Rose of Hope (65 page)

“But you could have known naught of how events would play out when you made your decision.”

“I said not the choice was easy. Many hours passed while I searched my heart and my thoughts ere I determined to act. I sensed every moment’s delay might mean I would be too late. But if mayhap, my choice was wrong, I cared not then, and still care not, for ’tis truth I would do the same again.”

Fallard knelt before her. He took her hands and watched the reflection of candlelight in her eyes. “Ah, Ysane, my sweet rose. Whether ’twas right or wrong, foolish or wise, I also know not. Yet, ’tis done now and we may be grateful all occurred in our favor. For that reason, and because there is truth in your words, I refrain from punishing you for disobeying my order.

“But know you this. When Ruald turned with you in his hands and I saw the knife at your throat, I was made helpless as a babe. A vision filled my thoughts of all the barren, lonely, meaningless twelvemonths that would define my life without you, should Ruald’s hand move but a little. Countless battles have I fought with cold will and relentless intent, never fearing for my life, for once hostilities were enjoined there was naught but the need to fight and keep fighting until my enemy was defeated or I lay dead.

“But sight of you rendered me incapable of any thought but impending loss, any feeling but fear. Had not Varin been present to bring me back when I lost myself, I know not what the outcome might have been. I wish not to even think of it, for I love you, Ysane, my rose, my life.”

He stood and pulled her with him, holding her gaze. “I will have your word now, wife, that never again will you make such a decision, to put my life above your own, and that most especially when there is no certainty of danger to me. ’Tis my responsibility to protect you and keep you safe, but such is not yours in return.”

“It should be,” she said.

“Mayhap, or mayhap not. But ’tis the way of things, and I will have your word. You may return not to Cynric’s side until you give it.”

“In that case, I may only hope that never again in life will I face such a coil.” She searched his eyes, but he remained implacable. “Very well. You have my word.”

Fallard felt the easing of tension. He had feared she would refuse, and he would never have known peace if she had.

She raised her arms to catch his head in her hands, and offered her lips. The kiss they shared spoke of all that had not been said this night, but as the moments passed it deepened into the promise of all the days and nights of their lives to come.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Wulfsinraed Hall - Three seven-days after the battle

Within the lower chamber of the northwest tower that had once been Roana’s, Cynric lay on his side in the bed. A cool zephyr roamed through the windows to pull at his hair with playful fingers. He sighed and snuggled deeper. He could not remember ever reclining on a mattress so thick and comfortable. He reflected on the fact that the lack of such comforts throughout his life was his fault alone, and acknowledged he could have enjoyed Wulfsinraed’s riches since childhood had he been not so proud and stubborn.

His grandmother sat with his sister by his bedside, both women busy with embroidery.

Lady Hildeth spoke, almost as if in echo of his rueful musings. “An ungrateful wretch you have been, Cynric Wulfsingas.”

He blinked at her glare.

“Never will I understand why my son put up with it,” she said. “’Tis long past time you took up your rightful place in the hall as the son of Kenrick. Were Kennard still with us, methinks he might well have locked you in the gatehouse until you learned to accept Wulfsinraed as your home, which is also what my son should have done.”

Cynric managed a nod at her scolding. While Kennard would never have accepted him as heir, ’twas truth his brother had been willing to hold him in hand as kin, and welcome him in the hall.

He flicked a glance at his brother-by-law. For once dressed without hauberk in comfortable clothing, Fallard lounged in a chair across the chamber, a tankard of ale in his hand, observing his wife with an indulgent smile. When he noticed Cynric’s look, a cool watchfulness replaced the tolerance in his dark glance.

“Howbeit, that which is done can be not undone,” Lady Hildeth continued, “and I am grateful you have at last gained some sense. Now then, your sister tells me you recover well from your wound, but what say you, Cynric?”

His gaze met moss green eyes, limpid as water, over the needlework in Ysane’s hands. The amusement they shared was silent. Since Lady Hildeth’s arrival in the bower, their grandmother had asked the same question twice before, only to promptly forget both question and answer each time.

“He has recovered so well, Ieldramodor,” Ysane teased, her tone dry, “that does he lie abed for much longer, he will grow tendrils into the mattress and be removed only with the aid of my lord’s sword.”

Lady Hildeth’s response was tart. “I am well aware, nefene, of my difficulty in remembering many things, but distinctly do I recall ’twas of Cynric my question was asked.”

This time, neither sibling hid their grins.

“Ysane is correct, Ieldramodor. Already I walk the bower several times each day, and I grow stronger each time. Another seven-day and I will be good as new.”

“Mayhap, you and I will take a walk then, and visit my son’s runestone together. There is much I would tell you of him, especially of his youth, for I would have you learn of your father, of the good man he was and the better man he became. Mayhap, my words will even aid you in understanding the purpose behind his actions toward you. Though in truth, I know not the reason for his refusal to acknowledge you,” she said, a touch of sadness in her tone. “I counseled him against it, Cynric, but he listened not. If only my Lyolf had lived. Your father would have heeded his words.”

***

Fallard listened to the byplay between his wife and her family and uttered a silent prayer of gratitude for her quiet joy. Cynric did grow stronger, in body and mind, though there had been a time of despair when all feared he would not. In truth, death lingered all too nigh for many days. The gash from Leda’s blade had gone deep, cutting through a rib and puncturing his right breathing sac. Luilda had stopped the leakage of bloody air, and the wound itself had corrupted not, but he had fallen into a fever neither potions nor constant bathing were able to abate.

At last, in the darkest depth of the fourth night, Father Gregory was called. Ysane, watching with him as Cynric struggled to draw what seemed his last breaths, had fallen upon her knees at his side in tearful prayer, begging her brother be spared. She had clasped his hot, unresponsive hand and wept for the losses they both had endured.

As the painful moments crawled in the long night, enveloped in shades of darkness and mortal grief, Fallard kept watch as Cynric continued to breathe. Ysane finally succumbed to exhaustion and fell into an uneasy sleep on her knees beside the bed, face to face with her brother.

His heart ached for her, for even in sleep she lay crouched against the bed, hunched as if expecting a crushing blow. She had already lost so many, had endured so much pain. He wanted to carry her to their bed where she could sleep in comfort, but knew she would be more deeply hurt did her brother die without her by his side. So he watched, and waited, and prayed, and felt within his own body the agony of every laborious breath Cynric had taken until, as the endless night finally drew down toward dawn, his brother-by-law’s breathing strengthened, and the effort waxed easier. The sheen of perspiration wreathed his pale face, and then began to pour in droplets from his skin. As the fever left him, his bedding grew soaked with sweat.

Fallard held his own breath then, for with the rise of the sun Cynric’s eyes opened and in them lay awareness, exhausted but clear. His lips had curved in the weakest of smiles at Ysane’s sleeping face, only inches from his own. Fallard touch his wife’s shoulder, then gripped more fully to awaken her.

He assured himself the thick knot in his throat had naught to do with tears as Ysane came fully awake.

“Cynric?” She sounded utterly unbelieving. Then again,
“Cynric!”

Suddenly she laughed, and fell upon her brother as her tears bathed his face. When he smiled again, she leapt up and ran to the door, calling for Luilda. Then she raced back to the bed.

“Fallard! He lives! Oh, he lives,
he lives!”

He laughed, and cradled her when she threw herself in his arms and wept on his shoulder. He gently stroked her back until the bout of tears slowed, then he led her to the window where they could see the sky. Together, they knelt and gave thanks.

***

Ysane plied her needle and thread into the pattern of the girdle she embroidered, allowing the talk to flow around her. She humphed beneath her breath. Cynric’s comment of being ‘good as new’ in but a seven-day was an exaggeration, but ’twas true he healed. ’Twould be longer than that ere he returned to full health, but ’twas only a matter of time.

“Of course, ’twas my thought all along your father knew what Gemma had done, and was keeping silent in deference to her joy in the surprise,” Lady Hildeth said. “What say you, Ysane, remember you that happy time? You were young, I know, but still old enough mayhap, your memory of it still holds.”

Ysane blinked. She had lost the trend of the conversation. Hastily she sought to recall aught that would lead her to an answer, but naught came to mind. She stared blankly at her grandmother.

“Oh, dear, you have done it again. ’Tis not like you to be so inattentive, though I recall you were oft lost in daydreams as a child. But mayhap, ’tis the effect of the babe that grows within you. I should be grateful that you suffer something so simple. ’Tis certainly better than being tearful or having one’s stomach heave every morn.”

Ysane smiled and agreed, for all was right with her world. Once more, her gaze locked with that of her brother in wordless communication even as Lady Hildeth chattered like a happy wren.

But the sympathy between them was severely tested some days later. At that time, Fallard judged Cynric had healed sufficiently to deal with certain matters that must, of necessity, be faced. He had closeted himself in the bower with his wife’s brother for the best part of a morn.

Ysane, fearful of the meeting’s outcome, fidgeted and fluttered around the hall, unable to settle on any one task for more than a few moments. Slaves and servants worked around her, but she paid them no heed. She was focused on the anteroom that led to the chamber where the two men she loved most met to discuss Cynric’s fate.

At the end of their converse, Fallard emerged from the bower with the manner of one who has settled a matter to satisfaction. His eyes met hers. He strode to her, pulled her into his arms and lifted her chin with a finger. He bent to brush her lips, softly at first, with but the barest touch of skin, then with deepening urgency. He sighed and rested his cheek against her temple.

“You smell so good,” he said. “Much better than your roses.”

She squirmed from his arms. “Fallard! What matters that? What say you? How went the meet with Cynric?”

“All I will say at this time, is now I know why there was always somewhat about your brother that seemed familiar, somewhat beyond his likeness to you and your father, that reminded me of someone I knew. But I could not put my finger upon it. I have also recalled where I first saw the fletching of Cynric’s arrows. ’Twas on several of the burning shafts that thudded into the gate the day Ruald sought to begin his siege. Trifine thought the fletching unique as well, and brought it to show to me. I speak of it now because it ties in with all I have learned. But that may be discussed at another time.” He stepped back. “He waits for you. Go to him.”

She needed no further urging. She offered Fallard a smile she knew was crooked ere she hurried toward the bower.

***

Fallard watched her leave, the sway of her hips firing bedchamber thoughts as she sped away. He brooded on all she had come to mean to him, and of how quickly his love for her had bloomed, full wrought from that first glimpse of her on the road to the village.

Did Kenrick Wulfsingas hope for this outcome when he waxed eloquent in praise of his daughter? If so, he would be pleased. The hours I spent with him were wasted not.

The corners of his eyes crinkled. Ysane would find no cause for complaint with the pact he had reached with her brother.

He left not the hall, howbeit, though he had work to do without. He rather thought he might be needed in the bower soon, for ’twas a morn when full and hard truth must be told. He suspected his wife would need him. He called for a tankard of ale and settled to wait in his chair on the eating platform.

***

Ysane’s knock was tentative, but Cynric’s voice inviting her inside held no clue as to his thoughts on the results of his meeting with Fallard. She sat beside him on the bed, her fingers pleating the cover.

“For a Norman, your husband is a man of honor and courage, not to mention unexpected compassion,” Cynric stated without preamble. “He has known all along I fought with Ruald, but he has offered no reprisal, though had there been, I could have faulted him not.”

Ysane stared at him for a moment and then her eyes closed.

Cynric’s thumb wiped away the tears that welled. “Thought you he would do aught else? He loves you, little one, and would do aught to protect you, even defy the edict of his king. Not that the Norman usurper will learn of my involvement with the rebels. The only ones left alive to know it, will never speak of it. But even were the king to discover the truth, your lord would change not his decision.”

She nodded. “’Tis true that is what I expected of him, but hearing it relieves the last of my doubts. Fallard takes his duties and responsibilities to his king most seriously. You understand, had our marriage been but a little more of the body and a little less of the heart, things might well have gone differently.”