Rose of Hope

by Mairi Norris

  “Sir Ruald ordered the ‘mess’ by the wall cleaned up, as if the poor, broken babe was no more than a bowl of spilt stew. He ordered the lady taken to the pits to await the trial he would hold the following morn. I tried to convince him to lock her in the gatehouse, where ’twas at least dry and warm. He refused. I fear those of us still loyal to the Lady Ysane got into a wee bit of a scrap with Sir Ruald and the lord’s men. ’Tis unfortunate there were more of them than of us, but we gave a good accounting of ourselves, that we did. Still, it ended with the lot of us locked up, and awaiting Sir Ruald’s trial.”

  Domnall sighed and leaned against the parapet, his eyes focused inward. “The next morn the oaf held court as if he were king. He sat in the lord’s chair, and declared since he was his brother’s only kin, Renouf’s death made him the new lord. I was brought in as oath-keeper for my lady, but was allowed no word in her defense. I was forced to listen while his brother’s hearth companions lied, saying as how the lady had killed her babe by dropping the lass on her head. They testified she was so afeard she would be blamed she picked up her husband’s sword and murdered him while he was too sotted to defend himself, to make it look like he had done the deed. Then Ruald explained how I led my men to rebel against their new lord, meaning himself, and argued that since both murder and rebellion were offences deserving of death, we were to be executed by drowning in three days.

  “Through it all, my lady never moved nor spoke. Not that he gave her chance, nor did we ever hear her weep. She sat staring into naught. You know the rest. Oh, one last thing. None knows where the babe was buried.”

  Astonished, Fallard stared at him. “Ruald denied the babe a Christian burial and interred not her body in the crypts? A pox on the man!”

  “He ordered a hearth companion to bury her in the forest where none would ever find the grave. He commanded it that way, as you may know, to bring further hurt to the Lady Ysane. I have not heard that the companion ever told where he laid the lass ere he was killed in the fight for the burh.”

  Fallard cursed again. If she survived, Ysane would not even be able to mourn her babe at the child’s grave.

  “By this eve, I want you, and anyone else who can testify regarding what happened to relate to Tenney all you know so he may transcribe it. The document will go to King William when Sir Ruald and his men are taken to London, and this time, the trial that is held will be official. I will request that William himself officiate.”

  “I would be pleased to see to that small chore.”

  The telling of the tale had brought them around to the western guard tower. Domnall stopped and pointed into the distance.

  “Follow the road that direction and two leagues beyond lies the Crossroads of Fallewydde. The river runs through it. There is a bridge and further down, in summer, a ferry.”

  Fallard nodded. “I know the place, but we skirted it as we came. ’Twas necessary to stay clear of the roads so as to travel unmarked until we arrived here, though at this time of year we noted few travelers.”

  “’Twas my thought you must have done so, for no whisper of your presence came to us. Still, the force you brought is large. ’Tis difficult to understand how you came so far with none the wiser.”

  Fallard allowed his expression to speak for him.

  The slight frown on Domnall’s face cleared. “Ah. I understand. Those who came upon you lived not to tell of it. Well, that is the way of things in war.”

  “We took care to insure there were not so many. Those unlucky few we did encounter were outlaws, and unwisely chose to fight.”

  Domnall nodded and inclined his head in the direction of Fallewydde.

  “In summer, the site becomes a merry place where merchants stop for a time to set up booths to sell their wares. Many needful things—and many things of strange nature—may be had from the market at Fallewydde that cannot be found elsewhere. By grant of the king, faires are held every summer, and many sorts of travelers from nigh and far come to enjoy themselves with food and drink, and with dance and song.” Wistfulness flickered briefly in Domnall’s eyes. “In my younger days, the king himself would come, and then the merry-making would be especially boisterous, and the lasses, ah, but they were fine! Did he find a willing lass to occupy his time with lively pursuits, a man might spend a seven-day at the faire and leave having seen little of it.” A shade of regret crept into his voice. “The faires have been not the same since the coming of King William. Too many have been lost in the fighting, and the roads are not so safe for travel as they once were.”

  Fallard glanced at him. “William works to improve that situation.”

  “Aye, I know it. My words were meant not as criticism, only a statement of fact.”

  Fallard pointed with his chin to an edifice abutting the wall below them. Beyond it, filling most of the space in the western side of the island, were the orchards. “What building is that? It looks like a chapel.”

  “’Tis, but ’tis rarely used since Lord Renouf came.” Domnall eyed him. “My lord, there is a door in the back of the nave that leads into the crypts.”

  The crypts were another half-buried structure that stretched along the southwest wall. They were similar to the holding pits, but more extensive.

  “There is an underground corridor, then, between the chapel and the crypts?”

  “Aye, a short one. ’Tis a secret of which but a handful know. Both entrances are concealed. You must ask Father Gregory to show you the door on the chapel side. Lord Renouf was not a religious man. He forced Father Gregory to give up his post, when the man had been priest for nigh onto twenty twelvemonths and thought to live out his life here. For Lord’s Day services once a month, and weddings and such, the priest over at Ashbyrn Hall presided. He was not a good father, being a man who would do aught he was asked—for a price.”

  “Hmmm. I believe that situation is one I will rectify. When Father Gregory left, where did he go?”

  “Not far. He has a cottage in the forest behind the mill.”

  “If he wishes to return, see he is restored to his service at once. Where is Ashbyrn Hall?”

  “Ashbyrn is one of Wulfsinraed’s fiefs. It lies but seven leagues to the northwest.”

  “What about the other fiefs, how far are they from Wulfsinraed?”

  “All lie within a seven-day’s travel, my laird, even Blackbridge burh which sits on the outskirts of London. Most of Wulfsinraed’s revenues for wool production come from Blackbridge. Those revenues are profitable.”

  “I am aware. That is all for now. I thank you, Sir Domnall. Return to your duties.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Fallard left the wall through the west guard tower. He hurried back toward the hall along the cobbled stone of an old road that wound through the trees of the orchard. He needed to see Ysane again, to hear from Luilda some hope she might live. He crossed the courtyard with swinging strides, nodding to those he passed and sending a brown hen that got in his way squawking in panic. As he reached the steps to the hall, there came a trumpet blast and shout from the main guard tower announcing the arrival of friendly travelers.

  “Thegn D’Auvrecher!”

  He tamped down frustration at the delay and acknowledged the guard, one of Domnall’s men. “Who comes?”

  “A small party from the west, my thegn. The pennons proclaim Thegn Randel from Randel Hall.”

  Trifine was suddenly at Fallard’s elbow. “’Tis likely he knows naught of the changes made here this day, Fallard.”

  Fallard, his eyes searching for Domnall, found the first marshal already hurrying toward him.

  “Sir Domnall, what will be the likely response of this party to today’s events?”

  The three men moved as one up the steps. Fallard wanted to meet the incoming party with the advantage of high ground. He swept the wall and courtyard with a rapid glance. His men were already in place.

  Domnall took note. “You stand ready for battle, my lord. You are aware Randel Hall is one of your fiefs?”<
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  Fallard nodded. “Tell me, quickly, of Thegn Randel.”

  “He is a fair man. He will hear you out and most likely, approve of you despite the unfortunate fact you are Norman.”

  Fallard threw him a glance and he chuckled. “Lord Randel and Lord Kenrick were friends, though their beliefs differed greatly on English response to Norman rule. He believes naught can reverse the past and counsels acceptance of William’s rule. He held no liking and less respect for Lord Renouf and Sir Ruald, though he dared not show it, but I knew. Methinks you need worry not for swordplay.”

  “My thegn,” the guard called again. “Thegn Randel has his lady with him. He requests entrance.”

  “Admit them.”

  Fallard hid his relief at the lady’s presence. He wanted no more trouble and ’twas less likely the man would start any with his wife by his side.

  He waited, expression impassive, as the group crossed the bridge into the tunnel. But ere the first of the horses entered the courtyard, their leader—Thegn Randel, Fallard assumed—lifted his hand and the entire party came to an abrupt halt. Randel had seen Fallard and Trifine in their Norman armor flanking Domnall. Randel’s hand gripped his sword hilt, though he drew it not. His men urged their horses into a protective stance around the lady, who looked more startled than frightened.

  The rain had started up again. Droplets slid down Fallard’s forehead into his eyes. He blinked them away. Water dripping into a barrel beside the steps breached the tense silence as Fallard waited for Randel’s next move.

  The man facing him was nigh his own age, tall and lean, his coloring fair. Garbed only in light mail, he still looked every inch the capable warrior. His beard was shaved close to his skin and his hair was shoulder length. Fallard saw naught of the hatred in Randel’s eyes he had too oft encountered. Instead, those eyes rapidly assessed the situation. Fallard recognized the exact moment Randel realized his small troupe was in a dangerous pass, one from which he would be unable to fight his way clear.

  Fallard took the initiative. His voice rang out. “Well come, Thegn Randel, to Wulfsinraed. I am Fallard D’Auvrecher, the new lord. Please hasten to bring your fair lady out of this unpleasant weather and into the warm comfort of the hall.”

  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 lor
d, 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.”