Rose of Hope

by Mairi Norris

  “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.

  He delighted in the oaths of fealty sworn to him earlier this day by the men and women who were now his people, on his land, to lead and defend. Those oaths had been tendered first by Thegn Randel and Domnall of Cullanis, both men whom he believed would become good and trustworthy friends. Most of the rebels locked with Sir Ruald in the gatehouse had also chosen to swear fealty, though for the nonce, they would be watched, their true loyalty in question until they proved themselves.

  Come the morn, I must remember to have messengers sent to the fiefs. I will that their stewards, both Saxon and Norman, appear before me to swear their oaths. I will insist the wives and eldest sons make their appearance, as well. A man is less likely to be difficult, does he come accompanied by his family.

  Fallard had re-affirmed his earlier decision that those who chose to remain with Sir Ruald—though truly, there were now less than two score—would set out for London early this morrow, escorted by the majority of William’s foot soldiers. The rest of William’s men, along with Fallard’s own knights, would remain at Wulfsinraed until the loyalty of the burh troops could be determined.

  William will be pleased. The common body of an insurrection rarely survives when its noble head is removed, as has now happened with Renouf dead and Ruald a prisoner. My actions here this day will insure one less trouble for my king.

  Abruptly, he laughed, the sound startlingly loud in the crystal night air. Glancing around, he saw several sentries turn to look his way, and his smile broadened. Did they think him a lackwit, or mayhap he had drunk too much ale with his sup? But he was jubilant, for now within his hand lay all his heart had ever desired.

  Though the wealth of Wulfsinraed pleased him, ’twas merely an unexpected benefit to an already overflowing bounty. His inheritance from his godmother had supplied him with all the wealth he needed. Now, he had enough not only for himself, but for all who were his responsibility.

  As if so much were not enough, he was now a baron. Would that not swell the pride of his father’s heart? Though as clearly as if she stood before him, he heard h
is mother remind him what God had given, so He could take away and he must take heed not to become vainglorious. Aye, she was wise, his mother. He must pen a missive to his family, apprising them of his good fortune, and the hopes he held in his heart for Wulfsinraed and the Lady Ysane.

  Ah…the Lady Ysane, his beautiful white rose. As it had since the moment he first saw her, Fallard’s body quickened at thought of the lovely mistress of Wulfsinraed. She still lived, though she fought through the darkness and flame of a raging fever. Attended to by the women of her bower and Lady Lewena, she seemed too delicate a flower to survive the harsh treatment life had chosen to bestow. Yet still she lived! She was a fighter, his rose, and he would do all he could to aid her in her battle.

  An errant breeze stirred the hem of his cloak, and with it came the sense of a presence behind him. He whirled, his sword ready in his hand ere he completed the turn. He relaxed. Trifine ’twas who approached him on silent feet, moonlight glinting off his close-cropped silver hair.

  His First came alongside him as he sheathed his blade. “The hearth companions have begun to call you ‘Black Ghost’,” he said, so quietly none but Fallard would hear. “They wonder what kind of lord would stand in solitude on the wall and laugh aloud in the darkest hours of the night. They fear you daft, or mayhap fey, Fallard.”

  “And what think you, my friend?”

  The white of his teeth showed clearly as Trifine grinned. “I know you are daft, but I have long since ceased to be concerned.”

  He set his gaze upon the dark forest before them. The two stood in companionable silence, the ease of long association between them.

  Trifine shifted his feet. “All went well today.”

  “Aye, far better than expected.”

  “Domnall of Cullanis and Thegn Randel will be dependable allies, mayhap even friends.”

  “That is also my thought.”

  “Lady Roana sends word Lady Ysane is resting. The fever seems to have abated somewhat for the night, though Luilda can say not what the morrow will bring.”

  “That is well.”

  “The Lady Roana is very fair of face and figure, and soft of voice.”

  “That she is.”

  “I am told that like her cousin, she is good and gentle of manner.”

  “So I have also heard.”

  “She has no kin but the Lady Ysane, and no home but Wulfsinraed, and ’twould seem, no prospects for a home and family of her own, as women are wont to desire.”

  Fallard waited, the crinkling at the corners of his eyes the only sign of his amusement. He had been expecting this since he had seen the look on Trifine’s face the moment his First laid eyes on the fair Roana.

  “Methinks Wulfsinraed is a good place for a man weary of wandering and warfare to put down roots,” Trifine ventured.

  “I will argue not with that.”

  “You would give your blessing to a betrothal between us?”

  “If the lady is willing, aye.”

  Silence descended again. Then…”When plan you to wed the Lady Ysane?”

  “As soon as she is well enough to stand.”

  Trifine nodded. “I believe that will be as long as my betrothal to Lady Roana will last, before we marry.”

  This time, Fallard hid neither his grin nor his laughter. He placed a hand on Trifine’s shoulder. “That is agreeable,” he said simply.

  Trifine lifted his face to a star-bejeweled sky and inhaled sharply, his chest puffing out. He patted his lean ribs with his palms. “’Tis a fine clear night, my captain, but methinks I am for bed.”

  “I shall retire with you, my friend. I have stared at the dark long enough.”

  Together they traversed the crosswalk back to the comfort of the hall.

  ***

  Despite the lateness, or mayhap earliness, of the hour he had sought his bed the night before, Fallard was in the courtyard shortly after dawn to see to the dispatching of the prisoners with William’s troops. The courtyard bustled with activity as men made ready for the long journey. The rebels were gathered together in a line in front of the gatehouse. A length of rope tethered each man’s ankles, and each was bound at his wrists by another length to the waist of the man in front of him. Ruald of Sebfeld was fettered at the center of them all.

  Trifine met Fallard on the steps. “You take no chances, Captain.”

  “’Tis truth. I wish William’s prize to arrive in London in one piece. I have given orders to Sir Gyffard that at no time, and under no circumstances except death are the prisoners to be released from their bonds. They are to march, eat, sleep and even relieve themselves as one man. There are to be no exceptions, and they are to remain surrounded at all times by the king’s men.”

  “Sir Gyffard believes your precautions excessive.” Trifine’s quiet voice held amusement. He mimicked the young commander’s disgruntled tone. “The force guarding the prisoners is no piddling handful, sir, but a small army of battle-hardened warriors. ’Tis believed the rebels have no force in this region capable of successfully attacking such superior numbers.”

  “Normally I would agree,” Fallard said, “but though I can name no certain cause for it, I am uneasy. Renouf of Sebfeld was a powerful and influential man. Though not a trained knight, as is Ruald, the tactics he employed against our forces were both cunning and militarily sound, and cannot be discounted.”

  “Aye, and together, Renouf and Ruald commanded the allegiance of hundreds of Saxon rebels, all of whom followed their leaders without question.”

  “Also true. By now, word of Renouf’s death and Ruald’s intent to take his place and lead the fight will have spread far. Within but a few more days, word will have raced through the land like a wind-swept fire that Ruald is taken prisoner and on his way to face William. The rebel forces will be anxious to free him ere he arrives. On foot, a large force such as the king’s men, moving slowly with bound and shuffling prisoners, will likely travel for at least two seven-days, and mayhap, three if the weather turns bad, ere arriving in London. That amount of time will offer the rebels nigh unlimited possibilities for rescue attempts.”

  “But?”

  “But still and all, the greater source of my apprehension lies not with the rebels, but Ruald himself. Though he sought to conceal it, he could hide not the look in his eyes as he was brought from the gatehouse to take his place among his men. ’Tis as if he is aware of that to which no one else is privy. He is too sure of himself. He is up to some secret mischief, and whatever ’tis will bode ill for Norman lives.”

  “How could he have schemed while in his cell, Fallard? He was closely guarded by our own knights.”

  “Tis possible he and Renouf laid plans in advance for this contingency. A person, or persons unknown may have already put them into effect. But mayhap, I worry for naught. Sir Gyffard may think my orders excessive, but I am assured all possible precautions will be taken. He is young, but ambitious and experienced, and he will obey. He will be not complacent.” Fallard sighed. “I only hope ’twill be enough.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  After Sir Gyffard’s troops had followed the ancient Roman road west to be swallowed up by the forest, Fallard decided to explore the holding pits. Jehan had already explained their layout and he was eager to see for himself. He walked around the circular wall of the northeast tower and briefly inspected the sparsely furnished pit guardroom. He turned to the structures sunk deep in the earth alongside the hall. One entered down a short flight of stone steps and through a stout wooden door.

  There were five pits in all, the middle one, the interrogation pit, twice the size of the others. He unlocked the door to peer inside, but even with the entry open ’twas too dark to see clearly.

  “My lord!” Roul rushed across the courtyard, carrying a lit torch. A grin stretched his freckled face. “Sir Domnall said you might have need of this.”

  “You will give Sir Domnall my thanks.”

  His eyes straying to the cell door, Roul asked, his tone hopeful, �
�Might you be needing aught else first, Captain?”

  Fallard took in his squire’s eager expression. He could well remember his own fascination with prisons as a young boy. Roul wanted badly to see inside one of these, but ’twas not his place to ask.

  There is a lesson to be learned here for the boy.

  “Hold the torch then,” he said, “and follow me, but not too closely. I would prefer not to become a second source of light.”

  Roul’s eyes flashed and he fairly danced. A sharply curtailed giggle was his only vocal response.

  Fallard entered the chamber, his head barely clearing the ceiling. Instruments of torture flashed in the light, entirely too well maintained for his liking. Here too was a fire pit, but ’twas attached to the back wall and its purpose was not for providing warmth.

  He circled the room, noting several sets of manacles affixed both high on the wall and close to the floor so a man might be fettered either standing or sitting. The metal on the inner surfaces were left rough to abrade the skin as the prisoner moved. Various knives, brands, sharpened iron hooks, and stakes designed for applying the maximum amount of pain lay neatly arranged on a long table, including one instrument Fallard recognized as the razor sharp, crescent shaped blade required to perform the ancient Norse execution known as a ‘blood eagle’.