Rose of Hope

by Mairi Norris

  She sighed. Her father had responded exactly so to her mother’s protests when he was injured.

  They scampered like children around the kitchen outbuildings and wended their way through the shelters, calling soft ‘good morrows’ to those few already up and about. Then she saw where they were headed…not the chapel as she had thought. Fallard drew her into the trees of the orchard and off the cobbled roadway. She slowed her pace and tugged against his hand, feeling the hair on her nape lift. There was but one destination in that direction, and ’twas a place of sorrow. To go there was to face a painful reality, to ask a question that must be answered. As of yet, none had spoken of it and she had shied away from the asking. Dread rose and she tugged harder. He glanced back to ask her purpose, but seeing her face, he stopped. He tilted his head in query, one eyebrow rising.

  “Why are we going to the crypts?”

  “Because I want to explore,” he said, “and I want you to explain what I see. You will also show me the secret door to the corridor and how it works.”

  “But did you not send forth a messenger to Sir Gyffard through the corridor?”

  “Aye, but I had Domnall deal with the sending, as I had not time.”

  Still, she hung back. “Fallard, I wish not to enter there.”

  Her voice wobbled despite her effort at control.

  “Mayhap not, but it needs be done. There is a reason, beyond my desire to see the secret door, and methinks you know it.”

  She stood her ground, but the inflection of her voice rose. “I wish not to enter the crypts!”

  “But ’tis my wish that you do. I will be with you, little rose.” He hesitated. “If ’tis truly impossible for you, I will force you not, yet you must face this, and methinks ’tis time.”

  He waited, the kindness in his midnight eyes snaring her breath. Her heart fell even more in favor with him that he rushed her not. Day by day, he brushed away more of her defenses as she came to know him better, and to care for him more deeply. She drew a wavering gasp and nodded.

  The corners of his eyes crinkled. “’Tis well. Your courage will aid you, and I will be with you. You need not face it alone.”

  They wandered through the orchard, more slowly now, until they reached the entrance of the chamber where generations of Wulfsingas lay in eternal rest.

  With an effort, she relaxed muscles locked so tight they hurt as she waited for him to unlock the double doors, painted and carved with the elaborate twining-rose-and-stag theme, the Wulfsinraed crest.

  Eyes alight, he glanced at her. “Hold this a moment.”

  She held the torch while he lit the tallow with his flint and steel, then reclaimed the light. “Since I have the torch, I will lead. Are you ready?”

  She straightened her spine and tried to smile, but feared the attempt fell dismally short. But despite the dread that threatened to swallow her whole, she could not help but be swayed by the boyish exuberance that bubbled under Fallard’s concern. Had she not witnessed it, this playful manner was a side of the new lord of Wulfsinraed she would not have believed existed. Always, he was the fearsome warrior, the forbidding captain, the stern master of the hall, the daunting man who rarely lowered his guard.

  She looked into his hopeful gaze, liking very much this lighthearted Fallard, this glimpse into the boy he must once have been. She wished not to see this guise fade, banished by her own fearful gloom. No matter how difficult, she would trust him in this.

  He propped the doors against the walls with rocks provided for that purpose. Cold, musty air puffed out around them, smelling of spices, dust, age and beneath it all, the faint odor of corruption. He caught her hand again and with torch held high, they stepped across the threshold. Stone steps opened out at the bottom into a small vestibule adorned with naught but a stool beneath a carved wooden cross hanging on one wall, and two extra torches in iron holders on the other.

  He stopped and crooked a finger beneath her chin. “You are certain?”

  “Aye.”

  Something flared in his eyes and he smiled.

  Beyond the vestibule, a wide hall opened out. It stretched farther than their torchlight could penetrate. To either side, the flickering flame touched on row after row of deep crypts, two in number in each row, one atop the other. Within each crypt rested stone coffins, their lids swathed with shrouds of embroidered fabric, once colorful but now decaying into the very dust that covered them.

  She fell in behind as he moved to the right, toward the lower of the first set of crypts, where two coffins lay together. Upon the lid of the outer one lay a jeweled langseax, while ranged about it were a sword, helm and shield.

  He pointed to letters etched into the stone above the recess. “I cannot read this. What say the words?”

  “’Tis an ancient dialect, but one my father’s fathers have preserved through the twelvemonths. The first line at the top says this is the resting place of Eorl Wulfsin of Cuthendun, the Wanderer, King’s Thegn of Wulfsinraed. Below that it reads, “Elfleda, beloved consort of Wulfsin.”

  “Wulfsin and his wife! The wandering warrior and long ago builder of all that is now mine.” Fallard flashed a look at her, his gaze grown solemn. “’Tis a humbling thing to stand beside this man. ’Tis as if I feel the weight of all the long twelvemonths since his time, closing upon me. Feel you the same?”

  “Aye, I feel it. I can say not I like it.”

  He stepped closer to the crypt, knelt on his uninjured knee, bowed his head and began to speak in the Norman tongue.

  She leaned close to hear. As the words translated themselves in her mind, she caught her breath and began to tremble.

  This dark knight, this Norman warrior so powerful, so strong, so stern, offered a vow to the ancient lord of Wulfsinraed.

  “Wulfsin of Cuthendun. I, Fallard D’Auvrecher of Clécy, do vow upon your memory to do all in my power to be accounted worthy of this gift of your legacy. I swear to protect Wulfsinraed and give diligent care to its betterment. I also, upon my soul, do vow with all my strength to protect, cherish and provide for Ysane, Wulfsingas-daughter, with whose care I have been entrusted. May my life be forfeit, do I fail in either endeavor.”

  A sudden rush of fresh air from outside fluttered Ysane’s headrail as he finished his oath. She started, and shivered, glancing around at the shadows. Was that a whisper, floating softly upon the breeze? Nay! ’Twas but her imagination. Wulfsin was long dead. He could answer not Fallard’s pledge, but could he know, she thought he surely would approve.

  Fallard stepped back.

  She failed to move quickly enough out of his way. “Ouch!”

  “Forgive me, my rose!” He danced to remove his heavy boot from her small foot, wincing at the stab of pain to his wound, then grinned at her. She stared back, uncaring her heart must shine from her eyes. No man, not one of her old swains, not even the betrothed husband of her youth, had ever sworn for her such an oath.

  He went still, watching her expression. His hand lifted to touch her cheek, but then his eyes narrowed to focus on something over her shoulder.

  “Hold this,” he said as he thrust the torch into her hands.

  ***

  Fallard caught the flash of movement from outside the door. The skin on his nape tingled. He wore not his sword, believing it unneeded inside the wall, but pulled a knife from its sheath inside his boot.

  “Stay here,” he ordered.

  “Fallard, what do you do?”

  But he was already halfway up the steps, moving with the stealth of a warrior prepared for sudden battle. At the entrance, he abruptly dropped and dived low through the blind opening onto the grounds of the orchard, careful not to land on his bad leg. As easily as a cat, he came to his feet in a crouch several feet away, knife at the ready. With a single flicker, his eyes took in the entire area. Naught was visible that should not be there. Yet, he had seen movement.

  He stepped to peer around the side of the crypt, ready for aught. As far as the chapel, there was naught to
be seen. He spun in a rapid circle, certain of his perception. The movement had been too high against the doorframe to be an animal, and was similar to the drawing back of a head from around the jamb of the door. He still felt the tingle that had so oft in the past saved his life. From somewhere, someone watched.

  Whoever ’twas remained hidden from his sight. He decided never to leave the hall without his sword, at least not until they caught the traitor. He had been a fool to do so this morn, but he had thought them safe enough inside the wall. He would make not that mistake again, and was grateful he had survived to learn from it. Too oft, such errors cost a warrior his life.

  “Thegn D’Auvrecher! Is all well?”

  He looked up to see a young hearth companion staring curiously at him from the wall walk.

  “Saw you aught move nigh these doors?”

  The sentry shook his head. “Nay, my thegn, but I fear my gaze was more upon the woods.”

  Which is where it belongs. Good man.

  “Look you now all around, as far as the hall and the chapel. See you aught, even an animal?”

  From his high position, the guard searched the grounds with keen eyes, but turned back to Fallard. “There is none anywhere nigh you. Aside from those in the shelters, I see naught out of place but a pig rooting in the kitchen garden. Someone has left the gate open.”

  “That pig is likely to become supper do Alewyn or Alyce catch him there,” he called.

  The guard laughed and saluted as he turned away.

  The touch at his nape that signaled the presence of a hidden watcher faded. He forced himself to relax as he returned his knife to its sheath. Had he imagined it? He was not a superstitious man, but mayhap his awe at standing nigh to Wulfsin the Wanderer had influenced his perceptions more than he knew.

  Returning to the crypts, he found a nervous Ysane waiting for him nigh the bottom of the stairs.

  Her eyes were big as trenchers. “What was it, Fallard, what saw you?”

  “Naught but imagination, ’twould seem.” He noted the taut, pale lines of her face and kept the tenor of his voice light. “Not even the sentry saw aught. Come. Be not afraid. ’Tis but this place. In here, ’tis easy to imagine that which is not real.”

  “You limp,” she said.

  “’Tis naught.”

  Her lips tightened, but she made no further comment.

  He took back the torch and resumed the exploration of the burial niches. Favored articles of each entombed individual had been placed into the alcoves with them. Goblets and other eating utensils of precious metals, oft studded with gemstones, lay beside musical instruments, and in one case, a decaying book.

  This last pulled him as an insect to light. He stepped close, trying to read the exquisitely wrought title on the leather cover. The language was runic, and unfamiliar, and it helped not that thick dust obscured much of the writing. He was reluctant to touch it, fearing the entire book might crumble beneath his questing fingers. Taking a risk, he blew gently, removing the worst of the dust.

  “None today can read the runes,” Ysane said from beside him, sadness in her voice. “’Tis a great pity, that. But ’tis written in the records left by Wulfsin that the book is a chronicle of the deeds of one Creoda Icelingas, a true king of Mercia. Little is known of him, for he was one of the first of the Mercian kings in this land. ’Tis difficult to be sure, for much of that period is lost in time. The scops sing that he was close descendent of King Icel, who first brought the Angle people across the sea to their new home here, to what is called Angelcynn in the old tongue of my people.”

  Fallard lifted the torch between them to stare at her face, for her voice was hushed, and filled with the same reverential wonderment he himself felt. The sense of a history ancient beyond their ken swept them both with its powerful brush.

  They came to several crypts in which the openings were sealed with a wall of stone, upon which the word ‘Forbidden’ was scribed.

  “Why are these tombs sealed in this way?”

  “’Tis told they died of a terrible disease that spread quickly to others, some sort of pox unknown to the healers. ’Twas believed at the time their bodies should be burned, but the family could bear not such a pagan end to the ones they loved, so they were sealed into the wall. ’Twould seem the sealing was sound, for afterwards the strange illness went away and came not again.”

  He shuddered. When he was young, there were rumors of the same sort of affliction in lands east of his own. ’Twas said now and anon, whole villages were found dead, the ugly marks on the peoples’ skin the only clue as to their untimely end. He believed not, as did many, that ’twas a curse of the devil and the villagers had practiced black magic. Still, when this happened the bodies, and everything associated with the village, even the fields, were burned. Betimes, survivors were also found wandering dazed and lost close by. More oft than not, they were killed where they stood and burned, too.

  Shaking off the unwelcome sense of horror engendered by the sealed tombs, he moved on. He found the crypt where lay Vane, the fourth thegn, under whose guidance many of the most recent changes in the burh had been made. His wife lay beside him, and above them were the coffins of Vane’s young brothers who had perished in the hidden corridor beyond where he and Ysane now stood.

  The burial niches went on for quite some distance, until he noticed the curvature of the walls. They were approaching the far end of the crypts, where the outside wall curved around to follow the perimeter of the island. Here, the shrouds covering the coffins were newer, less decayed. These were the more recent of the hall’s deceased.

  Ysane stopped beside a row of crypts on the right side. She grew very still, almost as if she no longer breathed. Moments passed. She seemed turned as if to stone, staring at the coffins. Only her eyes moved, searching, he knew, for that which was not there, but should have been. Her pallor increased.

  “Who are they?” Fallard had already read the names, but wanted her to speak.

  Finally, she blinked a single time, and her lips moved. “These are my grandfather, Thegn Lyolf, my mother, Lady Edeva, and my brother, Sir Kennard. I miss them.”

  He waited. She said no more, and he knew then she would not, though she must be greatly perplexed, and hurting.

  He took the initiative. She must face a grievous truth, though it would increase her sorrow. He would help her all he could. “There is a thing of which I would speak, since we are here.”

  Her lips tightened and her face grew taut. Her head turned and she looked at him with moss green eyes gone blank. ’Twas as if an inner shutter had slammed shut.

  “Ysane, I see not here the body of your daughter. Know you what happened to her after that night?”

  As he had expected, a spasm of pain twisted across her features, wiping away the emptiness. She stepped back from him and turned away, her body grown stiff as if by sheer will she could hold back the truth.

  “Little rose, forgive me. I regret the necessity, but ’tis important. Your child should be here, but she is not. ’Tis my thought you know naught of her, since that night.”

  He thought she would not respond.

  As if returning from a place far away, she said, “None have spoken to me of…of what happened, and nay, I have asked not.”

  “Then ’tis time you were told. Are you willing to bear it?”

  She nodded, but stiffly, as if movement pained her.

  “The day I took Wulfsinraed from Ruald, I went on the wall with the first marshal to take measure of the burh. In the course of our walk, the events leading up to that day were discussed. I asked for a full account. According to Domnall, Ruald ordered one of his men to take the babe into the forest and bury her where none would find her place of rest. After, the man was killed in the fighting without ever revealing the burial site. I questioned Ruald’s men, but if they knew, they told not. I sent my own men to seek any sign, but they found naught. I am sorry, my rose, but none now knows where lies Angelet’s grave.”

 
A keening, as of an animal in pain, escaped her lips. Tears slid in slow course along her cheeks from eyes shut tight upon receipt of his words. She reached blindly, finding the stone above the middle crypt where lay the carving of the name, and ran her fingertips over the letters.

  Kennard.

  “Mayhap,” he said, “her name can be carved here with that of your brother, or better, above the alcove where one day I will lie, and you with me. A short explanation for her body’s absence may be added, something simple.”

  She nodded. From inside her girdle she withdrew a piece of linen to wipe her eyes. “’Tis good to know,” she said, in between bouts of sniffing. “’Twas a question I have wished to ask, but….” She shrugged. “I almost feared to know. ’Twas my hope Ruald had found the decency to place her here, yet I knew he was capable of aught. I feared, when none spoke of it, mayhap he had…not buried her at all, that he had done to my daughter that which he had planned for me.”

  “Put her into the river, you mean.”

  “Aye, or worse.”

  She turned to him and he wrapped his arms about her, holding her close, seeking to comfort. “Ysane, I made it my purpose to ask, and learned the man who buried her was not an evil man. ’Twas told to Domnall by one who knew him well that he was angered and grieved by her death. Methinks we may be certain he treated her with respect.”

  “Yet she lies unblessed,” she said, grief quivering in her tone.

  “Nay. You must see Father Gregory. I have spoken with him of this. He will tell you in detail, if you wish to hear it, of the ceremony of blessing he made for Angelet, how in light of her baptism and innocence, he entrusted her to the loving mercy of God, who alone knows where she lies.”

  “He spoke not of this to me. Why?”

  “Because I asked that he not, until you were ready, and he agreed.”

  She turned her face into his tunic, and wept.

  He let her cry, his hand gentle upon her head, until she found an end to tears. As her body quaked in his arms, the strangest feeling overcame him. For the first time in his warrior’s life, he wished ‘twere possible to take into himself another’s pain, and bear it for them. ’Twas similar to the awkward sympathy he experienced when he soothed his sisters as they cried—and what man was ever easy around a woman’s tears? But ’twas different, too. He felt less ill at ease, less anxious for her to hurry through the storm. Somehow, it mattered that he not only comfort her, but find a way to alleviate her sorrow. Still, what could mere man do to relieve the pain of a lost child? He decided the best thing was to keep her busy and mayhap, focused on himself, and the life they would make together.