Rose of Hope (69 page)

Then, he and Ysane had spent more than half of last twelvemonth visiting Fallard’s family in Nourmaundie. Now, after two months at Blackbridge, and another month yet before the wedding, he wanted naught but to get back to his own bed in his own hall and stay there for a while.

He glanced through the open gate to where Arnulf, Cynric, Domnall, Roul and Faucon were gathered in front of the manor hall, staring up at the roof. Arnulf, Gemma’s dour but steadfast husband, had recently discovered one of the great wooden support beams was filled with rot. No doubt, they were debating the best means to repair it.

Roul and Faucon broke away from the older men and walked together into the house. Fallard followed his squire’s progress and sighed. Roul was their one unresolved heartache. The death of Fauques had quenched his bright gaiety, sobering and maturing him as only the hard realities of a life spent in warfare could do. For months, the boy grieved, becoming melancholy and morose, and withdrawing from all but duty. His young spirit wavered so badly Fallard thought to send him home. But time slowly restored a tithe of his natural exuberance, and while he still allowed no one too close, Fallard hoped his budding friendship with Faucon would help. ’Twas time for him to let go of the past and look to the future.

Briefly, Fallard considered wandering over to join the other men, but instead stretched out to stare through the branches and leaves of the spreading elm above them. He allowed himself to relax. The day was cool under a bright sun, and though he chuckled when Ysane said the sky was so blue ’twas nigh painful to look at it, he took her meaning. Eyes closed, he listened to her voice as she debated some homely issue with Gemma. Contentment, vast and free filled him, mind and soul.

***

Some time later Ysane, noticing an unusual silence, glanced over at Fallard and smiled. Evart, his little face bathed in perspiration, lay sprawled over his father’s chest, sound asleep, her husband’s arm tucked around his body. Evarette, her tousled head pillowed on his other arm, lay cradled close to her father’s side, thumb firmly stuck in her tiny mouth.

As she loved her family with her eyes, she was suddenly reminded of Fallard’s words to her four summers earlier on the road to Fallewydde. He had wagered with her concerning the gender of their firstborn, still less than three months in her womb. He had demanded of her a reward if he won the wager and the child was a boy. At the time, though already she loved him, her relationship with her husband was still new enough the nature of his reward had embarrassed her. Still, she had agreed.

As it turned out, Evart was firstborn by many minutes. Later, when she was healed from the birth, Fallard had reminded her of the promise she made. With a wicked smile, he demanded his reward. Even now, the warm color painted her cheeks as she thought of it, but she had thoroughly enjoyed the payment of her debt. She gazed at the long, graceful length of her husband and felt, as she always did, the slow build of desire. Mayhap, ’twas time to repeat it.

She thought Fallard lost in slumber with the children, but as if he felt her look like a physical touch, he opened his eyes. Their gazes tangled, neither needing words to read the other’s thoughts. Her heart at peace, she drew her fingertips down his cheek in a lingering caress to his lips. He kissed them, and a familiar flame kindled deep in his eyes.

“I love you,” she said, and smiled a promise for the coming night.

***

Fallard measured the love he saw in his wife’s beautiful green eyes, and failed to find its end. Nor would she ever find an end to the love he held for her. He reached to splay a hand over her distended stomach as she answered a query from Meldred. The questing of his fingers was answered by a strong kick from within her womb. He chuckled and Ysane threw him a laughing glance. Certain their active third child was a boy, they had already chosen a name—Marc, after his father’s father. Her abdomen slid beneath his palm as she leaned across the blanket to pick up a pear and a piece of cheese to nibble. As always, pregnancy increased her appetite.

His other hand gently stroking the length of Evart’s small back, Fallard listened to the four women argue the merits of roasting rabbit as opposed to baking it. He let the chatter roll over him. Ysane! How he loved her! He thought of the many twists and turns their separate lives had taken that had, in the course of time, entwined their two paths into one. With her, he surpassed the sweetness of what his father and mother shared, for their relationship was based only on the simple friendship and affection of many shared twelvemonths, while the devotion he shared with his wife was beyond his words to describe. Ysane was the pinnacle, and aye, beyond, of all the dreams of his warrior’s mind and the hopes of his manly heart. The Lady of Wulfsinraed was truly, in every possible way, his rose of hope.

EPILOG II

Two leagues into the forest north of Wulfsinraed Burh lay a small, insignificant glade, dreaming under the summer sun. There was naught about it to set it apart from any other in the wood, or cause a passerby to stop and take notice. But had anyone come upon the glade and decided ’twas a good place to stop for a meal or a rest beneath the trees at its verge, they might have stumbled across a curiosity.

At the base of a spreading oak, where its wide branches provided some protection from the weather, a flat, white stone lay sunk into the green, mossy turf. At the head of the stone, nigh the trunk of the tree, a little wooden cross of simple construction was stuck in the ground. The cross was starting to lean and soon, it would fall over altogether. In crude lettering across the face of the white stone was scribed a word, mayhap, a name, as if someone had hastily scratched it upon the surface rather than chiseling it properly. It spelled simply:
“ANGELET”.

THE END

Thank you for reading
Rose of Hope.
I hope you enjoyed the story of Fallard and Ysane. ~ Màiri

***

I invite you to turn the page for an excerpt from
Cameron
, Book I of the
“The Daughters of Alastair MacDougall”,

an exciting new series by Lane McFarland set during Scotland’s first War of Independence.

***

EXCERPT: Cameron

“The Daughters of Alastair MacDougall”

Chapter One

MacDougall Castle

Kilmarnock, Scotland

May 1297

Cameron MacDougall scrambled up the steep hill, her brown basket clutched in one hand and her woolen skirt bunched in the other. Heart skipping fast, she crested the summit and caught her breath. Her gaze swept the flat landscape carpeted with green grass and hundreds of budding yellow wildflowers. A brisk breeze whipped her hair across her face. She pulled the dark strands from her mouth and tugged her grey cloak tighter against the chill.

She made her way across the grassy mound to her mother’s resting place under the shade of a large blackthorn tree, its branches filled with white spring blossoms. Trees swayed in the wind, and petals skittered across the ground.

Cameron set her basket down and knelt. Her knees grew cold and wet from the damp ground as she brushed leaves off the gravesite. Images of Mum’s sickly face flashed through her mind. Deep purple bruises, symptoms of disease, marred her translucent skin, and dark shadows surrounded her once vibrant blue eyes. Dull and lifeless, the orbs sunk into her pale face, the sharp ridges of her cheekbones prominent. Her once crowning glory of thick blonde hair lay in thin grey strands against her scalp, and the stench of death hung heavy around her shriveled frame.

A sharp pain sliced through Cameron’s heart.

She had not been able to cure her mother’s wasting sickness. Although it had been many months since Mum’s passing, Cameron would never forgive herself for her inexperience as a healer. She ran her hand over the small iron cross the blacksmith made in Mum’s honor—the cold hard surface uncharacteristic of her mother’s warmth.

How she missed Mum, her encouragement and unselfish love. Even in her darkest hours, Mum implored Cameron to continue her quest to learn the healing arts.
Follow yer dream. Never give up, my daughter.

Cameron spent fruitless hours combing through manuscripts, desperately searching for a cure. But each potion she tried was quickly discarded after either having no affect at all, or sending her mother into bouts of vomiting, further weakening her frail state.

Tears slid down Cameron’s cheeks, but she rubbed the moisture away. Mum would be disappointed to see her immersed in self-pity. Her mother had longed for strong, independent daughters.

Promises made to Mum in recompense of Da’s indiscretions granted her four daughters the rare privilege to live as their hearts desired. The spirited, yet gentle woman ensured each daughter was educated in reading, writing and even performing basic calculations. Cameron’s heart tugged. Because of Mum, each daughter lived the life of her choice.

Cameron snipped a bunch of the wilted yellow blooms from her visit yesterday, plucked the dead ones from the container and replaced them with fresh clippings.

“I’m worried about Fergus’s arm, Mum. What a shame he may lose it over the Grahams stealing Da’s bull. Why did they have to fight over that beast?” She sighed. “Nay, the bull is not the problem. They fight over anything and everything. I’ve begged Da to end this feud. Perhaps with Fergus’s severe injury, he’ll change his mind.”

She tilted her face to the sun. Puffy white clouds drifted across the blue sky. “Well, I promised Muire I’d be back by mid-morning, and I still need to gather more elder for Fergus.” She rubbed the cold ground over her mum. “I’ll visit ye again tomorrow.”

She straightened, picked up her basket and headed back down the hill. She grinned at the ridiculous sight of the chestnut horse waiting with a long wooden ladder strapped to his back. He nickered and tossed his head at her approach. Perhaps he felt a wee bit silly. She unwound the reins and patted his sleek dark neck. “I know. A dignified beast such as yerself should not be made to tote a ladder.”

The two ambled through a field and along a path winding into the woods. The sun shone through the trees, casting its light on green ferns and awakening flowers. The atmosphere alone should have heightened her spirits, but her father’s aging captain weighed on her mind. Fergus was unusually quiet. His pain affected his mood, and she was determined to collect more elder bark and its white flowers to alleviate the inflammation around his wound.

She ventured farther into the forest, down the worn path to the clan’s southern border. Black elder trees flourished in the damp shady woodland at the edge of a large field covered in yellow rapeseed blossoms. The shifting wind blew through the unfurling plants, causing the tall stems to sway and spread their honeyed musky scent.

A large black elder stood tall amongst the pines and oaks. Fragrant white petals covered the ends of the branches. When made into tea, not only did elder ward off fever, it lifted the patient’s spirit. Just what Fergus needed.

After tethering her horse, she wrenched the ladder off the animal and leaned it against the trunk. She stood back and examined the limbs. The tree must be thirty feet tall. Its berries were turning red, not quite ready for harvest. “If only I can climb up without killing myself,” she muttered.

She looped her basket on her arm and pushed on the ladder to test its strength. Cautiously, she stepped on the first rung and bounced, then did so again, testing before she took the next step, and the next.

Her palms perspired. A deep breath helped quell her fear of heights. She held on tightly, hung her basket on a branch, and hoisted herself into the tree. The flowers blooming at the far end of the limbs were almost within her grasp. She raked her teeth across her bottom lip.
All I have to do is inch along…one step at a time.

She stood while maintaining a death-grip on another branch. Rough bark scraped her hands, but her feet shuffled closer to the edge. Sitting on the limb, she stretched forward and retrieved the flowers. After filling her basket, she peered at the ground, and her fingers shook in nervous anticipation of climbing down.

Grasping a limb, she tucked her feet underneath her and clutched her basket. Gingerly, she made her way back to the nook of the tree and sighed with relief. But when she looked down, the ladder appeared much farther away than she remembered.

She let her basket fall to the ground and eased her bottom into the cranny of the tree, stretching her leg, feeling for the top of the ladder. Her foot slipped to the right, and she grabbed the tree and closed her eyes. The ladder scraped against the bark and fell with a thud.

“Grand! Now what am I to do?” She searched the trunk. Gnarled roots ran in different directions, creating a rough hard surface. She rubbed her sweaty palms on her gown and glanced toward the castle. Would anyone hear her scream? Fear twisted her stomach.

Her horse nickered, his head held high and ears pointed to the west. The jingle of bridles and the clop of heavy hooves grew close. Cameron eased her feet into the nook of the tree and stood on shaky legs to get a better view.

Several men on horseback rode in her direction. The one in front sported the Graham’s crest on his saddle.

She inhaled sharply. Oh, Lord. Did they return for more trouble? What would they do if they spotted her? Vulnerable and unprotected, her pulse hammered, her body trembling. Perhaps, if she remained quiet, they would pass without noticing her perched high in the tree.

As if he heard her thoughts, the leader of the group turned his head and met her eyes. He held up a hand, and the men stopped. His brows drew together. He nudged his mount toward her and tilted his head to the side, puzzlement reflected in his brown eyes.