Rose of Hope (41 page)

Stealing a glance beneath his lashes at his bride, Fallard hid a grimace. Ysane sat huddled against the back wall of the bed, surrounded in rose petals, the covers pulled as high beneath her chin as she could manage. She stared fixedly at her lap.

Uncertain of her humor, Fallard picked through the garments scattered across the floor. He found his braies and covered his nudity ere stepping to the door to drop the bar. At least, they would be sure unwelcome intruders disturbed not their night, whatever came of it.

He poured wine into the goblets, and in accordance with Saxon custom, dropped into each a small piece of honey-suffused bread, hoping his attention to her people’s customs would help ease her thoughts. When he looked up, he found her gaping at his bare chest. He went very still, watching but saying naught, allowing her to steer the moment in whatever direction she wished. He fervently hoped her wishes coincided with his.

It seemed she wanted to take him in, to learn something of him with her glance, for her eyes roved over him, taking his measure in minute detail. Expecting a blush to tint her complexion, he waited. But when finally her eyes completed their perusal and met his, there was no bashful batting of lashes. She met his gaze with a forthright honesty that thrilled him as she let him see her frank appreciation.

“You never guessed the riddle,” she said.

Fallard’s brows bunched in momentary confusion ere he burst out laughing. That was the last thing he had expected her to say. He had forgotten the silly game.

The scent of roses lingering softly in the air tantalized his senses as he strode to the bed. He rested one knee on the thick mattress as he handed her the wine. He quoted the last part of the riddle.
“‘
…
Death blows are dealt me by day and by night. What am I?’
Answer—a shield.”

She dropped the sheet and his desire burst into a conflagration. ’Twas answered by the inferno that burned in orbs of moss green. He held himself in strictest control as he waited for her, his wife and the cupbearer of the hall, to begin the toast.

She sipped, as was proper to demonstrate the drink poison-free, then raised the goblet and said softly,
“Westu hál, Fallard, worulda woruld!”

“
Be hale, Ysane, to the age of ages,
” he whispered back, and leaned to kiss the silken skin in the hollow of her throat. He felt her quiver as the rim of his chalice chimed in metallic agreement against hers.

They drank, the crimson, liquid fire in their throats a potent echo of the inner blaze that intensified with each passing moment.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Unlike
Ithancester
and other port towns on the southeastern English coast of the Sea of Germania, Ljotness was neither of any great age nor particularly prosperous. An insignificant hamlet even during the Danelaw, the natural beauty of its surroundings and an exceptionally fine harbor were its only favorable features. The jarl that founded the village had cared naught for the abstract of beauty, for it added neither power to his person nor coin to his purse, and both had been of paramount importance. To his mind, its only advantage was the anchorage for his trade ships.

Most of its inhabitants jested that within another hundred twelvemonths, Ljotness would no longer exist except mayhap, as a handful of tumbled, rotting ruins. But on this gray eve late in the month of feasting, 1078, winter had returned to Ljotness with a roaring fury.

Set above the low cliffs that overlooked the sea half a league north of the hamlet, the alehouse of Fat Guda, the jovial alemaster, the product of an unlikely love match between a Norse father and a Brython-descended mother, was enjoying a brief spell of exceptional profit. The previous eve, every traveler for leagues around had rushed to reach the aging inn ere the storm put a temporary end to all journeying. Though the gale had now spent the worst of its fury, the house was still filled nigh to the smoke-blackened rafters that creaked beneath the buffeting of the wind. No one was in a hurry to brave the intense cold and ice.

From his stool beside one end of the rectangular central fire pit, his back against a table, Sir Ruald of Sebfeld felt rather than heard the booming crash of the storm-lashed surf against the cliffs. The sensation increased the chill in his bones.

Why did Guda not build within Ljotness? At least there, the harbor would provide some protection from the elements. The man is a fool. One day the wind will blow this place to his Hel, and ’tis to be hoped, him with it.

He stretched out his legs and planted his boots on the hearth, wishing ’twas possible to crawl into the fire. He hated winter. He could never get his feet warm.

He quaffed a hearty swallow of spiced wine, savoring the warmth the hot liquid carried to his belly, while from beneath dark lashes his gray-green eyes roamed the long hall’s inhabitants, searching for any who might pose a threat.

Soldiers, traders, pilgrims and seafarers, Norman, Saxon, and various other nationalities—even two longboats of Norse traders eyed warily by the rest of the crowd but welcome in Guda’s establishment—all had found their way to the alehouse since the gale had commenced the previous night. The house provided shelter, and in the peculiar but age-old tradition of hospitality among strangers stranded together in a situation dangerous to them all, they had managed to keep the peace. How long that truce would hold under the onslaught of beer, ale,
björr
and spiced wine being guzzled down multiple throats remained to be seen. The rolls of fat around Guda’s neck and middle jiggled from his laughter, as he pulled draught after draught. Ruald wondered if his supplies could withstand the steady inroads being made by the raucous crowd.

He, on the other hand, laughed not. He had arrived some three days earlier and secured the house’s only private chamber—more of a storage room than a sleeping bower, but one took what one could get—when the only guests were a traveling monk and an aging sailor hoping to be hired on the next ship arriving in port.

The stale odor of spilled beverages mingled unpleasantly with the reek of too many unwashed bodies and the smells of burned roast venison, cabbage and wood smoke. Despite the effluvia, he preferred the greater warmth of the hall to the bower. There was no fire pit in his chamber, and his coverings for his pallet were limited to a fur and his cloak. Only when the inevitable drunken scuffling began would he retire to his pallet.

The outer door suddenly slammed open and ice-ridden air surged into the room. Angry shouts were thrown at the culprit even though he was inside within moments. Ruald, at first paying little attention to the newcomer, abruptly tensed when the stranger’s movements struck him as familiar. He felt the weight of a coldly furious stare upon him, then the man threw back the hood of his fur.

The hair on the back of his neck rose in response to the challenge. Cursing beneath his breath, he quelled his first instinct to rise and pull the langseax at his waist. What was his half-brother doing here? He knew better than to be seen in public with Ruald. The success of their ventures depended on the secrecy of their relationship. Yet, now his brother stalked—there was no other word for it—openly toward him, wending his way between packed bodies, coming to a halt less than a foot away. The banked rage in the moss green eyes glaring down at him was an icy flame his brother bothered not to hide.

He kept his face blank and his hands where they could be seen.

What has happened to bring Cynric to this pass?

“I have spoken with Ysane,” Cynric announced, making no move of greeting. To all outward appearances, he might have been denouncing the weather.

Ruald silently cursed again and fought to hide the tremor that shook him to his boots. The seething fury in Cynric’s eyes belied the calm of his voice. His brother was not a man to take lightly, especially as now, when he was enraged. Those who underestimated him did not live long enough to make that mistake a second time.

“Why did you do not as ordered and come straight here from William’s court? You were supposed to stay clear of Wulfsinraed. Know you not they would hang you for treason did they lay hand on you?”

He held his breath. Cynric was never supposed to have known the truth of all that had occurred at the burh. He had told him the Norman knight killed Renouf and forced Ysane to wed him. But he had also assured him Ysane remained unharmed and in time, the dark knight would be slain and she would be set free. Those two goals were among the many that kept his brother willingly beneath his thumb.

He meant to kill both D’Auvrecher and Ysane, of course. Once those two were out of the way, he would be in control of Wulfsinraed through Cynric. Afterward, his half brother was also destined to meet with an unfortunately fatal accident. Until then, he needed him. But did Cynric ever suspect his intent, his life might well be forfeit. His brother was a renowned warrior. In his heart, he suspected he would not win a fight to the death between them.

Cynric doffed his fur, hailed a harried, sweating serving woman to order a half-pint of ale and sat on the hearth in front of him. “So say you. But most strange ’twas, brother. I came upon Ysane and her Norman while a Saxon archer did his utmost to kill them both. The man was one of yours. Did his orders include killing my sister, as well?”

“Cynric, my brother! ’Tis distressing you would even consider such a thing.” Even to himself, he sounded truly aghast. He sat straight, planted his feet firmly on the dirt of the floor and leaned forward to look Cynric in the eye. “What purpose could there be to kill the beautiful Ysane? She was our brother’s sweet wife, a loving, gentle creature of such beguiling beauty even a barbarian would hesitate to slay her. I have no quarrel with her. You know this. Oh, aye, I admit I left behind the archer to kill the Norman, but why should that be of concern to you, since you wish to slay him yourself?”

He let his gaze turn sly and lowered his voice. “You have reason to hate the usurpers as much as any man, and have certainly proved your loyalty to the Saxon cause these past twelvemonths. How many of the enemy have died at
your
hand, brother? Two score, three? More? Surely then, you can have no quarrel with ridding Wulfsinraed and your sister of the Norman filth. Is that not our ultimate goal in all we have done? So then, why does my order to slay D’Auvrecher meet with such disapproval from you?”

The gaze Cynric leveled on him slipped from icy to searing in the space of a heartbeat. He knew that look from of old. Without his volition, his hand slid toward the long-bladed hadseax in his boot.

“Touch that knife and you die here and now,
brother
.”

Moments passed, each seeming as long as an age, as the two stared each other down, waiting for the other to make the first move. Around them floated the guffaws, shouts, moans and garbled conversation of men as yet unaware that imminent death crouched in their midst.

“Yer brew, master! I say…do ye want it, or nay? I got no time to be waitin’ on ye to make up yer mind.” The serving woman’s weary voice intruded into the tension as she roughly shoved a tankard into Cynric’s hand, sloshing it so drops of the dark, golden-brown liquid soaked into the wool of his tunic. He glanced up into her eyes. She paused, went a trifle pale and scurried away.

Ruald sat back, his relaxed posture a pretense he knew Cynric would discern.

Cynric sipped his ale and grimaced. “What is this?”

Ruald forced a grin. The stuff had a powerful kick. He gestured toward Guda. “’Tis the Viking’s idea of ale. It requires slow downing does a man wish to keep sense in his head.”

He controlled the tremors that twitched his muscles, preparing him for battle as he watched his brother’s face. He still knew not if his brother would attack. Sibling or not, he would entertain no qualms about slitting Cynric’s throat if too much drink further inflamed his ire. That was assuming Cynric did not kill him, first.

“Thought you Ysane would tell me not, Ruald?” Cynric’s voice was so soft Ruald barely made out the words.

“What
did
she tell you, my brother? How can I answer this…this
accusation
you seem to make, do I know not what was said? Tell me her words, and I will say you if there was truth to them.”

Cynric leaned forward, a bitter light behind the rage in his eyes. “She told me a tale of perfidy, brother, of treachery most foul, of lies and attempted murder perpetrated by those I was foolish enough to trust because the blood of their mother also flows in my veins. But why should I waste my time repeating what you already know? Came I here to kill you, Ruald, and well you know why. Offer you a single argument in your own defense?”

Ruald attempted an expression of pained incredulity, but behind the mask, his mind outraced the wind. His eyes never left his brother. All his plans for his future, nay, his very life depended on his next words and how well he was able to plant the seed of doubt in his brother’s mind.

“Cynric! Brother! You wrong me, as heaven stands to my witness!” He raised the hand holding the tankard high as if entreating the Almighty to arrive posthaste and verify his claim. His voice all but quivered with mournful indignation. “I have done naught to my dear sister-by-law but try to rescue her from the living death of being a Norman’s plaything. Verily, I can imagine not what absurd tale she may have told, but I can only think the horror of Norman rule in her home and in her bed must have overcome her gentle mind. Thus I say again—if I must needs defend myself to my own kin—be so just as to explain why.”

His words rang with sincerity.

Cynric’s gaze meshed fiercely with his. “How did Renouf really die, Ruald?”

Though he allowed naught of it to show, relief flooded him at Cynric’s question, and in that instant, he was back on balance. The seed was indeed planted. He knew his brother as an honorable man and with it, all too predictable. He would not kill without just cause. Though he scorned what he considered a useless and dangerous sentiment, he had counted on that honor, and now would play it to the hilt.