Rose of Hope

by Mairi Norris

  “That your informant lied,” Fallard said quietly. “’Tis truth I led the battle that resulted in Ruald’s capture, but ’twas three days earlier Ysane killed Renouf. ’Twas my First who shot her executioner even as he raised his knife to slit her throat. Ruald left her alone in the pit, one wrist chained to the wall like an animal. He gave her little water and less food, and provided her with naught but a blanket. She grew ill and nigh died from the resulting fever. Had Ruald had his way, she would be dead.

  “As for our marriage, that comes the day after the morrow. Aye, William commands the wedding, but methinks you see for yourself Ysane is not averse to our union.”

  He looked deep into Ysane’s glistening eyes as she nestled against him.

  She laid her head against his shoulder, at peace within the circle of his arms. She turned to Cynric. “’Tis truth, brother. I wish to take my lord D’Auvrecher to husband. He has been good to me, and to our people. I will be content to be his wife.”

  Cynric drew back his shoulders and pulled himself to his full height. He opened his mouth, but no words came. He swallowed. “I am sorry, little one. At your birth, I gave my oath to God I would protect you. Always, that task has been my first charge. When I left three twelvemonths ago, ’twas with assurance that in my absence you would be sheltered, provided for and safeguarded. ’Twould seem despite my best efforts, I failed you.”

  He held out his hand and Ysane clasped it. He drew nigh and kissed her forehead. “There is that which I must do, but I will return. I give you my promise.”

  “But I would have you here for my wedding. ’Tis but another day to wait. Please, Cynric.”

  “Forgive me, Ysane, but I can bear not to watch a ceremony that would be an abomination in my eyes. Mayhap one day…” He finished not the thought. “But I will leave you not again, as I did ere. Seek me at the cottage—with an escort,” he added, “at the end of a seven-day.” His gaze fell hard on Fallard. “Though ’twould seem the most arrant of follies after what has passed, I place my sister in your hands, and hope ’tis not yet another misstep on my part. I hold you accountable for her welfare. Understand this. You will answer to me if aught that is ill touches her.”

  Fallard nodded, accepting the charge as his due. Cynric picked up his bow and quiver and strode away without a backward glance.

  Ysane wrapped her arms around her middle. “I have only now found him again. If he comes not back….” The sun had journeyed far to the west and the shadows in the little copse were deep and chill. She turned to him. “Take me home, Fallard.”

  ***

  Sir Ruald of Sebfeld was angry. No matter how many folds of leather covered the top of his tent, droplets of cold rain from the torrent outside still managed to find their way through, turning the ground into a sodden mudpack. Neither did the discomfort of his damp pallet improve his disposition, nor the hunger incurred by his discarding of the distasteful muck that had been served him as a meal by his mewling squire.

  After one taste, he had snarled and turned the bowl upside down over his squire’s head and rubbed the sticky mess in, then with a kick to his backside, sent the sniveling brat in search of something fit to eat. A smirk curved his mouth. The boy might never be able to wash all that muck out of his hair. But if the lad returned not soon with a more worthy supper, he determined to have his hide, not dirty it.

  Moving his stool to avoid another drip, he pulled his damp cloak more tightly about his shoulders. He cursed, the exceptionally vile oath doing naught to appease the intensity of his frustration. He should be master of Wulfsinraed, enjoying the warm, dry hall and the multitude of other pleasures due the lord of a wealthy demesne. Aye, at this very moment he could be reveling in the highly entertaining and imaginative favors of the beautiful Foolish One. Her sturdy, voluptuous figure was a succulent morsel with whom a man could romp with all the vigorous lust he could summon. Instead, he was forced to endure conditions unfit for any but a serf.

  He ground his teeth. Three twelvemonths he had worked! Three twelvemonths of scheming, planning and hard-wrought patience had been required to bring that coveted lordship into the very palm of his hand, only to have it torn from his grasp by the unforeseen appearance of that loutish Norman lackey of King William. Now, all was in jeopardy.

  Aye, the plot he had put into effect so long before had reached fruition with the death of his brother. Renouf’s murder by the Lady Ysane was the meticulously crafted culmination of twelvemonths of sly whispers in his brother’s ears regarding her worthlessness as a wife and her denigration of him in producing a useless daughter. Plying Renouf with more, and still more wine had been an easy task. As each day passed and his brother became more deeply enslaved to the drink, he grew more violent.

  And then there was Ysane—sweet, lovely Ysane.

  He had known that beneath her insipid exterior of meekness and wifely obeisance beat a heart of wildfire that could, with the right incentive, be ignited into a defensive conflagration. So he inflamed Renouf’s abusiveness with the fancied injustices he whispered in his brother’s sotted mind. At the same time, he nurtured Ysane’s protective fire, knowing his brother’s explosive temper, ever fueled by imagined indignations, was bound to lead him to commit some atrocity that would force his young wife to defend herself or the babe. It had been but a matter of time. He had counted on Ysane’s defense taking lethal form, and it had.

  That the child also died in the process was an unexpected but welcome boon, for it had been his intent at first, once his brother was out of the way, to marry Ysane himself. He wanted his own heir off her, though her pallid coloring and petite, delicate form was not to his liking. She bruised too easily, and he was well aware of the distaste Renouf’s crude brutality had engendered in some of their more important peers. Though he had persuaded Renouf she was incapable of bearing sons, he knew she was as likely to give birth to a male as any other woman.

  Even her murder of Renouf would have posed no obstacle. He would simply have ‘pardoned’ her. Considering his brother’s obsession with inflicting torment, few, if any, at Wulfsinraed would hold her to blame. But she rejected his proposal, spitting in his face even while chained in the filth of the pit. No mere woman so denigrated Ruald of Sebfeld! Her death would have paid for that slight, but now his soul writhed in fury that both she and D’Auvrecher still lived.

  Bah! His hands fisted in futile rage where they rested on his knees. Wulfsinraed had been his! Then had come the dark knight to spoil it all. How had D’Auvrecher taken him so completely by surprise, and at the very moment of his triumph? A large contingent of troops—with horses, no less—should have been noted long ere they reached the burh. The fiasco had left him running for his life and desperate for a new plan.

  For the hundredth time, he railed at the incompetence of his men. Killing one scout and breaking another’s jaw had soothed him not at all, and he still wondered at the absence of several others. The fools had likely either deserted or gotten themselves killed by D’Auvrecher’s men.

  He threw back his head and howled his rage. The cup he picked up went sailing across the tent to land in a rapidly enlarging mud puddle. Dirty water splashed everywhere. Outside, the muffled hum of low conversation from other shelters ceased until naught but the endless, cursed rain could be heard. He smiled in grim satisfaction at the fear he aroused among his men.

  A raindrop hit his nose. He cursed and moved, yet again, and forced himself to calm. He needed to think clearly, for as angered as he was by events, of more importance to his thought was why the Normans had come. He could deduce but one sensible answer. Somehow, the bastard king had learned of Renouf’s treason.

  But did William know also of his own role in that betrayal, or was he still welcome in the king’s court? To gain answer to this critical piece of information, he had sent his half-brother to London with instructions to find his contact there. He expected his return any day.

  He truly did not believe his involvement was known. Until very recently, he ha
d been careful to keep his part in the rebellion beneath the surface, for if Renouf’s perfidy was ever discovered, he intended not to be taken down with him. Had matters come to it, he would have denounced Renouf without a qualm, while shielding his own duplicity behind his brother’s cloak.

  He closed his eyes and looked within himself for the control he required. Aye, the loss of Wulfsinraed was intolerable. But mayhap, all was not yet hopeless. He had not come so far only to cry defeat. Once, all he desired had come into his hand. ’Twas still possible to regain it, but he must be both patient and cunning.

  The most recent message left by the Foolish One softened the blow of his forced retirement from the siege field. With the information now at his disposal, he had but to wait for the right moment to strike. Once in possession of Wulfsinraed, ’twould matter not if his brother returned with news that William suspected him. The right whispers in the king’s ears could turn the usurper’s suspicions away from him and focus it on one of his favored knights, while he would simply ‘prove’ his loyalty by killing all who opposed him, and presenting their slain bodies to the king as ‘rebels’.

  He had himself under control by the time his sodden, shivering squire returned with a goodly bowl of venison stew and a fresh loaf of bread. The lad cringed at his smile as he waved him to his unhappy pallet. It pleased him that not once during the lengthy, miserable night that followed did the boy close his eyes. Aye, for he well knew if he did, he might never open them again.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Wulfsinraed Hall

  1078 - Late in the Month of Feasting - Spring

  Ysane stood in the hall before the great doors, waiting for Fallard. ’Twas time to walk to the chapel for their wedding, but the groom was late. Surrounded by her women, she felt smothered with their last-moment adjustments to her clothing and whispered advice concerning everything from the imminent ceremony to the wedding night.

  Outwardly, she knew she appeared the essence of self-possession, the lady of the hall in all dignity. But her toe tapped in rapid succession beneath her gown, and inner turmoil scattered her thoughts to the four winds and roiled heavily in her stomach.

  Did I unwittingly swallow a score of diving, playful dragonflies while breaking my fast?

  Though the early meal of oat and honey pottage with dry, toasted bread had been bland, she had still shuddered at the thought of food. But experience had taught her the wisdom of eating something ere being wed. During the ceremony with Renouf, she had crumpled like a dry leaf, humiliating them both and later earning her the first taste of her new husband’s dark temper.

  Where is Fallard? Mayhap he has changed his mind and wishes not to wed.

  The thought depressed her until she discounted it as foolish. She supposed the ambivalence of her feelings should be not surprising. Through the seven-days since his arrival, her regard for him had altered from rage and distrust to tender feelings of a surpassing sweetness. She anticipated this marriage with a gladness that bemused her.

  Still, it remained that the king and her betrothed had given her no choice, and a tiny part of her quailed. ’Twas all too real that in but a short while, she would be wife to a formidable foe of her people. She clutched to her heart his promise to give her time to grow accustomed to him as a husband, for ’twas all that now kept her trembling knees from collapsing disgracefully beneath her.

  Fallard’s First, in full mail except for his helm, with a sash of gold and his best sword around his waist, stood close by, as did the two excited squires, Roul and Fauques. But Trifine’s focus was Roana, and he had eyes only for her. The dragonflies in Ysane’s stomach calmed their wild play, just a little, in her joy for her cousin. Roana was enchanting in layers of saffron linen of the finest weave, soft as clouds, overlaid by gold-threaded, heavily embroidered cinnamon silk, a rare and costly fabric, that transformed her golden brown eyes to burnished bronze. She gazed adoringly at Trifine. The true love that bound her cousin and the First thrilled her heart.

  A hush fell, silencing the hall. Ysane glanced to her left as the women shuffled aside to make way for Marlee, followed by Lady Hildeth, supported on Fallard’s arm. Ysane inhaled at the sight of her betrothed. As was Trifine, he was resplendent in full mail, excepting only his helm. Embroidered upon the black tunic overlaying his hauberk were shields of banded sapphire, crimson and gold on a pure white field. Within the blue bands were woven rings of golden hue, and in the yellow, leaping stags of brown, while in the red were white roses—the colors and crest of Wulfsinraed. He looked magnificent, and she was quite unashamedly dazzled.

  Her sire’s mother stepped in front of her. Lady Hildeth looked her up and down with faded green eyes twinkling with lively sentience, and then embraced her.

  Ysane tried to gather her wits. “Ieldramodor, ’tis past time you came down. Everyone was waiting upon you. I thought ’twas certain you meant to sleep through my wedding.”

  “And I should miss the most auspicious event of the twelvemonth? Methinks not,” Lady Hildeth shot back. “’Tis not every day one’s nefene is wed. This most handsome young man of yours,” and she gestured to Fallard, “makes me wish I was young again, and could challenge you for him. Methinks mayhap, he is nigh the equal of my own beloved Lyolf.” She kissed Ysane and whispered, “Your father would be proud, child, Norman or nay.”

  “Aye, Ieldramodor, I know it.”

  She glanced at Fallard and was snared by his unblinking stare.

  Lady Hildeth turned to Fallard, her movements quick as a bird’s. “What are we waiting for, nefa? The day progresses and I would see you wed ere ’tis over!”

  Silence greeted her words.

  “My lord D’Auvrecher!”

  ***

  Fallard blinked at the insistent voice calling his name. He had not the slightest notion of aught that had transpired since the moment he stepped from the tower anteroom and laid eyes on his bride.

  As a young child, he had spent many summers with his father’s brother, Rollant, in his manor on the River Medway in the village of Medestan in the south of this land. He was taught to speak, and then read the language of the Saxon people so that he could glory in the telling of the old poems and sagas of epic battles with men and monsters. Now he remembered Hygd, the wise and stunningly beautiful queen of King Hygelac, uncle to the mighty warrior Beowulf. It seemed to him Lady Ysane could take her place as a peer among that exalted throng.

  Adorned in the syrce of emerald velvet over a pale green silken cyrtel, she was a vision to inspire scops for generations to come. The syrce, gathered at her waist with a silver fringed girdle, was banded at neck, sleeve and hem in intricate designs wrought with silver embroidery.

  A shimmering, ankle-length headrail shot through with filaments of silver thread lay like a mantle of frosted snow around her head and shoulders. Sparkling through the gossamer veil, slender ropes of silver and pearls wound through her hair, gathering and binding the flaxen strands in a graceful series of braids and coils. A circlet of multiple silver chains anchored the headdress and draped across her forehead, delicate as a spun silver web.

  Yet in all this costly material beauty, ’twas the look in her clear, moss green eyes, catching the reflection of the silver threads, that stole his breath. She stared at him as though enchanted. Her sweet lips, pink as roses and glistening where the tip of her tongue had moistened them, drew his dazzled gaze, and hunger woke in him for a taste of them, more tempting than any morsel of sweetened fruit. She drifted toward him as one in a trance. The natural bloom of delicate color in her cheeks increased to a lovely blush and then retreated, leaving her pale as mist.

  Saint’s teeth, but she is beautiful, my white rose, and she is mine!

  Long ago in battle, an enemy had used his head to halt the hefty swing of the blunt end of his lance. Despite the protection of his mail coif and helm, it had been days ere he had ceased feeling addled. He felt no less dazed now, and strove to remember where he was and what he did. What was it about this woman th
at always tumbled him off-balance?

  “Do you plan to marry the lady, my lord, or stand here looking at her all day?”

  The mirthful question from Domnall goaded him back to awareness. He met the first marshal’s laughing eyes, then Trifine’s bemused glance. Bowing to Ysane, he took his place beside her, gently chafing her icy hand as he placed it over his arm.

  Triumph heavy in his voice, he said, “By all means! We shall proceed. Most anxious am I to tie this sweet knot as tightly as may be.”

  He draped Ysane’s green velvet mantle over her shoulders while Trifine did the same for his love. Lady Hildeth, with Varin’s gentle grip on her arm and Marlee beside her, fell in behind Trifine and Roanna as the procession moved from the hall into brilliant sunshine.

  Ahead of them all, marched proud Roul and Fauques, dressed in their finest, carrying their lords’ helms and bearing aloft the lances from which their lords’ crested pennons streamed. Fallard lips twitched. For once, his squire’s ebullience was muted as he struggled to maintain a dignified mien, while Fauques looked more like he led a funerary procession.

  A deafening shout of welcome assaulted the sky from the throats of Wulfsinraed’s populace. Along with the king’s troops, they lined both sides of the old cobbled road from the hall to the chapel. Startled birds squawked at the noise and swerved, changing course in mid-flight as they winged rapidly away for regions less threatening.

  ***

  The march between the columns of her happy people did naught to dispel the sense of unreality that enwrapped Ysane more completely than her veil. With a smile as frozen as winter’s ice she answered unending felicitations of goodwill and blushed at the sometimes bawdy, but always well-intended wishes that she and Fallard be blessed with multiple offspring. Trifine and Roana were showered with the same.