by Mairi Norris
But there was somewhat else he could not descry, a certain look, as if his features were a thin overlay of another face he knew, but could remember not. His previous unease returned full force. Cynric reminded him of someone he knew and distrusted, but recognition hovered just beyond his grasp. Thus, his greeting was not so genial as it might otherwise have been.
Laughing, Ysane hurried to him, her hands wrapped around Cynric’s arm, tugging him along. ’Twas as if she feared did she let him go, he would vanish once again from her sight. The love that radiated from her expression set twinges of annoyance to flickering. Why did she look not at him that way?
Abruptly realizing he was jealous of Ysane’s brother, Fallard cursed beneath his breath. Jealousy was a childish and unworthy emotion, and one that unfailingly brought more grief than ’twas worth.
Why then, do I still wish to pummel this man with my fists, if not run him through with my sword?
“Fallard, ’tis my great joy to acquaint you with my dearest friend, Cynric.”
She introduces him not as her brother. Why?
“Well met, Cynric.”
He waited, but Cynric did not respond nor extend his hand in greeting. Moss green eyes stared coolly back at him, barely disguising the hatred within.
“He is Norman, Ysane.” Cynric spat the word as if discovering a nettle in his mouth, his tone as unforgiving as the ice in his look.
Fallard’s eyes narrowed. This was a dangerous man, one to whom he would never turn his back. But for the sake of Ysane, he would strive to be pleasant.
“Cynric, please.” Distress underscored Ysane’s pleading. “Will you set not aside your dislike for Normans, so at least to welcome this one? He is my betrothed. We are to be wed on the day after the morrow.”
“Aye, so have I heard.” Cynric’s disapproval rumbled clearly. “Though ’twas told to me you were already wed. Is my arrival too late then, to forbid the marriage?” He shook his head. “I can say not this news pleases me, little one.”
Ysane still stood close within the circle of his arm. The odd familiarity in Cynric’s profile as he looked down at her nagged at Fallard like a splinter in the finger.
To forestall Ysane’s answer he said, “There was another, who thought to kill us. Was it you who stopped him?”
A sneer pulled at Cynric’s mouth. “He followed you all morn, while I stalked him. He lies yonder, beyond that elm. But think not I shot him for your sake. Had he killed you, I would have rejoiced. I interfered only when he aimed at Ysane.”
The man was honest. Fallard would give him that.
Ysane stepped in, seeking, as was her way to lighten the tension. “We have finished with our noontide meal, Cynric, but there is plenty left to share. Will you join us?”
Fallard thought he would refuse, but an odd expression crossed his face, one mayhap, of calculation. “I will share your repast, if only for your sake.”
“First, I would see this man who hunted us,” Fallard said.
Cynric grunted and walked to where the body lay. An arrow was embedded in the man’s chest.
“Saxon,” Fallard commented, unsurprised. “I wonder was he one of Ruald’s men.”
Cynric stared at him, unblinking, then said, “There are none of Ruald of Sebfeld’s men nigh here.”
“And you know this, how?”
“I tracked them when they left. They have scattered. Most moved south and west, and a few east.”
His earlier suspicion returned to Fallard. “How long have you been back, Cynric?”
“Long enough to know Ruald sought to take Wulfsinraed from you.”
“Did you join in that endeavor?”
“Fallard!” Ysane’s voice was sharp, but he ignored her outburst.
“Did you?”
Cynric hesitated. “Ruald was quickly routed.”
Fallard held his gaze, and saw naught of dissembling there. Cynric had sidestepped his question, offering a true answer that was yet no answer at all.
As if trying to halt his inquisition, Ysane caught Cynric’s arm and gestured to the man lying on the forest floor.
“Cynric, I would know this arrow anywhere, that ’twas yours.”
Fallard glanced at her. He decided, for the nonce, to allow the subject of Cynric’s loyalty to drop. His little rose seemed not unduly upset at the sight of the dead man. Her words directed his gaze to the arrow shaft, where he noted the unique pattern of the fletching. Like Cynric himself, ’twas familiar, but he could place not where he had seen it.
Surprised, howbeit, that Ysane recognized it, Fallard said, “You can distinguish between his arrows and those of other men?”
“Aye, he taught me his pattern long ago,” she said as Cynric knelt to remove the arrow from the body. She watched as he wiped the tip in a patch of moss. “Fallard, we must take this man to the burh when we are finished here. ’Tis only Christian to see he is properly laid to rest.”
“I will see to it, Ysane,” Cynric said, ere Fallard could answer. “A Saxon warrior should be buried by his own kind.” He looked to Fallard. “I welcome no aid from a Norman.”
Back in the copse some while later, while Cynric helped himself to the leftover food Ysane handed him from the basket, Fallard asked her what else he had taught her.
“Oh, many things, like how to find food in the forest, and what is safe to eat and what is not. How to know a storm is coming. How to recognize types of animal droppings, and whether or not they are fresh.”
“What say you?” Fallard said, laughing. “Why would he teach you such a thing?”
“For my safety. If I came across boar or wolf droppings and saw they were recently dropped, I would know the animal might still be close, and to leave the area at once and go somewhere safe.”
“What else did you learn?”
“How to find my way home, did I become lost. How to swim like a trout and climb trees as easily as a squirrel.”
“Well, at least swimming is a worthy achievement, considering the proximity of the river and the lake.”
“And why would you think climbing trees is not?”
“You are a lady, Ysane. What would be the purpose?”
“To learn about bird’s nests. To play games with squirrels. To pick hazelnuts. To hide. And I was not a lady when he taught me.”
“Hide? Hide from what?”
“From the eyes of men who might hurt me.”
Fallard shot a look at Cynric, who shrugged and returned it with aloof disdain. He finished the cheese and bread he munched. “’Twas not always possible to be there to protect her when she came to meet me, so I taught her to protect herself.”
“She should not have been in the forest alone, for any reason.”
“Fallard!” Ysane’s manner remained conciliatory. “It has always been Cynric’s choice not to mingle with others. Father respected that, as did I. I never came to harm.”
But Fallard was angered and stared hard at Cynric. “So you thought it better to put her life at risk to come into the forest to meet with you, rather than go to her in the burh, where she would be safe? It seems you truly had not her best welfare in mind, but only your own desires. Know this, Saxon! I will allow her not to come into the forest alone. If you wish to see her, you will come to the hall.”
Cynric shot to his feet, his own anger quickened.
“You know naught, Norman, and I owe you no explanations. Dare not to dictate to me!”
Fallard also rose. “Where Ysane’s safety is concerned, I will state that which I please. She is to be my wife, and I will not have her life put at further risk. If you wish to see her, you will come to the hall as would any decent man.”
In one blurred movement, Cynric pulled his langseax and crouched as if to do battle. The flesh bulged through the criss-crossed ties binding his leather bracer to his bow arm as his hand clenched the hilt.
Fallard’s hand gripped his sword, though he had not yet withdrawn it from its sheath.
“Nay!” Ysane, wa
tching the exchange in growing anger and horror, leapt between them, facing her brother. “Nay, Cynric, you must not! You will cease this stupid argument, this moment.” She glared at him and then whirled so she could see them both. “My lord D’Auvrecher, remove your hand from your sword and say no more about my safety. Cynric has never allowed harm to come to me, and that will change not now. Cynric, put away your seax, unless you are prepared to use it on me. Please, both of you, be at peace for my sake, if no other. I…I care for you both. ’Twould distress me greatly did you harm each other. Please. Be at peace.”
Cynric snarled, but slowly relaxed. He replaced the war knife in its sheath.
Fallard eased his hand from his sword, but took not his eyes from the other man.
Ysane seemed to deflate. “Aye. That is better. Cynric, I have missed you dearly these past twelvemonths, and I am glad beyond words to see you alive and well. But I would know where you have been, and why you left without a word to me. It hurt me, dear friend. I felt so abandoned.”
Shame, or something very nigh it, crossed Cynric’s expression, but ’twas gone so quickly Fallard could be not certain.
“I journeyed on pilgrimage, little one. I…made the decision rather suddenly. I left a message for you. Say you now you received it not?”
“Nay, I received no message. You were gone, and none could tell me where. But you have been absent for three twelvemonths. Did you journey for that entire time?”
“Aye. That I did. ’Twas necessary, at times, to stay long enough in different places to earn enough coin to continue. The shrine I visited, ’twas in another land, across the sea.”
Fallard held out his hand, and Ysane came to him. Cynric lied, and from the look on her face, she knew it. If rumor among the burhfolc was correct, her brother had met with Renouf more than once during the past twelvemonths.
“Let us be seated,” he said. He made himself comfortable on a fallen log at the edge of the copse. Ysane sank gracefully to sit at his side. Cynric’s gazed moved between them ere he seated himself upon the grass.
“What is the name of this saint, and in which land is the shrine found?” Fallard said, breaking into the silence.
“Not that ’tis your place to know, Norman, but I traveled to Germania, to the shrine of St. Bonafice in Fulda.”
“I understand this not, Cynric. Why would you do this?” Ysane said. “You have never been a man devout in the way of the Church. Always have you followed in the path of the ancient ones.”
Fallard, a man of deep and enduring faith, felt his eyebrows rise nigh to his hairline at these words. It must be true then, what he had heard, that some Saxons still clung to old beliefs and the old gods even while professing the true faith.
But Cynric gainsaid her. “Mayhap, I am not pious in the way of most of our people, yet that means not I am pagan. God’s truth, I was told ’tis possible there is a connection between…my bloodline…and that of St. Bonifice. I wished to travel to Germania to seek the truth, or the lie, of that connection.”
He seemed suddenly uncertain. “Ysane, as was my wish, we have spoken naught of this ere now, but… what know you of me, of my childhood?”
“Mean you, do I know you are my brother, and that through our father’s line there is indeed a connection to the saint?”
Fallard watched Ysane closely, but she revealed no dismay or reluctance at the admission.
So, that is the reason for the ambiguity of her introduction.
“Aye, you take my meaning. So, our father told you. Did he also say I am his bastard, and that when I confronted him with the knowledge, he rejected me as both son and heir? Did he tell you that was the day I left the hall and went to live in the forest, because I could bear not the looks of scorn and worse, of pity the burhfolc bestowed upon me, for they knew the truth, even ere I? Though I am eldest, and even when Kennard, his only other son was killed, father still refused to acknowledge me. Did he tell you he would rather leave Wulfsinraed to the husband of his daughter than to his only surviving son?”
Cynric’s words were scornful, but Fallard heard the bitterness and old hurt that flowed like vinegar within them.
“He told me you were born of a true love,” Ysane said.
“True love!” Cynric scoffed. “If ’twas such great love he held for my mother, why did he marry her not, or if he could not, why would he not acknowledge me? He knew who I was when she had me sent here at her death.”
“I can answer that not, Cynric, for I know not the answer. When father admitted to what I guessed, that you were my brother, though of different mother, I did ask, but he would say naught. He said only that he had given you a good home with him at Wulfsinraed, and had planned you should learn a trade that would keep you well through your life, but you chose to accept not his plans.”
“Bah! I would have accepted aught from him had he been willing to acknowledge me! I would not even have fought him over possession of Wulfsinraed.” Cynric sighed, his face set in resentful lines. “I loved him. All I wanted was his approval, and acceptance as his son. He refused to yield me that, aye, even that. We searched each other’s hearts that day, and we both knew ’twas so, but he would say not the words.”
Ysane reached to grab hold of his hand, but he tugged it away. “I am sorry,” she said. “As much as I loved our father, I am not unaware he could be a hard and stubborn man, though he softened, grew wiser mayhap, and more honorable in his later times. You know this. There must have been good reason why he would confess not your kinship. But I would ask him even now why he refused your request, if I could. But do you know ’tis too late?”
“Aye. I know he is dead. I know he died far from home and kin, and ’tis the fault of the Norman king.”
“’Twas his own doing, as well,” Ysane argued.
Fallard, watching but not interfering, realized Ysane had accepted the reasoning he had earlier given.
Ysane continued. “He knew ’twas unwise to fight King William. He but reaped the consequences of his choices, as do we all.”
Cynric’s face grew dark and he glowered fiercely. “I never thought I would hear you, Ysane, defending the Norman invaders. You hated them as much as did our father, as much as I.” His scorn fell harshly into the air. “But mayhap, you have forgotten the Saxon deaths in the north lands and at Santlache, and the wounds our father and brother received there. Or mayhap, you have grown so besotted with this Norman dog you have forgotten where your true loyalties lie!”
“That is enough!” Ysane cried, even as both men surged once more to their feet. She grabbed Fallard’s arm to stay him when he would reach for her brother. “Hear me, Cynric! Where was your loyalty to me when my Saxon husband beat me, again and again, once even nigh to death? What did you do while Renouf humiliated me, kept me prisoner in my own home, kept friends and family from my side? What grand passion kept you away so long? Think you my heart fared not ill with the length of your absence?” All the hurt of his abandonment quivered in her voice. “Were the sights of Germania so wonderful they kept you away while Renouf tyrannized our people? Were the women of Fulda so warm in your bed they held you even while he murdered my daughter? Where were you, Cynric, when the Saxon Ruald imprisoned me for three days in the pits, when he ordered my throat slit, and that my body be dumped into the river to be lost forever in the sea, and that none were to mourn my death? Was the shrine of St. Bonifice so glorious it held you there when I needed you most, while Saxons were my greatest enemies?” She sobbed out the last words. “I loved you. I have always loved you. I needed you. Where were you?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
In the stark silence that followed her impassioned cries, broken only by the falling water behind them, Fallard watched them both, taken aback by the intensity of all that passed between them. Moments after Ysane began to speak, Cynric went still, his lips pressed so tightly together they all but disappeared. So pale was his complexion the fierce brightness in his eyes appeared as green fire beneath the lock of hair that
had fallen over his forehead.
When the halting words finally came, he sounded half-strangled. “Of what do you speak? Renouf was a hard man, but good. He would never have harmed you. I would never have left you with him if there were chance of such a thing. Nor is Ruald cruel. Why would you say such things?”
“Because they are true. Every word. I know not how you knew Renouf, but ’tis clear you knew him not so well as you thought. He was adept at hiding his true self, but I was married to him, Cynric, for three of the most terrible twelvemonths of my life. He was not a good man. He was evil, sly and cruel, and he hurt me. He hurt our people, too. If you believe naught else, believe that. They can tell you much, though I could tell you more.”
“Renouf hurt you? You say he killed your daughter, my…my…I had a niece from you, and Renouf killed her?” He seemed dazed, stricken at the thought.
“She was but ten seven-days from my womb, but he hated her. She was not the male-child he wanted, so he killed her.”
“What was her name, this niece of mine?”
“I…I named her Angelet.”
“Angelet. And Ruald? Why did he put you in the pits? Ysane, this you say makes no sense. Why did Ruald not face Renouf with this monstrous deed? Why would he have demanded your death?”
Her voice rose, become shrill. “You know not?”
Fallard narrowed his eyes.
She believes him not. Yet, methinks in this he speaks the truth.
Cynric ran a hand through his hair, then began to pace. “I know naught of this. Tell me.”
“Renouf was sotted. He murdered Angelet because she cried, then he tried to strangle me. We fought. He tripped and fell. I picked up his sword, stabbed him in the back, and he died.”
Cynric’s already pale face grew white as the tiny flowers in the copse. He ceased his pacing, his body rigid. “You killed Renouf? By the saints!” His eyes flickered to Fallard. “’Twas told to me you killed Renouf in the battle to take the hall. I thought you forced Ysane to wed soon after you took the burh. What say you of this matter?”