Ysane felt her dream man shift his hold, and a sudden slackness came to his grasp, though his support faltered not.

He relaxes. Ethelmar’s words must hearten him. I must remember to commend my dish-thegn.

She leaned more fully into the dark knight’s embrace, enthralled by his power and strength. He lifted her once again into his arms. She sighed.

He is Norman, my enemy, and the conqueror of my home, as his king conquered my people, yet in his arms I feel safe, as I have not felt in too long. He will rule here. I know him not, nor aught of him. If there is softness or indulgence in him, it shows not. All know that Normans are barbarians and love most to hurt and humiliate those they enslave. Yet, this one offers tolerance, and his judgments seem honorable. How can this be?

’Twas a strangely difficult thing to do—her strength seemed to have deserted her—but she raised a trembling hand toward his face. He glanced down. She laid her palm upon his cheek and stared into eyes as darkly blue as the midnight sky, and imagined she found in their depths an unexpected tenderness.

She smiled.

What a wonderfully pleasant dream this is. I hope never to wake.

The last thought that slipped through her mind ere the fever fully claimed her was regret this could be only fantasy, for strange as may be, she sensed she and her people would have been secure in this illusory enemy’s care.

CHAPTER FIVE

Fallard’s knights were busy with the tasks he had set them. A chosen few, scattered strategically about the courtyard and the wall, remained alert against renewed violence. Pride in his men swelled. Handpicked, they were the best a captain could hope for, no matter the task.

At the lady’s sweet smile and gentle hand upon his cheek, he felt a unusual hitch in the region of his heart. He ignored it. He had no time for sentiment, even his own. Still, he descended the steps with great care, for he now bore a burden beyond price and the stone was grown slick from the misty rain.

He called for a healer. Through the skill of Trifine and his own timely intervention, the lady had escaped execution, but in her fragile state, she was not out of danger. He had seen fever ravage the bodies of stout warriors until there was no strength left to fight a slow descent into death.

He reached the bottom and found himself besieged by folk from the hall.

“My thegn, how is the Lady Ysane?”

“Is the lady ill, my lord?”

“Please, my thegn, let us help our lady.”

Fallard tried to push through, but there were too many. His men observed the scene uneasily and pressed close, fearing treachery, for he was vulnerable with Ysane in his arms. But he discerned only concern on the faces of the retainers, though one and all they seemed unaware they hindered his efforts at progress towards the warm, dry conditions their lady required.

“Here now, give way, give way!” The shout came from nearby, behind and to his right. “What are you thinking, then? Give the man room to move. Return to your duties, all of you. I will send word of the lady when there is aught to be known. Go on now!”

The crowd around Fallard dispersed, scrambling rather as ants when a stone was dropped on their anthill. Flanked by two of his knights, a tall, solidly built man, mayhap of five and forty twelvemonths and garbed in the armor of a hearth companion, strode into his range of vision. His face showed evidence of a brutal beating and though he held himself in pride, his gait was stiff and he limped. But beneath the bruises was a body still strong and capable.

Fallard eyed his approach. Faded hair of a once fiery hue, shoulder length in the Saxon style, was streaked with silver. Several days’ growth of beard concealed his jaw. Craggy lines around his eyes and mouth bespoke of a temperament prone to joviality. He stopped in front of Fallard, hands on hips. His laughing hazel eyes twinkled with lively curiosity as he took Fallard’s measure.

Fallard returned the frank perusal, liking what he saw, instinctively recognizing the man’s honor and worth. Fallard remembered the fettered hearth companions in the clearing, their expressions mirroring frustrated anger and honest grief. This man had been among them. During the brief fighting in the courtyard, ere he lost track of him in the melee, the big warrior had been cornered against the wall, battling two of Ruald’s men.

Offering Fallard a bow before accompanying him across the courtyard, he said, “My lord D’Auvrecher, I am Sir Domnall of Cullanis, First Marshal of Wulfsinraed. Happy am I at the events of this day.” He pounded Fallard’s shoulder. “’Twas a pure pleasure to see the likes of your lads as they burst from the forest. ’Twas worth every gentle bruise offered by Ruald’s men to see their faces in that moment.” He threw back his head and laughed in hearty appreciation of his own jest. “Aye, and had I not seen with my own eyes that archer of yours take out the guard about to slit my lady’s throat—in shadow and mist, that be, and from such a distance—I would have believed not the tale.” His voice carried awed admiration. “What a shot! Wurth, our scop, will write the story and ’twill be remembered for generations to come.”

He stopped. One large hand settled on Fallard’s forearm as his voice lowered and the mirth fled his gaze. “’Twas a very close thing, my lord, aye, ’Twas. Me and my fine lads, we are grateful for our lives, and for that of our lady. Do you accept, I will be the first to kneel to swear my oath, and my men right behind.”

“That is acceptable, Sir Domnall,” Fallard said, a little taken aback by his enthusiasm. “I will wish to speak much with you, but now I would have you work with my men to restore order. Report to Trifine, my First. He is the archer whose aim we all admire.” Domnall nodded and turned away. “Oh, and Sir Domnall. A full inventory must be taken to update the king’s records, and mine, as well. I want a list of the names of every person who speaks the Norman tongue, and every one who can read or write.”

“Aye, I will see to it, though they number but few. You will wish to speak with Tenney, the burh hoarder and Aldfrid, our reeve.” He paused. “My lord, you understand I must ask, will my lady be well?”

His glance touched on Ysane.

“She is fevered, and weak, but my hope is high she will survive her ordeal.”

Domnall saluted and walked away, apparently reassured, calling to his men to accompany him. He began to whistle a rousing ballad as he headed in Trifine’s direction.

The two who had escorted Domnall looked a question at Fallard.

“Watch him, and his men for now, but otherwise leave them be to get on with their duties.”

He started again for the hall, almost reaching the steps when he spotted his Second hovering. “Jehan? Take five and ten men and retrieve the horses and supplies from the forest.”

“Aye, Captain.”

’Twas now raining steadily if not hard, and Fallard bent his shoulders over Ysane as he climbed the steps leading to the oaken doors of the hall. Knights stood guard on either side of the great portals, which were carved with a pattern of roses, vines and leaping stags and painted in colors of earth and sky. Waiting at the threshold were three women and the under-steward, Ethelmar. Their eyes were locked upon their lady.

Ethelmar tore his gaze from Ysane. “If you will follow, my lord, I will direct you to my lady’s bower.”

They passed into what would have been, in long days past, a large, rectangular mead-hall. As they proceeded toward an open arch at the far right corner, the steward gestured towards the eldest of the three who accompanied him, a short, rotund female with thin, straggly gray hair.

“This is Luilda, my lord. She is our healer, and highly skilled.”