Rose of Hope

by Mairi Norris

  ROSE OF HOPE

  Book One

  of the

  BALLADS OF THE ROSES

  ♥

  Màiri Norris

  Rose of Hope

  Copyright 2014 © Màiri Norris

  Cover Design © Rae Monet

  Layout by www.formatting4U.com

  This novel is a work of fiction. The names, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or are historical references used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to any other actual persons or events, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of the publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means without written permission of the author.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Many thanks to the moderators of the Anglo-Saxon research website “Regia Anglorum” for permission to use the riddling puzzle, “The Shield”.

  I also wish to express my gratitude to Kelly Jackson, Mary Gilgannon and Charlotte Matthews for the excellence of their help in the editing of this book.

  Above all, thanks to my loving husband, Mike, my sister, Barbara, and to Charlotte, Lou, Nancy and Jackie, dear friends, one and all, for their unending patience.

  DEDICATION

  Fallard, Ysane and I are all agreed: Rose of Hope is dedicated to Cristina from Brazil, our very first “official fan”. Her correspondence delighted us and her loyalty inspired and encouraged us. We appreciate her. Thank you, Cristina. We wish you a long, happy life with your own strong and honorable knight.

  DISCLAIMER

  Everything possible has been done to insure this book is free of grammatical, typographical and formatting errors. Please forgive those few that may have slipped past the many eyes that searched for them.

  GLOSSARY

  A guide to the Old English, **Old Norman and ***Old Norse words used in this story.

  Angelcynn—England

  burh—walled, fortified community or walled fortress

  burhfolc or burhmann—the peasant class belonging to a burh

  búrlands—land occupied by peasants, including ceorls [freemen]

  burnstów—a bathing chamber

  Cantware Burh—Canterbury, Kent

  ceorl—a freeman, and member of the peasant class who owned and worked his own land, but owed a percentage of his crops/earnings to the nobleman who protected him

  Ceteham—Chatham, Kent [as named in the Domesday Book]

  cifesboren—Saxon oath

  Cilterne—Chiltern Hills

  cladersticca—a baby rattle

  Cymry—Wales

  cyrtel—female undergarment, loose, floor and wrist length

  deorling—an endearment; dear one; darling

  dish-thegn—a steward/under-steward to a lord; one in charge of running a noble household and administering slaves/servants

  Eastseaxe—Essex

  eorl—the approximate of the title ‘earl’ in later years

  gástes—ghosts or spirits of the dead

  hadseax—a short knife, usu. around seven to nine inches long; used as an eating knife or as a hand weapon by men-at-arms; among the nobility, often artfully crafted of steel, silver and gems; noblemen generally kept the blade in a boot sheath, while noblewomen carried it in a sheath attached to their girdle, along with the keys to the household

  hearth companion—Old English: ‘gesitha’; a nobleman’s household troops, loyal to him for life; hearth companions were men-at-arms, but often performed many other tasks for the nobleman, including certain household duties, and that of policing his burh and búrlands in times of peace; a nobleman might hire men-at-arms or soliders on a temporary basis who were not hearth companions; king’s thegns were hearth companions to the royal household

  hylsung—a Saxon drum with a deep reverberation; none today know its size, shape or how it was played

  ieldramodor—grandmother

  king’s thegn—the highest level of thegn, holding office in the royal household; in authority, subject only to the king himself; holds his land directly from the king or, may inherit them

  langseax—a long knife or short sword, usu. around twenty to twenty-four inches long

  léasere—Saxon oath

  nefa—grandson

  nefene—granddaughter

  Santlache—Senlac Ridge, two leagues [six miles] outside of Hastings, England, the site where William the Conqueror defeated the English King Harold Godwineson on October 14, 1066

  scop—minstral

  Sea of Germania—North Sea

  seax—general term for a single-edged Saxon blade

  syrce—female over-garment, knee and elbow length, voluminous, gathered at the waist and secured by a girdle or rope

  thegn—a high ranking member of the landed aristocracy, usu. wealthy; a nobleman or lord; (thegns were of the title of eorl or higher); after the Conquest, this title was phased out, to be replaced by ‘baron’; by the time of this story, only a few Saxon thegns still held title, and these were of families who had supported William the Conqueror’s claim to the English throne

  Walha—Welshmen (who named themselves Brythoniaid, Brythons/Britons)

  Wulfsingas—“people of Wulfsin” [imaginary family]; the wealthy, noble Wulfsingas family traces its origins back more than 150 years, to the days of King Æthelstan, the Glorious (AD 924-939)

  “…ingas”—suffix meaning “people of”

  Wulfsinraed—home of Ysane Wulfsingas (meaning “wisdom of Wulfsin”)

  *seven-day—a week

  *twelvemonth—a year

  **“Dex Aie”—“God aid us” (Old Norman); Norman battle cry heard at the great battle of Hastings in 1066

  **eschecs—the game of chess

  **Nourmaundie—Normandy, France (Old Norman)

  **Sanguelac—“Blood Lake” (Old Norman); the name given to Senlac Ridge after the great battle

  ***björr—(Old Norse); a strong Viking liquor

  CHAPTER ONE

  Waltham Forest, Northeast Eastseaxe, a few leagues west of the Sea of Germania, Angelcynn [a remote corner of the kingdom]

  Wulfsinraed Burh

  1078 - The Month of Digging, Raking and Sowing - Early Spring

  In the shadowed hour before dawn, Ysane Wulfsingas waited for execution upon the parapet atop the wall surrounding her home. Fire blistered along her veins, though she shivered with icy tremors. Her cyrtel clung to her, the undergarment’s damp folds sticking to her chilled skin. ’Twas an irritant worse than the abrasions of her bindings. She shuffled from one foot to the other to ease the cramps that stabbed her lower limbs. ’Twas painful to stand after three days chained to the wall in the holding pit.

  Fog drifted among the dark trees in the middle distance. It swirled above the winter grasses and around the knees of the ceorls, eerily silent, who gathered in the clearing across from her to observe the final moments of her life. Below her feet, the dark, cold waters in the river channel rushed swift and deep on their ceaseless journey to the sea.

  How placidly the river flowed in summer—sweet memory!—with the verdant green of lily pads clustered here and there along the banks. But this day, in the burgeoning spring, its banks nigh overflowed with runoff from early rains and melting snows. Soft mists of powdery gray rose above the rapid current. Filled with debris, it rushed and gurgled merrily along, as if in mockery of her demise.

  Fool. Inanimate things cannot mock.

  She shuddered. The thought of her body, caught up in that roiling flood, nigh sent her to her knees. Her foot slipped to one side as she sought to maintain her balance.

  Her executioner, his grip bruising, snatched her upper arm. A hearth companion of her husband, he hovered so close she could brush the hardened leather of his jerkin with her fingers.
He raised his short, single-edged hadseax in his other hand, the gesture one of menace. “Here now, lady, ’tis too late to try to run. Naught can stop justice from taking its course.”

  She made no answer. There was no need. Justice had already been served where ’twas due, and by her own hand. She watched for the movement from Sir Ruald that would signal the moment her life would cease. By his decree, her death was not to be mourned. This was her punishment, for she had murdered her husband.

  The sun was nigh to rising. Thick clouds hung low, the air bitter and moisture-laden. First light was shadowy, drear and gray, like her heart.

  Fear should rule the haze of my thoughts, for death wins me at last. But that endless flow, a numb and dark unknown, yawns as a sweet release. Ah, how hushed is the morn, almost as if creation itself awaits the end.

  She inhaled, to savor the salt tang of the sea that drifted in faint counterpoint to the more earthy scent of the river. Her gaze roamed one last time over the land of her birth, to the slight incline that touched the toes of the distant chalk ridges of the Cilterne and the indentations of small meadows that opened, unlooked for, in the vastness of the forest. A little hiccup of sorrow escaped her lips. Never again would she see the sunlight turn the woods to emerald and bring to vivid life the meadows overrun with wildflowers of varied hues. She wanted to weep, but the heartache ran too deep.

  She glanced toward the village that straddled the river downstream. One last, lone man jogged through the village gate and up the road to join the spectators waiting for the sunrise. Among them, her hearth companions stood fettered. Her soul cried at their bleeding, battered forms. For their loyalty, they also were sentenced to die this day, tossed into the violent flood to be smashed by debris until the black water stole the breath of life from their lungs.

  Oh, I cannot bear it! They deserve this not.

  Her eyelids drifted shut. Images, hard and fleeting chased across their shadowed landscape.

  Cynric, why have you abandoned me to meet my fate alone? I mourn your loss. Walk you still in this mortal plain, or have you too, been deprived of life? Angelet, what evil fortune decreed your doom? How I miss you.

  Oh, that monstrous night. Has it truly been but three days since life crashed round me in ragged shards, ripping bloody strips from my soul? ’Tis as if I have lived a lifetime of pain. Would those last moments before Renouf’s assault could be relived, how differently would I have behaved. Yet, what is done, cannot be undone. At least in death there is peace.

  She opened her eyes to meet the glee in Leda’s expression. The slave, at least rejoiced.

  Domnall, held by two burly hearth companions at river’s edge, met her gaze. Even bound as he was, they feared his strength. He regarded her through eyes dark with a plea for forgiveness. She found the strength to smile. ’Twas all she could give to ease his remorse, for he was not to blame for this fiasco. His jaw tightened and his bloodied lips pursed, but he nodded.

  At the back of the crowd, a motion caught her notice. Her brows furrowed as she sought to make sense of what she saw, for the movements were furtive, and hauntingly familiar. But the mists swirled and the movement was lost.

  Ruald stepped forward, garbed in full mail as if for battle.

  The great fool! He postures a stance before the gathered ceorls as imperious as a king.

  In the growing light, his eyes glittered. His mouth curved in triumph.

  A breeze heralded the sun’s rebirth. It soughed through the trees, stirred the ends of her hair and teased the hem of her cyrtel, its caress a final, precious sensation of farewell. Its fingers shifted the fog. A single beam of light broke through the clouds. With it came the signal. ’Twas time. Ruald’s fisted hand lifted high, held for a space of three stuttering heartbeats, and sliced downward to his side.

  She stiffened as her executioner stepped close behind her.

  I am about to die. Now. How will it feel? Will it hurt? How long before the blackness comes? I thought myself beyond fear, but I am afraid. I am so afraid. Oh, please, let it be quick!

  She gritted her teeth.

  Ruald will break me not!

  The soldier grasped a hank of hair at the base of her skull and yanked, exposing her throat. She yelped at the sting and felt herself quiver, as would ale in a moving cask. Through her peripheral vision, she saw the blade of his hadseax lift, its razor-honed edge catching the light. A shaft of pure terror hitched her breath in her throat and she started to pant. She felt suffocated.

  I cannot breathe! I cannot breathe!

  Desperate to hold at bay the fear, to behold with her last sight a thing of beauty, she riveted her vision on a lone seagull as it winged through the brightening blue expanse overhead, its mournful cry piercing the hush and echoing the grief in her heart.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Three days earlier, the middle of the night

  “She did what?”

  Captain Fallard D’Auvrecher barely remembered to moderate his query to a growled whisper. He and his men sheltered in the bottom of a ravine in the forest, a league north of Wulfsinraed burh, the island fortress they planned to attack, but in the clear, quiet night, sound would carry. Their presence must remain secret for a short while longer.

  “’Tis truth, Captain.” The messenger was insistent. “The news was all the villagers spoke of this day. ’Tis said the lady murdered her husband, Thegn Sebfeld. Now his brother, Sir Ruald has cast her into a holding pit and ordered her execution for dawn, three days hence. Her loyal hearth companions die with her. Sir Ruald announces himself the new lord.”

  “This is a tale of much intrigue, Captain. Methinks it may change our plans,” said Trifine, his First.

  Fallard agreed. “He risks much with this action. Tell the rest. Why did the Lady Ysane do this thing?”

  “’Tis said Sir Renouf killed her babe in a sotted rage, before her eyes. She slew him then, with his own sword.”

  Fallard detected in the messenger’s tone both admiration at her audacity, and shock that a mere woman dared raise her hand in violence against her husband. He concurred with the admiration, for he had first hand knowledge of the lady’s character. Known for her gentleness and goodness, only the greatest of provocations would drive her to murder.

  Across from him Jehan, his Second, snorted his disgust. “The man is a greater fool than his brother does he think to hold Wulfsinraed for himself and escape censure.”

  “Does he accomplish his intent,” Trifine said, “William will offer more than censure. Most like, his insolence will cost his head.”

  Fallard’s brow puckered. “I cannot allow the lady to be executed. I have plans for her, an objective supported by the king. We must hope she succumbs not to the injurious conditions in the pit before Sir Ruald can follow through with his plan.”

  Though preserving her life was of no great import to their primary task, Fallard wanted the Lady Ysane to live, for he wished to take her to wife. When he had first arrived in the area with his troops some nine days earlier, he had spied on the burh with Trifine. During their surveillance, the lady came forth from the hall, a basket on her arm, to walk to the village with her cousin, Lady Roana. The reports of her beauty and grace were not exaggerated. Dainty and petite as elven-kin, she wore a cyrtel of white linen, and overtop it, a voluminous syrce of green velvet gathered, in the Saxon manner, by a corded belt at her waist. A white headrail with a gold circlet framed her face and encompassed her upper torso in its soft folds. She reminded him of the white roses in his mother’s garden, heady and refined. His body had responded predictably to idle thoughts of her in his bed, but he curbed the distraction of misplaced lust. He had waited all his warrior’s life to wed such a woman. He could wait a few days longer to slake his desire.

  The headrail hid her hair from his prying eyes, but Trifine, who possessed a rare talent for ferreting out information both useful and obscure, informed him ’twas waist-length, soft as a hare’s belly fur and much the same flaxen color of said fur. Fallard had
no wish to learn how his First gained this information.

  Scudding clouds played hide and seek with the moon then fled to the west, flooding the ravine with light.

  “Captain?”

  Fallard started at Trifine’s quiet hail. Preoccupation had not been a personal shortcoming until the day he had laid eyes on the Lady Ysane. He masked his disgruntlement. “We will speak of this later. We need more information, but will continue the discussion of strategy with what we know, and adjust it as needful.”

  Mirth, underlain by his customary blasé mien, sparked in Trifine’s voice. “Think you, you will have need of my special skill?”

  The corners of Fallard’s eyes crinkled in answering amusement. “Mayhap, you should tighten your bowstring, in case.”

  Knights disdained to use a bow, a mere footsoldier’s weapon. But his First was a longbow archer of unsurpassed skill, a true artist who learned from his father, who was taught by the wild Walha of Cymry. He had never been bested in any competition, a fact that startled, and betimes angered, his competitors. It amused him others scorned him for his expertise. In Trifine’s view of the world, mastery of any weapon was a worthy goal for a knight. Fallard had reason to appreciate Trifine’s ability, and over the twelvemonths of their association, it had become something of a jest between them. But if this new information they had received was accurate, Fallard might well need his First’s exceptional prowess at dawn in three days.

  “I had thought not to enjoy this task,” Trifine mused, “but daily it grows of greater interest. But a pox on Ruald for his delay of our attack. I had thought to be in the arms of the fair Roana by the morrow’s eve.”

  This time Fallard’s amusement reached his lips. His First had emitted a long, low whistle beneath his breath and declared himself in love, on first sight, with Lady Ysane’s beautiful cousin.