by Mairi Norris
The warmth radiating through the open shutters enfolded Ysane. It felt so good, so healing, as if the blanket wrapped round her had been heated before a roaring fire. She had been so afraid, and so cold inside herself, for so long, as one already in the grave. She had almost forgotten what it was to be safe, and cozy and…safe. At least, Roana and Lewena assured her she was, despite that man. Who, merciful heavens, was real. She wished she could remember more of what she had said to him, but ’twas as all so very hazy, as if it had been only a dream.
Wiggling her bottom, she settled herself more comfortably on the thick cushion on which she curled inside the embrasure. The splayed opening had been her favorite perch for embroidering and daydreaming as a child, though it had been forbidden, given her mother had been in horror of finding one of her children in a broken heap on the ground three levels below.
She shrugged off the folds of the blanket and mounded it round her hips and legs, leaving her upper body exposed to the sun. She closed her eyes and rested her head against the wall. The light bathed her arms and lay softly upon her face and throat, its warmth seeping through her cyrtel as if seeking a way to her heart as well as her skin.
She lay basking in peace for some time, until a sprite of cool air cavorted through the window, reminding her the spring day was but a forerunner of summer. Once the sun had set, winter’s chill would return.
Her eyelids lifted and she watched with lazy fascination the dust motes dancing within the light. They sparked like the mysterious fireflies of late summer eves. She sighed, inhaling deeply and long. Summer was her favorite time of year, but she had come to believe winter would never end. It had been so bitterly cold, more so than she could ever remember. But mayhap, that was only because of the horror her life had become.
As yet, no one had spoken to her of all that had happened. Her women tended her, waited upon her, even coddled and cosseted her. But they refused to speak to her of aught except to tell her all was well, and she must rest and not worry, though she confided it troubled her more they would give her no news than if they did. The women gossiped and chattered of the everyday goings-on of the hall, but naught more.
She recalled Angelet was dead. A bout of anguished weeping had overcome her unawares one morn, and she wept until it seemed all the tears reserved for a lengthy lifetime were shed in those handful of moments. She supposed such occasions would plague her until time drew over her its merciful veil. There had been no opportunity to fully grieve the daughter who had been so brutally robbed of her tiny life. For now, both the knowledge and the pain were imprisoned, even as she herself had been, buried deep beneath the tight control she held on her soul. One day, when she was sure it would not consume her, she would allow the grief to slip fully free of its bonds. That time was not yet. Until then, her heart would remain as empty as her arms.
She knew too, Renouf was dead. She remembered killing him, recalled how that act of rage and grief had felt to her hands, and the shock to her arms and shoulders when his own sword had pierced his body. With what ease it had cleaved his hateful flesh, slipping between his ribs into his heart, as if it rejoiced in the task.
That she felt not the slightest remorse for her act of murder should have bothered her. Father Gregory would say vengeance was not hers to take, being the province of the Almighty. Her mother would have been horrified, would have told her no lady would ever take up a weapon in such a way, especially not against her own husband, no matter the provocation. Her father and Kennard would have argued ’twas their responsibility, not hers to punish Renouf for his evil deed. Only Cynric would have understood, would not have faulted her, but he, like so many she loved, was gone.
She knew Domnall and her loyal hearth companions had escaped the terrible fate Ruald had planned for them. Oft, as she lay upon her bed, their voices, including Domnall’s familiar and well-loved tones had carried audibly to her from out on the wall.
She had also recognized his voice. The one she had thought naught but a dream. A powerful knight he was, a dark savior. The authority of his commands had called her back from the endless void. She owed him a life-debt for that, too.
A shout from far below floated up to her window, demanding her attention. ’Twas Domnall. From her position, she could see across the western length of the island to the wood shake roof of the chapel.
Among the trees of the orchard, about halfway between chapel and hall, her first marshal approached a man all in black. Abruptly she sat forward and leaned deeper into the embrasure, striving to see the other man more clearly.
As the two met, her heart seemed to skip a beat. Her hand found her throat. ’Twas him, the man of her dreams. She sank against the wall, heart pounding. Vague visions of the fighting in her courtyard arose, spawning an uneasy tremor that wove its tickling way from her nape to the base of her spine. The enemy warriors had fought like mad men, easily overcoming Ruald’s hearth companions, and this man was their leader. A Norman knight! Until now, she had never encountered one of the fabled warriors, but he certainly fit the fierce descriptions. The enemy he was, yet, Domnall hailed him as a well-met friend. Unabashed curiosity drove her to spy.
The men spoke together and walked toward the hall, the dark knight’s swinging strides carrying him so swiftly along that Domnall, tall as he was, had perforce to hurry to keep up. The man moved with the confidence of a conqueror. Oh, that she were a robin, flittering above them in the trees, listening to their speech!
They reached the end of the orchard and started toward the courtyard, Domnall gesturing as he spoke. They were close enough now she could hear their voices, but could make out none of their words. Domnall must have been recounting an amusing tale because the dark knight abruptly threw back his head and laughed aloud. As he did so, his lifted eyes caught sight of her there in the embrasure, eagerly spying upon him.
He stopped dead, held her gaze for several heartbeats, and then his eyes flickered leisurely over her, taking in her unbound hair, bare arms and the soft curves beneath her thin shift. His smile deepened. Within the dark depths of his gaze lay a wealth of male possession and desire, and a glint of something else she could name not.
Embarrassment, and a thrill of unnamed longing mingled with fear, flashed from her head to her toes. If ‘twere possible to explode in flame from the fire of a blush, she would have burned to a cinder in moments. Mortified at being caught watching, and worse, wearing naught but her cyrtel, she flung herself out of the embrasure and from his sight. Nigh tripping over the blanket swathing her lower limbs, she tore it loose and ran to the pitcher that stood on the small table beside her loom. She splashed cool water on her face, surprised it did not sizzle.
Closing her eyes, she stood waiting for her breath to calm. Who was he, this dark knight, that he dared look upon her so boldly, and why, oh why, did Domnall allow it? The marshal should have drawn his sword and run the knave through for his haughty presumption, yet Domnall had but grinned in male collusion! ’Twas madness!
Whirling, she headed for the door, intent on returning to her bower. She would dress and go to the hall to confront the blackguard, regardless of what her women would say.
She never made it.
The beaten iron latch lifted even as her fingertips touched it, the portal slowly opening. She knew who ’twas even ere she saw him. He must have run the whole way to reach her sitting room so quickly, yet her breathing was far more ragged than his.
The chamber seemed to come alive with his entrance, even the air seeming to spark, as if he brought with him the invisible energy of a storm. She backed away, the movement involuntary as he stepped into the bower, shutting the door to close them in—alone. She dashed for the blanket she had let fall to the floor, and wrapped it round herself like a shield ere turning back to face him.
Faith, but he was big! The top of her head would fall well short of his chin. He had to duck to miss hitting the lintel, and the chain mail covering his massive shoulders scraped the doorframe on either side. Solidly b
uilt, his weight would be at least twice that of hers. Beneath his black tunic and braies, there would be naught but hard muscle.
His forehead was high, his features cleanly sculptured. A firm, squared chin jutted. Even in this early hour of the nooning ’twas already darkened by the shadow of his beard. Above a straight nose, night dark eyes that carried a hint of deep blue regarded her steadily from beneath black hair. The back of his head must have been completely shaven at one time, for the hair on his pate and above his ears was much longer than the fuzz on the rest of his head. To her Saxon eyes, accustomed to men with facial hair and shoulder length locks, ’twas a strange sight, but not unattractive. It did, howbeit, increase the sense of covert menace and leashed power that clung to him as a cape.
He stared at her as she stared back. She was amazed to discover he did not truly frighten her. Most odd, that was, especially after Renouf, and besides, all lived in fear of the Normans. The stories of their arrogant, conquering ways were rampant, even in this distant corner of the kingdom. This mighty knight in particular should inspire terror in her heart. But she had survived Renouf’s worst, and she would not cower. She did as her father would expect and asked the first question that came to her mind. Then she wondered belatedly if her imperious attitude would anger him, for there was naught obsequious in her tone.
Foolishly, mayhap, she spoke as the Lady of Wulfsinraed, her words a brittle challenge. “This is my home. Who are you, and what do you here?”
No change came over his expression, though amusement glinted in his eyes. He answered her not, but padded slowly toward her. She stiffened, taut as the strings of her dulcimer. As he passed through the sunlight projected across the bower from the window embrasure, the beam struck glints of the same blue fire from his tousled hair that glowed in the depths of his eyes. Except for his skin, the hue of old oak, he seemed black from the short spikes on his head to his dusty leather boots. The word ‘predator’ flashed through her mind.
Unwilling to offer him excuse to touch her, she waited, still as a leaf on a windless day, as he circled her slowly, exuding raw, virile power. Her breath stuttered through scarcely parted lips, but her chin lifted as he halted directly in front of her, the fabric of his tunic bare inches from her nose. ’Twas disconcerting to discover how far back she had to bend her head to peer into his eyes.
His voice a basso rumble, he said, in perfect, if accented English, “It pleases me to find you well.”
He reached to caress her cheek but she was not yet ready for the touch of a man’s hand, and despite herself, flinched away. While he alarmed her not as she had feared Renouf, the sheer, towering bulk of him intimidated. A dark brow lifted a fraction, but he allowed his hand to drop.
She swallowed, grateful the predator seemed more intrigued than hungry.
Does he know how breathtakingly handsome he is? The ancient heathen god Adonis would slink away in shame beside this Norman.
She mentally shook her head at the irrelevant thought. Gathering her courage, she straightened her spine and glared at him. “I asked a question. Will you answer, my lord?”
***
Fallard, for his part, perused the lovely planes of Ysane’s face, his gaze lingering on clear green eyes grown wide with uncertainty ere it fastened on full, sweetly curved lips. Adorable—and enticing—she was, with her sun-kissed hair curling about her beautiful face, defying him in little more than a blanket. He badly wanted to kiss her.
But he was unwilling to rush her. She faced him with the courage of an ancient warrior-maiden, but looked as if even his gentlest touch might splinter her as a hammer shattered ice. Aye, the good father was right. She was still fragile. Too well, he remembered the discolorations and scars of misuse that flawed the lissome curves of her body during her immersion in the ice water bath. Still, it pleased him mightily she cowered not from him, though she waited, taut as the strings of the dulcimer nigh the door. She was such a tiny thing, his white rose. He could easily lift her—or break her, did he so choose—with one hand. He had half expected to find her weeping in a corner after what she had endured with that whoreson Renouf. In truth, he would have blamed her not.
He gave her one last, intent look from the corners of his eyes ere he turned away. She blinked rapidly and swallowed, as a quiver seemed to start at her crown and shiver all the way to her bare feet. He sensed the slackening of tautly held muscles. He moved with silent tread around the chamber, his curiosity high. Upon being informed by Ethelmar this chamber was a haven for her because Renouf had disliked it and rarely intruded, he had chosen to wait to explore it until she was present.
’Twas a comfortable space. A half-finished tapestry on the loom awaited the return of its lady’s fingers, an oak skein winder with multiple arms resting on the floor beside it. On the wall behind the loom, wooden pegs held brilliantly colored skeins of yarn. Below the skeins was propped the spindle. Piles of clothing and bedding needing mending lay on the table against the far wall. Unfinished embroidery in hoops draped off the stools where their owners had left them. Beside the dulcimer was a bench upon which lay a vellum manuscript. He bent to scan it and chuckled beneath his breath. ’Twas a humorous tune concerning a very confused unicorn.
He stopped at a small table. Before him lay a prize of great worth, a rare and magnificent copy of the Historia Ecclesiastica Gentis Anglorum, penned by Bede. He recognized both the book and its value, and reverently fingered the edges.
He heard Ysane’s breath catch. The glance he threw over his shoulder revealed alarm on her face. He understood why, but decided to allow her to fret for a time. She must learn to trust him, and now was a good time to begin. At his look, her expression blanked. Considering what he knew of Renouf of Sebfeld, that, too, made sense.
He bent to study the open pages, admiring the rich silver of the beautifully illumined first letters, then turned his head again to peek at his soon-to-be bride. She nibbled her lower lip, but looked disinterestedly around the room.
“From where came this treasure?”
She started. Her eyes jerked to his, then darted away again. “That dusty old tome? It belonged to my father.”
Nonchalance dripped from every syllable.
“‘Dusty old tome’, you say? Then, the book has no importance to you?”
“Oh, well, I…I said not that, exactly.”
“No indeed, and I am quite certain you meant it not, exactly. Never lie to me, Ysane. Learn that now, and we will do well together.” He perused the book again. “You are aware of what you have here, are you not?”
“Aye.”
“Then tell me of it.” He carefully turned a page.
She huffed a little sigh. “’Tis a copy, a gift to my father from Stigand, who was then Archbishop of Cantware Burh. Father counted it his greatest prize.”
“’Tis a very fine copy. I wish to read it.”
“You are lettered?” He slanted her another look. Her astonishment was a reaction to which he was accustomed, for in truth, ’twas a most unusual accomplishment, but he had found it a useful, and pleasurable, skill.
“Aye. I can read, and write, in four languages.”
“Four! Why, even the monks at Bedhalh Abbey are not lettered in so many.” Her eyes narrowed. “Do you jest with me?”
The corners of his eyes crinkled. “Nay.” He gestured to the book. “Shall I read a portion of this to you?”
“I read it some twelvemonths ago.”
Now he was the one startled. He looked full at her. “Who taught you?”
“My Ieldramodor and my father. Oh, and Father Gregory, who taught me Latin.”
“I am impressed, my lady. I know of only two other females who have the skill to read, or to speak any language other than their own.”
“In my family, only Ieldramodor, myself and my sister, Gemma, are learned in this way, and Father was, of course. Methinks it amused him we wished to learn. I also speak and read somewhat of your language, as does Gemma, for her husband is Norman.”
<
br /> “I must remember that.” Aye, he would have to take care with his words if she was nigh when he conversed with his men. “Tell me more of this book.”
“As I said, it belonged to my father. It had been—put away—for a while, and I was examining it for signs of damage. You answered not my questions.”
“Put away where?”
“In a safe place. One leaves not an item of value lying around for anyone to steal.”
“A safe place where?”
“’Tis of no importance now.”
“Ysane, I play not with words. You have a hidden coffer to hold items of great value. I would know where it is.”
She glared at him, but he did not even blink. She glanced away. “There is a secret niche in the burnstów wall.”
“You will show it to me on the morrow. You are not, at the present moment, involved in reading this book?”
She swallowed. “Nay.”
“That is well. Then you will mind not if I take it? It has been my desire for many twelvemonths to study this volume.”
***
Ysane fidgeted. If she let him take the book, would she ever see it again, or would he steal it away for himself as all Normans were said to do with valuable objects? But how could she keep a man so big and powerful from taking what he wanted…and what had he meant by that comment they would do well together?
When she answered him not, he looked straight at her. She dropped her lashes. She wished him not to see the sheen of tears in her eyes.
“Fear not, my lady,” he said, surprising her with the gentleness of his tone as he straightened to his full height. “I know well the value of this book, both to you, and of itself. I will take with it the greatest care, and when I am finished, I will return it. Is that acceptable to you?”