Rose of Hope

by Mairi Norris

  He turned away, needing to see no more. He had been told that during Renouf’s tenure, more than one hapless man had disappeared into this chamber, never to be seen alive again, and many claimed to have heard muffled cries arising from the depths at such times. Whether the stories were true remained a matter for conjecture, but ’twas his intent most of the instruments in the room would be removed and put to other, more productive use.

  The manacles and corded leather whip would stay, for he approved of their use. A slave or other malefactor punished by moderate whipping usually recovered, and was soon able to return to his or her duties. As a discipline, proper whipping was proven successful in insuring loyalty and obedience without incurring hatred. But he would order the inner surfaces of the manacles rasped. He saw no good purpose in ripping the skin of a man’s wrists and ankles when his back was already lashed.

  As he prepared to leave the chamber, he glanced at Roul. The squire’s face was sickly green in the torchlight, his eyes nigh bulging as he stared at the instruments scattered about the room. He caught Fallard watching him, and swallowed hard.

  “Shall I explain the uses of these items?” The sweep of Fallard’s hand indicated the implements. He already knew the answer.

  Roul’s ‘nay’ was high-pitched and he tried valiantly to hide the gulps betraying his nausea.

  The boy’s response pleased Fallard. When confronted with the reality of what lay here, the youngster found the prospect of torture not so exciting as he had expected. Aye, ’twas a good lesson, one the lad would never forget, and mayhap ’twould one day temper the nature of the man he would become.

  They climbed from the chamber and Fallard took the torch. “Return to Sir Domnall. Remember to give him thanks for the light. Make yourself available for any duties for which he has need until the nooning meal, then return to me in the hall.”

  “Aye, my lord.” Roul gulped one final time. His freckles popped out with stark clarity. He needed no persuasion to leave. The corners of Fallard’s eyes crinkled as he watched his squire try to maintain his dignity by walking away very fast instead of running, as he clearly wished.

  Fallard tromped to the farthest cell—the one designated the isolation pit by Domnall, the cell where Ysane had been kept—and went inside. The unexpected stench hit him first. When he reached the bottom, he could stand not upright, for the roof of this cell was considerably lower than the others. Here, the darkness and damp reigned supreme.

  Anger at Ruald tore through him anew. ’Twas a cramped space, much of it taken up by the steps. The walls and floor were icy and covered with filthy, rotting matting. Moisture dripped from the ceiling and skimmed down the walls to pool under the straw. A set of manacles dangled from the wall of the narrow cleft created by the steps. There was naught else in the cell, not even a bower pot. Ruald had not even left her that.

  He now understood how Ysane had become ill. Domnall told him Ruald had allowed her but one thin blanket, and no light. The guards had fed her once a day, but of that, she had eaten naught. When he thought of all that was done to her, Fallard marveled again she still lived, but he wondered if her mind remained intact.

  A shadow darkened the sunlight streaming through the door and a serving boy peeked hesitantly into the cell.

  “Thegn D’Auvrecher, be ye here?”

  “I am here.” Fallard moved close to the steps where he could be seen.

  “My thegn, ye must come, and quickly. ’Tis the Lady Ysane. Ethelmar says she breathes her last!”

  Moments later Fallard arrived in the lord’s bower to find its inhabitants weeping and wailing, and he thought the lady already dead. A strange hurt pierced him and squeezed like a fist around the region of his heart. It unsettled him. He had expected regret if she died, but no pang of sorrow. He knew not the lady. How then could there be any touch of grief at her death?

  He moved to the bed, and bent more closely over Ysane’s still, recumbent form. A sudden fluttering of her bodice caused him to jerk upright.

  By the saints, she still breathed! Not yet was she beyond the reach of the living. But when he touched her forehead, he groaned. She burned alive. His eyes met those of the healer, who shook her head. He straightened and stared at the weeping women, noting with disgust that even Ethelmar was teary-eyed.

  Well, by the teeth of the saints, he would not yet consign her to oblivion. Until Ysane ceased to draw breath once and for all, he would fight to keep her alive.

  A memory surfaced then of one of the innumerable battles Fallard had fought in his youth. A knight, not one he knew well, but a comrade in arms, had received a minor wound. The wound festered, and the man became so fevered no amount of poultices, decoctions or laving with cool water had any effect.

  Their captain ordered the man stripped and carried to a nearby stream, where he was submerged in the shallows nigh the bank. ’Twas the fall of the year, and the fevered man screamed like a crazed thing at the painful touch of the icy water. He fought to heave himself out, but by the simple expediency of wading out and sitting on him, one of his comrades held him there. After a remarkably short time, the fever cooled and the man was dried, wrapped in blankets and laid nigh a crackling fire. At mid-morn the next day, he awakened, weak and weary, but hungry and in his right mind. From that day, his strength returned and his wound quickly healed. Would the same work to help Ysane?

  He turned to Ethelmar. “Cease this caterwauling! Go to the burnstów! I want the bath filled with cold water immediately. Has the hall a cellar where ice is kept?”

  “Aye, my lord. The larder lies within the buttery, and ice is kept there throughout most of the twelvemonth.”

  “Then have ice brought to the burnstów and added to the bath.”

  “My lord?” Ethelmar stared at Fallard as if he had lost his mind.

  “Do it man, at once!”

  “A-aye, my lord, at once.” The under-steward ran from the room calling for every serving boy in the hall.

  Lady Lewena came to stand before him. Hope cleared her tears. “My lord, what do you do? Have you somewhat in mind?”

  “I also would know,” Luilda said.

  Roana pressed forward. “And I!”

  Lynnet ceased her sniffling and stared at him with the same expectancy.

  Briefly, Fallard told them of the experience with the wounded soldier. Almost ere he could finish the tale, Lady Lewena was pushing him from the room while Luilda and Lady Roana moved to the bed with a renewed sense of purpose.

  Moments later Lady Lewena recalled him. “She is ready.”

  He lifted Ysane, wrapped in a blanket, and carried her below to the burnstów. Under the direction of Ethelmar the serving boys dumped ice into the round wooden tub and poured water over it.

  “That is enough ice,” Fallard instructed. “’Tis not the plan to freeze her, but to quench the fire that claims her.”

  Lady Lewena cleared the room of all but herself, Roana and Luilda. They removed the blanket and Fallard lowered Ysane into the tub. As had the knight, she immediately cried out and began to fight, but Fallard easily held her. Leaning close to her ear, he talked, putting all the authority he could muster into his words. He looked up at the hopeful faces around him.

  “We shall see.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Ysane burned in a furnace of fiery heat. She writhed to escape the flames, but unseen bonds held her fast. Murmurings wove like wraiths in and out of her consciousness and voices called to her, but she could make no sense of their meaning. Nightmares of horror followed as she sought to flee the terrible heat, figures of blood that mocked her pain and screamed in demented laughter. Pain slashed at her very soul.

  Despair overcame her. There was nowhere in her tormented dreams to run from the flames, no hiding place to shelter from the pain except endless night. She was so weary. The night called, but though she feared it, she felt herself succumb, for she had no strength left to fight. Closer the darkness came. It beckoned, cool and silent, offering the only hope of
escape. The fetters that bound her slipped. ’Twould be so easy to cease her struggles and slide into that blessed peace. All she had to do was let go.

  “Ysane, hear me! I know you understand. You will cease not your struggle. Obey me! Do not yield. Come, little rose, heed my voice. Fight.”

  From beyond the heat and darkness came the voice. This one was unlike the others, so filled with sadness and despair. ’Twas quiet and deep, and possessed of calm authority. It coaxed and commanded with relentless power, and called her back into the flame, but she could not bear the heat. Desperate, she tried to block it and keep moving toward the cool and empty darkness, but the voice would not be denied.

  “A coward you are not, Ysane. You must fight. I know you are weary and in pain. I know you desire to yield. But I am here, and here I will stay until you overcome. I will fight with you, and I will fight for you. Stay with me! I give you freely of my strength, and I have plenty to spare. Only hear, and obey. Draw away from the night. Fight!”

  Insistent, the voice droned on. It drew her, offering no quarter, no surcease. Deep within herself, she sighed, resigned. She could fight neither the authority of the voice, nor the flame, but the voice was by far the stronger. Slowly, reluctantly, she turned from the cool blackness. She knew as she turned the darkness would not be offered again. She would burn forever.

  “Aye, that is good. Return from the darkness, little rose. You are not alone.”

  As the heat again enveloped her, she did as the voice bade and drew from it strength. Suddenly, from nowhere and everywhere, coolness cocooned her. It swathed her in blessed relief.

  The flames subsided. The nightmares fled away. Blistering heat yielded to mere warmth, and the pain eased to bearable levels. She relaxed. Weary beyond words, she slipped into the familiar darkness of sleep.

  ***

  Kneeling beside the tub where Ysane lay immersed, Fallard inhaled, the ragged sound surprising him. In his life as a warrior, he had watched helplessly as many had slipped away into eternity. While he grieved for those he called friends, and regretted the loss of others, he never truly mourned for those who were no more to him than comrades-in-arms. In battle, death was inevitable, and most oft it came when least expected. ’Twas the way of things, and one accepted it.

  But the struggle for life waged by this one small woman touched him as no other had done. Rarely had he felt himself so grateful for a reprieve from death, and the relief was enormous when beneath his hands, Ysane’s skin cooled as the deadly fever eased. Only when her restless struggles calmed had the fear—aye, and it had been fear, he realized in wonder—within his own soul quieted, as well. He had no time to examine this unprecedented reaction, but he wondered at its portent. Why should the life of this woman matter to him more than that of any other?

  Oh, aye, he wanted her, and still hoped to make her his wife. She would be a fine asset to his new life, a possession of great worth. But he had wanted many women, and enjoyed some of them, yet when desire was satisfied, and passion’s need slaked, he had walked away, forgetting them, and felt no regrets. He had expected this one to be no different beyond that she would be privileged to bear his name and bring forth the fruit of his seed. Never had any woman gained a hold on him beyond the moment. Yet, with no effort of her own, this woman had already roused a flood of powerful feelings within him over which he had little control.

  The fine planes of his face gathered into a frown as he stared at her in wonder and not a little pique. He was unaccustomed to such loss of control, and disliked it intensely. To a warrior, aught out of the ordinary reeked of danger. He must ponder this, and decide how best to rid himself of the menace. He wanted no such complications in his life. Mayhap, he would wed her not after all, but send her to William. The king would quickly find a knight worthy of her lineage. He would wait until he found a less disturbing woman to wed.

  Even as he thought it, he was honest enough to admit he deceived himself. He would send her not away. He wanted her too much. But he was alert now to the danger she presented. He had but to guard against it, and had no expectations of difficulty in that purpose.

  She slept now, unaware of the turmoil she engendered within him. He glanced at the women on the other side of the tub, all of them weeping openly again, this time in relief. His tone was uncharacteristically harsh as he spoke.

  “Cease the tears. She has survived the crisis. She will live.”

  He drew off her sopping cyrtel and dropped it on the burnstów floor. He lifted her from the tub, waited while Luilda lovingly tucked the blanket around her, and then carried her back to her bed, giving her into the hands of the women.

  ***

  Over the next several days, the folk of Wulfsinraed moved on tiptoe as they made the transition to a new lord. Some made tentative gestures of amity towards Fallard and his men, and no overt incidents of antagonism were reported.

  Fallard considered their wariness understandable, especially when he learned that with the exception of a handful of the hearth companions, none of them had ever met a Norman, though all of them had heard tales of the barbarism of their enemy. They knew not what to expect. Fallard kept his promise to treat them well and fairly. As a result, their acceptance of his tolerant lordship came as easily as he had once dared hope.

  Only two, the healer Luilda and a beautiful and voluptuous young slave whose cropped auburn locks were still luxuriously thick, regarded him with aught less than a cautious welcome. The healer hid not her antagonism, but the slave, when she knew he observed, smiled and postured. Yet, he caught her more than once assessing him with hatred in her amber eyes. Her name was Leda, and ’twas his thought she would bear watching.

  “Have you noticed the lovely Leda, Fallard?” Beside him one eve at sup, Trifine posed the question.

  “’Tis difficult not to notice a female so striking.”

  “Know you she was Ruald’s mistress?”

  Fallard’s hand halted midway to his mouth. He swiveled his head to stare at his First. “I knew this not, but it surprises me not. She is easily the most beautiful of the slaves. A man like Ruald would use her before all others.” His eyes narrowed as he sought the girl out where she flitted among his soldiers, flirting more than serving. “Was she among the women who supplied food to the prisoners?”

  “Aye.”

  Fallard uttered a mild oath. He watched her in silence as he finished his meal, then said, “’Tis possible she is responsible for that triumphant gleam in Ruald’s eye. She could have carried a message for him to someone outside the wall. I want a watch set upon her at once.”

  “I anticipated your wish. ’Tis already done.”

  Fallard grunted. At that moment, the woman under discussion looked up from where she bent over Jehan. She met Fallard’s eyes as she whispered something that had his Second bursting into laughter. Her look was one of deliberate challenge. She straightened, and holding his gaze, she ran the tip of her tongue over lush lips in a blatant come-hither action. Fallard chose to allow a hint of interest to show in his expression, all the while he hoped Sir Gyffard was keeping more than a wary eye out.

  ***

  “I know not what will come of this action, but it seems things can be no worse than they were before, and Randel says mayhap, it will be better.”

  “But he is Norman, Lady Randel. All know they are but savages and heathens.”

  “Savage, mayhap, Luilda, but not heathen. They are Christian, after all.”

  “Bah! You endow them with kindness they deserve not, Roana. ’Tis no part of Christianity to invade another’s homeland and enslave its people.”

  “None of which is of any account, Luilda. They are here, and there is none strong enough to remove them. My lord D’Auvrecher and Sir Trifine are warriors strong and of much shrewdness. Their men are well trained and powerful. ’Tis certain we cannot fight them, and I fear for those who try.”

  “Why should we? Randel likes him, and I believe he even begins to trust him. Lord D’Auvrecher’s beha
vior has been that of a man fair and honorable. His care for Ysane has certainly been naught like that of Renouf or Ruald. I say he should be offered chance to prove himself capable of decent lordship.”

  “Think you him capable of decency, my lady? He is Norman!”

  “Luilda, think! Renouf, a Saxon lord, beat our lady without mercy, murdered the sweet Angelet in a sotted fury and mistreated our people. Ruald, a Saxon knight, was but moments from executing our lady and our faithful hearth companions in a manner both cruel and demeaning, and for naught but their loyalty to Ysane and the House of Wulfsinraed. His brutality was thwarted by a Norman troop. Were Lord D’Auvrecher as they, think you he would have done any less to Ruald and his men when they took up arms against him? Nay! In truth, as king’s thegn over Wulfsinraed, ’twas within his right to execute them all, and were he an unprincipled savage, he would have. Instead, he offered them chance to swear fealty to him and those who did were given their freedom. The others he sent to King William, ’tis true, but only after they refused to yield. Lewena is right. Lord D’Auvrecher is a better man than either of the Sebfeld brothers, and I for one prefer his lordship to theirs, regardless his Norman blood.”

  “But Roana, how know we not this Norman lord merely bides his time, and when we have lowered our guard, he will strike?”

  “To what purpose, Luilda? Your words make no sense, my dear.”

  “Aye, they do not, and Randel will concur. Come, let us agree, as leaders of our people, to make not this new lord’s responsibilities more difficult by failing to offer support. If, in future, he shows himself unworthy of our confidence, we may speak of this again. Roana, what say you?”

  “I will agree.”

  “Luilda?”

  “I must think on it.”

  “Would you rather a rule by one such as Ruald or Renouf? Randel says….”

  “I care not what says Thegn Randel! I would rather a Saxon with honor.” Silence. A heavy sigh. “I will accept this Norman be there no other choice, but think not I will trust him as easily as the two of you seem wont.”