by Mairi Norris
“Where are all the men?”
Ere he could answer Trifine was at her side. “They are on the wall, watching to see what Ruald will do next.”
“Oh! Of course.”
Trifine leaned close. “Did I not tell you all would be well, to have faith in Fallard?”
But Ysane was still unnerved, her heart only beginning to slow from its frightened gait. Her terror of Ruald and fear for Fallard remained too close. She snapped at Trifine without thinking. “Nay! Your words are presumptuous, sir knight. You invite catastrophe from on high with your arrogance. Did your eyes fail to see what a nigh thing ‘twas, how nigh to death our people came? How can you be so flippant at such a time?”
Ethelmar, awaiting her instructions, visibly cringed.
The First’s eyebrows, so light they would have been nigh invisible if not highlighted by skin darkened from the sun, launched upwards, then his eyes narrowed at her tone.
Yet, his words conveyed a quiet respect. “Nay, my lady, ’twas not arrogance that fueled my words, nor presumption. You forget the long twelvemonths I have served with my captain, who is also my closest friend. Allow it that I know him, and his capabilities, far better than you. I assure you I would not have uttered such statements were I uncertain of their verity.”
Stricken, Ysane fought back a sudden need to weep. How could she have struck at the silver knight with such unmerited spite? She had behaved in the manner of a harpy. Trifine’s rebuke was gentle, but well deserved.
“You are weary,” he said. “Mayhap you are in need of a cup of ale.”
She shook her head. She hated ale.
Trifine glanced at Ethelmar as he grasped her elbow. The under-steward hastened away. Trifine led her to her chair at the center of the fire pits. Too mortified even to beg his forgiveness, Ysane lowered her gaze and kept her chilled hands clasped in her lap. Lost in the maelstrom of conflicting emotions that seethed within, she at first did not recognize the new voice that joined in hushed conversation with Trifine.
Ethelmar returned with a jug of mead and her favorite goblet of Byzantine glass. She looked up as a dark figure stepped to her side and knelt on one knee beside her chair. He intercepted the full goblet, nodding at Ethelmar, who left on his own business with a relieved sigh.
Ysane stared into the midnight eyes of the man responsible for the baffling feelings that tore at her, and made her feel as twisted as the hall kittens left her tapestry yarn.
Amusement, concern, and masculine complacency all mingled in his regard. “Trifine is concerned about you, my rose. I was in but little danger, but he believes you unduly frightened for my safety this day. Is that truth?”
He looked manifestly pleased by the idea.
’Twas too much. She flashed. “Odious man! Blithering oaf! How dare you mock my distress? I was fearful for your safety, for the safety of all. But how like a man to swagger so, even when but by God’s good favor does he remain well and among the living.”
She opened her mouth to lash at him further, but instead, surprising them both, she burst into tears, further shaming herself before him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Below his breath, Fallard swore. He was bone tired, famished and though the wound was minor, in considerable pain from a sword slash. The blow had caught him in the open slit of the hem of his hauberk, on the outside of his thigh a few inches above his right knee. A female’s tears seemed beyond the scope of his skills. Yet, in but a few days, this woman would be his wife, which meant her tears were his responsibility. He sighed. Mayhap, it would be not difficult to reassure her. His father seemed to find it easy enough with his mother. Surely, he was capable of no less.
“Ysane, little rose, weep not. I am safe. Everyone is safe.” He felt silly saying the words, since they were so obvious to all. But Ysane was no simpleton. He was sure that once she thought on the truth of his statement, she would cease her weeping.
Instead, his attempt at comfort resulted in worsening sobs. His brows drew together. He recalled similar scenes at home. It had always seemed so simple for his father. Why could Ysane be not sensible like his mother? Glancing around, he saw no one paid them heed. He was on his own.
He rose and lifted her from the chair, grimacing against the pain that sheared from hip to ankle. Slim arms crept over his shoulders to hold tight behind his neck. A wet face snuggled itself against the whisker-rough skin beneath his chin. His muscles flexed in involuntary possession. Ah, but she felt good in his arms.
She sniffled as they climbed the stairs to her bower. Then she squirmed in his arms. He suddenly realized the hard chain metal of his hauberk pressed uncomfortably against the soft mound of her breast and the sweet curve of her hip. Fatigue and pain, along with her need for consolation were forgotten as desire slammed through him with the intensity of a lightning bolt, so powerful it nigh knocked him back down the stairwell. ’Twas but a few days ere the wedding? Hah! ’Twas more like forever…and what if then she denied him, as he had so foolishly given her right?
Growling beneath his breath, he reached the bower. He paused beside the bed, but instead of laying her there, as he had intended, he decided to sit with her while he comforted her. Given his need, ’twas safer.
But no sooner did he carefully lower them into the chair, than did her bottom wriggle in his lap, and he knew sitting down was an even worse idea than the bed. He glanced at the linen bandage around his leg. The wound bled again. He stifled a groan at what ’twould cost him to stand.
Cursing himself for a fool, he shut his eyes, gritted his teeth and rose to his feet. He felt something give at the site of his wound and knew he had torn the flesh further. The resulting pain and dizziness caused him to stumble. He steadied himself. ’Twould not do to fall with his little rose in his arms.
“Fallard? What do you do?” The little voice beneath his ear sounded mystified.
“The saints may know. I know not,” he muttered. He kept his eyes screwed tightly shut. The whole chamber had taken to moving itself in a sickening fashion.
“Well then, put me down.”
Fallard’s spirits rose slightly. At least the cascade of tears seemed to have dried. Deciding her advice was the wisest thing he had heard since he walked into the hall to find her, he did as she said. But when he released her, she slid, with excruciating leisure, down his front, then steadied herself by leaning against him as she gained her feet. The breath that hissed through his teeth had naught to do with his pain, but it caught her attention.
“Fallard, what is wrong?”
“Naught. ’Tis naught at all.”
“Do not be absurd. Of a certain, something is wrong. You act quite strangely.”
Fallard opened his eyes, his gaze delving into hers. Was she truly still such an innocent, after three twelvemonths with her worthless mongrel of a husband?
She gazed back, concern blazing from moss green eyes, and abruptly Fallard smiled like the dunce he had earlier called himself. Mayhap, she was still an innocent in some respects. She truly seemed not to comprehend what she did to him. By heaven, mayhap, there were sweet things he could still teach her about loving.
Feeling better than he had in days, despite an unexpected wave of nausea, he caught her forearms and pushed her into the vacated chair. “Tell me why you cried.”
But she answered him not. Her silence accompanied the horror in her eyes as she stared at his thigh. He followed her glance and frowned. Blood coursed slowly from the soaked bandage and dripped past his boots to the floor. His braies and hose were dark with it.
“Fallard, you are wounded!” She jumped to her feet, nigh bowling him over. “By the saints, why did you not tell me you were hurt? You carried me—you carried me—up all those stairs. Oh, you foolish man! Sit down now.”
She grabbed his belt at the sides of his waist, pulled him around and shoved him into the chair, noticing not the grimace that twisted his face. “I will fetch Luilda. Do not dare to move while I am away. The wound will need cleaning
and fresh bandaging, and mayhap, stitching, as well. Do you hunger? But of course, you do. When did you last eat? I will bring ale and food, and water to wash with, too. Then you must get into bed. ’Tis likely you have slept not since you left. Why is it men must always be told these simple things?”
Ere he could explain he still had an inspection to make and orders to give to insure the burh was secure for the night, she was out the door. He heard her calling down the length of the stairs for the steward and the healer.
He thought about getting up and going outside ere anyone could catch him, but when he made the effort, pain surged in swelling waves. Nausea cramped his belly and he clenched his jaw against the need to vomit. He frowned. Were the candles sputtering out? The edges of his vision seemed to grow dark.
Mayhap, my rose is right. It might be wiser to wait till the wound is re-bandaged.
Sweat trickled from his forehead as he leaned back in the chair.
Later, he had notion of how long, a frantic shriek snapped his head up. It took a moment to focus. His rose stood at the door, staring at him. She whirled, the motion making his head swim even worse, and screeched, “Luilda! Ethelmar!”
Ethelmar must have already been nigh up the stairs from her earlier calls, for he popped into the room like a hare startled from a bramble. Luilda, puffing at the exertion, came not far behind.
How very strange. Ysane seemed to grow smaller as she gave orders to the elderly steward. “Ethelmar, get Domnall and Trifine, and hurry. Oh, and bring Varin. We will need his strength.”
Varin? Why do they need the Viking?
From a long, long way away, Fallard watched the little under-steward dash out the door as quickly as his elderly legs would carry him. Then the bedchamber politely bowed, turned itself upside down and snuffed out all the torches.
***
Trifine, being the closest of the three men when Ethelmar ran from the hall shouting for them, arrived in the bower only minutes later, Roul and Fauques nigh tripping over his heels. He found Luilda trying to unwrap the bandage from around Fallard’s thigh while Ysane attempted to lift his head and shoulders from where he had fallen, unconscious, over the arm of the chair.
Ysane glared at him when he caught her shoulders and gently shoved her aside. “Let me help, my lady. I was aware not he was this badly hurt.”
“’Tis not the wound, sir knight, but the blood loss,” Luilda said. She swiped at the nasty cut. “’Tis extensive. The wound should have been seen to straightway he arrived at the hall, and he should have stayed off his feet afterwards.” Her round face was troubled when she looked up at them from where she knelt beside the chair. “’Tis not good. His strength will be sapped. ’Twill make it harder for him to fight off any fever that might take him.”
Domnall charged into the chamber, demanding an explanation, Varin close behind. Trifine moved out of the way. The first marshal took one look and a soft oath escaped his lips. Towering behind, Varin echoed the sentiment. A puffing Ethelmar came to a trembling halt inside the door.
“He must be undressed and moved to the bed,” Luilda said. “’Twill be easier to treat him there.”
Getting the weighty hauberk off took considerable effort. Roul, his freckled skin more ashen than that of his captain, tried to help but only got in the way. Varin, with gentle patience, lifted the lad and set him by the door, running his massive palm over his hair while he whispered something in his ear. The stricken look eased on Roul’s face and he nodded. Varin hefted Fallard bodily from the chair while Trifine and Domnall wrestled the mail up above his hips. Then they had to sit him back down to peel it over his head.
As Ysane had known, Varin’s great strength served them well. Fallard was no lightweight, but when they got him to his feet, Varin elbowed the others aside, lifted him with ease and transferred him to the soft mattress. Fallard groaned in insensible pain during the effort. By the time he was settled, Ysane’s lower lip was bruised from the pressure of her teeth.
The men got him undressed to his breechcloth, then pulled the linen bedcovering to his waist while leaving the injured thigh exposed. Luilda cleaned, stitched and covered the wound with a medicinal poultice while he remained unaware, then replaced the blood-soaked bandage.
Ysane spent that time with a warm, damp rag, cleaning away the sweat and dirt from the icy skin of his face and upper body. He never moved.
Faith, but surely this is but a minor wound. ’Tis not possible he might…nay! I will not even think the word.
As she worked, she noted the numerous scars, most of them insignificant, that marked the portion of his arms and torso she could see. But one that formed a long, thin, white line that ran from below his right ear and down across his throat and chest appeared the most serious. Had it been but a little deeper, ’twould have severed his jugular. Another marred his left shoulder, a ghastly cicatrix that could only have been rendered by a blow from a battleaxe. The fearful scar was jagged, and remained red and puckered, as if it had happened recently. At first sight of it, Ysane’s stomach went queasy at thought of the appalling pain it must have inflicted. Now she understood why he unconsciously favored the shoulder, and betimes held his right hand against it while stretching his left arm back as far as it would go. The scars around the wound must tighten the muscles.
“There.” Luilda stood and began to mix herbs into a small tankard of ale. “’Tis all I can do, my lady. Should he awaken and begin to thrash around, bid me come. If he wakens and seems lucid, bid him drink this.” She handed the potion to Ysane, who sniffed it and made a face. “’Twill ease his pain and help him sleep. The rest of you, begone. He must rest.”
She shooed them out and followed them with one final glance at Fallard.
Ysane found herself alone with him, ensconced in the chair Domnall had moved over by the bed. Only the torches in the wall sconces and a handful of candles remained lit and the room was cozy and warm. Time passed.
She knew Luilda had returned to her care of the rest of the wounded, who lay secluded now behind hanging linens in the corner of the hall. The men had returned to the wall. Meantime, sup was in full progress for those not on watch. The rich smell of roasted meat wafted up the stairs to drift into the open door. Ysane listened to the echo of many voices, more subdued than usual.
But in her heart, the world outside the bedchamber might slip away, never to return, and she would care not. All that mattered was Fallard, and that he continue to breathe. She watched him, her gaze never leaving his face. He remained insensible beneath warm furs, his skin ashen beneath the bronzing of the sun. The sight of his big, powerful body, laid so low by a minor wound, left her feeling decidedly off balance. ’Twas a state to which the man seemed perpetually capable of reducing her, and that without even trying.
How can he have come to mean so much to me, and in so short a time? It seems not possible.
A quiet knock heralded Father Gregory.
She smiled at her old friend, finding much pleasure in his appearance as he crossed to stare down at the sleeping knight. The elderly priest looked wearier than she had ever seen him, but then, he was no longer young, and he had been unusually busy since his return to his duties. He had officiated over many burials and two baptisms, one of which resulted from a birth that had come earlier than its proper time. Both babes and their mothers did well enough, though the early child, if it survived, would require extra care for some while. More difficult for him had been the necessity of comforting the grieving families of those who had died, and offering continual encouragement to all in the face of rising fear.
He kept his voice low. “Luilda tells me the wound is not serious, but that blood loss might make his recovery more difficult.”
“Aye. ’Tis an ugly sight, with much bruising, but if he becomes not fevered he should soon be back on his feet.”
He peered at her. “You have not yet eaten.”
She frowned, hardly comprehending. She had given little thought to food since she had broken her fast e
re nooning. “I hunger not, Father.”
“Mayhap, but you know well enough, my daughter, that is no fit excuse. I will see that a meal is brought. Besides, I am hungry. I will take my sup with you, if you mind not.”
“You have no need to ask.” At least he had not urged her to leave Fallard’s side. She had already refused that suggestion.
He returned more quickly than she expected. Setting a stool nigh her chair, he then pulled a small chest between them. He gathered up two candles and placed them on the chest. With a care that bespoke stiff joints, he sat.
The crackle of the flames in the brazier and the rumble of talk in the hall were the only sounds. Lost in her thoughts, she traced with her eyes the thick lashes unmoving against Fallard’s well-defined cheekbones, and the firm chin that lost none of its determined aggression even in sleep. The dark knight had saved her life with his timely, if unforeseen appearance. He had then proceeded to turn her world upside down and shake it with the force of his masculine charm. Even lying unconscious, he presented a threat to her peace of mind as overwhelming as the floods that betimes raged on the river.
Mayhap, Roana was right, and the best course for her to follow now was to turn her back on the past and work for the best possible future. With Fallard, that future might well be more satisfying than she could ever have hoped.
A maid appeared at the door with their meal, and Ysane looked away from Fallard to find Father Gregory watching her. Heat washed her cheeks. How much of her thoughts had shown on her face? Judging from the speculation in his eloquent eyes, a great deal, but the smile he proffered put her at ease.
The comfortable silence continued while they satisfied rumbling stomachs with smoked pheasant, bacon stew flavored with walnuts and winter greens, and a warm, round loaf of crusty bread with butter and sweet wine cakes.
Ysane ate with an appetite far heartier than she had expected, Father Gregory nodding in approval when she finished almost everything on her trencher.