Rose of Hope (7 page)

Randel’s questioning look fastened on Domnall, and from the corner of his eye, Fallard saw the first marshal answer with a slight nod. Randel’s gaze returned to Fallard, then he turned in the saddle and spoke to his knights. His hand moved from his sword, but his wariness remained unabated as he slowly led the way into the courtyard.

Young lads from the stable came running as Randel dismounted and aided his wife from her palfrey. Setting her hand on his arm, he approached the steps, his warriors grouped closely behind.

Domnall opened the hall doors and stepped back to allow Fallard to enter, followed by Randel, his lady and his guard. Trifine and Domnall then entered with more of Fallard’s men following behind, two of whom stationed themselves either side of the doors.

Fallard waited while servants took the couple’s mantles and hung them on pegs. He stepped to meet Randel, his hand outstretched. He wished not to fight again this day. Indeed, he wished not to fight this man at all. ’Twas his thought, did Thegn Randel’s trust be won, he would become an ally.

Randel clasped Fallard’s wrist, his grip firm, his regard steady. “My lord D’Auvrecher, as you have clearly been told, I am Randel of Randel Hall.” Turning his head to indicate the trim woman by his side, he said, “I would have you meet my wife, the Lady Lewena.”

“Well met, lady,” Fallard said, bowing. Randel’s wife was tall, and very beautiful, as dark as her lord was fair, and of an age nigh to that of Fallard and her lord. It pleased Fallard to see caution and curiosity, but no fear in her eyes. Aye. These two might indeed become worthy friends.

“I would offer repast to you and your lady, Thegn Randel, do you wish it.”

“My thanks, but nay. We broke our fast ere leaving camp this morn. But I would covet a cup of something warm, as would my wife.”

Fallard caught the eye of Ethelmar, who nodded and hurried through a wide door into the kitchen.

Leading the way to the cozy seating in the space between the blazing fire pits, Fallard waited for the lady to be made comfortable before seating himself. Roul appeared with the servants to bring warm mulled wine in a silver carafe, the scent of which warmed the bones by smell alone.

The various knights and hearth companions seated themselves at the mead-tables, still set to await the feast that would never come. Randel’s men placed themselves facing their lord and lady. The pewter tankards before them were quickly filled with ale. They spoke not, but seemed glad enough to wrap their hands around the heat emanating from the metal.

Randel shifted in his chair, removed his riding gloves and accepted the chased silver chalice a serving maid offered. As did his men, he encircled its welcome warmth with his hands. He gulped half its contents, releasing a little sigh of relish, ere turning to Fallard.

His apprehension well hidden, he said, “I find myself at a disadvantage, my Lord D’Auvrecher. We received a message from Sir Ruald but three days past. My wife and I journeyed to Wulfsinraed expecting to offer condolences to Lady Ysane and Sir Ruald on the death of Thegn Sebfeld. Instead, we find Norman knights holding court in their place. You will understand our…hesitation when we arrived.”

Roul passed a fragrant chalice to Fallard and stationed himself at his left elbow. Fallard stretched his legs toward the warmth of the fire, noting as he did so the chalice in his hand was solid silver, not plate. The astonishing wealth of Wulfsinraed was evident at every turn.

He made Randel wait as he savored the wine, then said, “Much has changed here since that message was sent. Tell me, what word received you concerning the death of Thegn Sebfeld?”

He wanted to give naught away, to allow Randel to yield information, though ’twas clear from the Lady Lewena’s presence Ruald’s message offered little of the true story.

“Only that Thegn Sebfeld had received unfortunate injuries resulting in his death,” Randel said. “The message requested we attend Sir Ruald, who declared himself the new lord, but also asked we arrive not until the morrow. Howbeit, we made excellent time, better than expected. When last eve the weather turned foul I decided, for my wife’s sake, to continue on to the hall. Under the circumstances, ’twas my thought Ruald would find no fault with an appearance somewhat earlier than requested.” He paused to take a swallow of the wine. “If I may presume to ask, my lord D’Auvrecher, what has happened to Sir Ruald, and where is the Lady Ysane? I pray no harm has befallen them?”

Though his soft words were a question, there was no mistaking the challenge in his tone. Fallard met and held his scrutiny, but said naught. The silence deepened.

“Please, my lord, how fares the Lady Ysane?” For the first time, Lady Lewena spoke. Her voice was deeper than that of most women, but as gentle as a summer breeze, and grave with concern.

“The Lady Ysane lies in her bower, gravely ill,” Fallard said, then added hastily, as they both tensed and glared at him, “though not by my hand. Please, be at ease. I will tell you what I know.”

He signaled to the servants to bring more wine, then related recent events. As the story progressed, Randel’s expression grew ever more wrathful, while that of his lady was stunned with horror. When Fallard told of the murder of the babe, of Lady Ysane’s imprisonment and the intent to execute her at first light this very morn, his account was interrupted by a sharp cry from Lady Lewena. Her face had gone white, the blood leached from even her lips. Distress shone deep in her beautiful dark eyes.

Randel clasped his wife’s hand. He barely waited for Fallard to finish ere he spoke, his tones limned with outrage. “Renouf! That worthless scum! Ever did he act the coward and the knave, and now his brother, no better. It seems clear now he wished us not to arrive until his villainous deeds were accomplished. But what fool is he that he thought to set himself up as the new lord, when he knows only King William may appoint him thus?”

“Sir Ruald is well thought of at court. ’Tis my thought he believed that did he become the sitting lord by the time news of Renouf’s death reached the king, William would appoint him. Ruald concocted a tissue of lies regarding all that occurred, and with none to speak the wiser, he must have assumed William would grant his request. ’Tis unfortunate for Ruald both he and Renouf were unaware—and to my knowledge, Ruald remains yet unaware—the king knew of their involvement with the Saxon insurrections in this part of the land. That is why I am here.”

Randel’s eyes narrowed. “I feared as much. King William has kept his word to leave to themselves those who honor their oath to him. He would have sent not his knights to Wulfsinraed without certain knowledge of treason.” He gazed into the fire for a long moment, then sighed. “I suspected the brothers were behind the rebellion in this region, but could gain no proof. I warned Renouf once he would be punished beyond bearing were William to learn he was involved. He but laughed and said even if there was aught to learn, the king would never be able to prove it.” He glanced at Fallard, the intelligence in his eyes sharp. “Does Sir Ruald yet live?”

“Aye. I hold him and his men for transport to London.” Fallard held Randel’s clear gaze and decided some measure of trust would go not awry. “He will face trial for his part in the rebellion, and for the attempted murder of Lady Ysane and those hearth companions loyal to her. He usurped William’s authority in these matters, rendering his actions treason. His execution is all but certain.”

Randel winced. “Aye, ’tis the usual penalty, though not the only one. Yet, with the attempted murder of the wife of a noble added to the charge, he will be fortunate to suffer the quicker death of beheading. I understand not the false wisdom of continuing the rebellion. In the twelvemonths since Santlache, it has become a matter of certitude that naught can stop the advance of Norman rule over England. William rules with a fist of steel and has too thoroughly consolidated his control. I believe his throne is now unassailable.” He looked at Fallard. “I am as loyal to my country as any man. I fought with King Harold at the ridge of Santlache, that you call in your tongue Sanguelac, and even for a time after William’s coronation. But I am no fool, and only lackwits fight a battle already long lost. Mayhap, were it only myself, I might have considered it, but I would risk not my beloved wife and children on what I know to be a dullard’s folly.”

“It pleases me to hear your thoughts on this matter, Thegn Randel.”

Lady Lewena’s quiet voice interrupted. “My lord, the Lady Ysane is a dear friend. Might I attend to her?”

Fallard motioned to the steward, hovering out of earshot. “Ethelmar, escort Lady Lewena to the bower of Lady Ysane…and Ethelmar, I would have a report of how the lady fares.” He watched as the steward disappeared up the tower stairs with his guest, then turned his attention back to Randel who, with his wife absent, spoke more openly now of his concern.

“May I ask your intentions, Lord D’Auvrecher, now you are lord? What plan you for my wife and my men?”

“I am neither Renouf nor Ruald, Thegn Randel. ’Tis my intent to rule Wulfsinraed and its fiefs with honor, offering fair treatment to my people. You and your party are free to come and go as you please.”

Briefly, the two men shared a solemn gaze, then Randel smiled, his features relaxing for the first time since his arrival. “I would be honored to call you ‘friend’, my Lord D’Auvrecher, if you are satisfied I am worthy of your trust.”

“Aye, Randel, and my name is Fallard. ’Twould please me did you use it.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Within the confines of Wulfsinraed’s gatehouse Sir Ruald of Sebfeld huddled, shivering, a scratchy woolen blanket wrapped close. The covering was too flimsy to provide true warmth, but ’twas better than naught. ‘Twas truth, he would not have been so generous had the Normans been in his place. Around him were the most loyal of his men, stretched out on the hard wood of the floor, their backs to the wall. Ruald was uncomfortable and hungry despite the stale bread and ale he had been served, but he was not unhappy. He could be languishing in the miserable conditions of the holding pits, and indeed, was surprised he was not.

Also, as he had hoped—and aye, counted on—the Foolish One had contrived to be among those bringing their meal, such as ’twas. He had used the Foolish One, as he had oft times used her in other, more pleasant ways, to pass a message to another who remained free outside the wall, whose loyalty was given to him.

In the dancing shadows formed by the single flickering tallow candle in its sconce by the oaken door, Ruald smiled. The jealousy of the Foolish One would be her undoing, but she was no longer his concern. His use for her was over for the nonce, and he cared little how she fared. All that mattered now was that his message was received.

Together with Renouf, he had planned for this eventuality. If all went well, in but a brace of days he would again be a free man. Then the hated Normans, usurpers, one and all, would feel the razor’s edge of his vengeance. Soon, very soon, the woman who had humiliated and scorned him would be dead, as he had meant her to die that morn. Wulfsinraed and its riches would still be his. He had but to be patient for a short while longer.

***

’Twas very late. Fallard, his breath congealing in foggy puffs, stood alone on the south wall, looking out upon the ebon smudge that marked the thick growth of forest. In but a few hours, the new dawn would break. The previous day’s clouds had dispersed and the night was cold, clear and very still. Below him, the river burbled to itself like a contented babe. To the southwest, the contours of a lake broke the ragged silhouette of the trees, its waters glistening darkly beneath the pallid moonlight.

How lonely is this place, and how empty this land, so far from every place I deem civilized. Not a single pinpoint of light glimmers in all the far-flung landscape that stretches like a silent, static ocean before my eyes. One could nigh be tempted to believe not another human lives in all the land. Even the brilliance of the stars seems muted, as if their very distance is increased from the earth. Aye, the lives of those who dwell here would be closely intertwined, else the isolation would weigh too heavily.

Fallard leaned against the cold stone of the parapet, and placed his gloved palm against its solid, level top. No Norman battlement this, with the familiar crenellated configuration, but a solid defense, nonetheless. He inhaled deeply of the pure night air, washed clean of dust by the rain and smelling of wet earth, and drew his cloak closer around his shoulders.

From the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of barely perceived movement in the sky across from his position. Keen eyes searching, he found the source, a shadow deeper than the darkness in which it moved. ’Twas a large bird, a hunter, possibly an owl. The creature swept another circle through the air above the clearing on the far side of the river, then abruptly dove into the shadows above the ground. It hesitated briefly, then leapt skyward, its powerful wings carrying it aloft once more. There was not enough light to discern if it had made a kill. It winged into the darkness and he saw it not again.

Pulling away from the chill of the wall, he saw the warmth of his gloved hand had melted a clear print in the frost that rimmed the parapet. By morn, the print would be filled in again. Absently, he rubbed his left shoulder. The old wound was bothersome this night.

His mind returned to his contemplation of all that had transpired in recent days. Who could have foreseen his good fortune? Events could have worked no better to his advantage had he planned them all himself. He thought of the nigh miraculous ease with which he had taken the fortress, and of the timely—and for him, exceptionally convenient—death of his enemy, Renouf of Sebfeld. He had once heard a Saxon scop sing of ‘
advantageous happenstance’,
and had wondered exactly what it meant. Now, he thought he knew. If the events leading to the burh’s fall were not advantageous happenings, he could think not what might be.

He rejoiced that Wulfsinraed needed no rebuilding. Most of the burhs and manors granted to William’s new barons were constructed of wood. Though sturdy enough, the king’s standing order required them all to be rebuilt of stone. ’Twould be many, many twelvemonths ere that work was finished. But Wulfsinraed’s stone hall and wall had been well maintained, and the few places he had noted that needed repair were of a minor nature and easily restored.