by Mairi Norris
Panic rose. Breathing became difficult as her heart pounded with the rhythm of a runaway stallion. She felt so cold, like a maid of ice, despite the hot blood that ebbed and waned in her face.
Faith! Will I disgrace myself yet again by swooning ere we reach the chapel? This is foolishness! I want this marriage.
She clenched Fallard’s arm with a death grip and started when he leaned close. “Shall I carry you, my rose?”
Concern shone from his midnight eyes. When she did not answer, the shouts of the crowd morphed into thunderous whoops of amusement and exuberant, good-natured laughter as he gathered her into his arms and kissed her. The caress proceeded so thoroughly that when he lifted his head, heat of an intensity to melt wax replaced the chill of her skin and she well knew her face had acquired the color of her roses.
He touched his forehead to hers and whispered, “Think you that you can manage on your own two feet?”
Unsure whether she wished to slap him or kiss him again, Ysane settled for a sigh of gratitude that he had shattered her panic.
As Fallard steadied her on her feet, she somehow found a hesitant smile. “I will be fine now.”
“We should like to get on with this day’s activities, if you please, nefa.” Lady Hildeth’s imperious voice rang out from behind them, bringing on more gales of laughter from the people.
They made their way to the chapel gate, the men bending to avoid the lowest branches of the old willow. Father Gregory, eyes alight with gladness, awaited them at the chapel door. They bent their heads in unison as the priest raised his hands in prayerful blessing, then preceded them through the mass of stewards, knights and hearth companions waiting on either side of the nave. Sir Gyffard, Sir Aalot and Sir Harold stood among them.
Curious, Ysane glanced around. Lewena had been in charge of preparing the chapel and this was her first time to see it. ’Twas beautiful. Clean, and with newly whitewashed walls, it smelled like spring. Cut branches of blossoming laurel and flowering pear were scattered about the space. A gentle breeze wafted through the open windows, entwining the spicy fragrance of the first with the softer scent of the latter. Ribbons of rainbow hue looped around the chapel’s carved support columns and formed swags between them. Soft white linen, gold-embroidered with Wulfsinraed’s stag and roses standard, lay draped over the altar. The flames of many candles flickered over the crucifix, drawing out the light intrinsic within the gold.
As Fallard halted with her before the altar, she glanced to see Jehan come behind and turn his back to them as he faced those gathered, while Domnall took identical stance in the train of Trifine and Roana. The swords of both were raised as if for battle in the ancient Saxon tradition of guarding the backs of the grooms. The sight teased another smile from her. She had asked her betrothed for this specific practice to be included in the ceremony.
Fallard had approved. “I have no expectation of violence,” he said, “but I deem the custom wise. It leaves no place for unhappy surprises.”
Father Gregory cleared his throat. Fallard caught her hand and pulled her closer and still closer until the heat that radiated from him felt to her like that of a torch against her side.
The ceremony was a simple one with straightforward vows.
“My lord D’Auvrecher,” Father Gregory intoned. “Choose you this woman, Ysane Wulfsingas, Kendrick-daughter, to take to wife?”
Fallard, his midnight eyes blazing, held her gaze. His voice rang clearly so all might hear, “I do choose you, Ysane, daughter of Kenrick Wulfsingas, as my wife. I receive you as mine, so you become my wife and I your husband.”
Ysane’s heart tripped as she repeated the words from her own feminine perspective.
Trifine and Roana then declared the oath to each other. Ysane watched in delight as Trifine slipped a band of gold upon the hand of his bride, but her breath caught in her throat when Fallard placed upon her finger the ring of Lady Edeva, held by Lady Hildeth since her mother’s death.
’Twas a thing of beauty, her mother’s ring, a heavy circlet of silver strands woven into an ancient design. Passed down through the wives of the thegns since the time of Elfleda, beloved wife to Wulfsin, upon whose graceful finger it had first rested, ’twas told the women who wore it would always know joy, aye, even in the very face of sorrow. For the first time, Ysane understood the prophecy. Though she sorrowed still in the loss of her father and daughter, ’twas joy unlooked for to become wife to Fallard D’Auvrecher.
“Kneel, my children,” Father Gregory said. He prayed a final blessing upon their union and the service was done. He led them to the chapel door and drew them outside to the waist wall gate. With Fallard and Ysane on one side and Trifine and Roana on his other, he caught the free wrists of the two knights in his hands and raised them on high, declaring the couples wed.
The wild cheers that greeted this announcement surpassed the previous shouts. Led by Wurth, Wulfsinraed’s musical troupe struck up a lively tune and in the flash of a mode, the whole mass of folk were dancing and singing. Ysane squealed as Varin whisked her from Fallard’s side, exhibiting an agile grace as he danced her away. Sir Harold stole Roana from Trifine, but neither groom had opportunity to complain for they found themselves joining the convivial activity as two of the steward’s wives pulled them into the throng.
A succession of partners danced the newly wedded couples back to the hall. By the time they reached the steps and were reunited, Ysane bubbled with breathless laughter and even Fallard wore a tolerant grin. Now jealously guarding her, he swept her into the hall, which was decorated to the rafters with green boughs and colorful spring blooms.
Ysane caught Ethelmar’s eye. Face beaming, her dish-thegn quickly approached.
He bowed. “My heartiest congratulations, my lord, my lady. This is a happy day for us all.”
“Thank you, Ethelmar,” she said. “Is all in readiness, even for those without?”
“Aye, my lady. Naught is left but to enjoy the celebration.”
The hall tables nigh bowed beneath the most substantial meal the burh had seen in many a twelvemonth, but those for whom there was no room inside found they were not forgotten. Every extra stool and bench available was on the practice field, and where those ended, there was no lack of furs spread upon the ground. Huge, temporary fire pits were set up wherein sides of beef, whole sheep and boars, racks of sausages and trout and spits of fowl roasted. The meats blended their delicious, sizzling odors with that of baking breads, roasting and boiling vegetables, stews and custards, and cakes made with fruits and berries garnished with nuts, cream and honey.
Fallard escorted her to the lord’s table.
He seated her and then bent to drop a kiss on her forehead. “I have feasted in William’s halls, wife,” he said, approval and admiration in his gaze, “but found there no rival for the spread I see here. You have done well in the supervision of this day’s festivities. I am proud of you, Ysane.”
Something relaxed in that small corner of her soul that had earlier quailed in trepidation. In that moment, looking into the appreciative eyes of her new husband, she understood. This was no mistake, and no farce. She would be safe within this man’s hand, and more, she would find contentment.
With a small, convulsive movement, she caught his arm. “Fallard.”
He inclined his head to her. “Aye, my rose?”
“This is a good thing, our marriage. I…I am….” She stopped, unable to find the right words.
“I know.”
Fire ignited in his gaze. He kissed her then, long and slow, as if they were alone in their chamber. She was only vaguely aware of the rumble of approval that rose from those around them. When he raised his head, there was that in his face that proclaimed his impatience in waiting for the time they could properly leave the celebrations.
He turned to speak with Trifine, who sat at his right hand.
The rest of that day passed in a haze she was later to remember only as a series of significant moments of piercing cl
arity, mingled with blurred periods of unmitigated gaiety, feasting, music and song.
One crystal moment was the exchange of wedding gifts between the two couples.
“I, Ysane, do gift to you, my husband, this jeweled hadseax belonging to my brother, Kennard.” She bowed before Fallard. The look on his face assured her he knew the precious value of the gift.
He rose. “I, Fallard, do gift to you, my wife, this drawing of the memory-stone I have commissioned for your father. As you see, the front side remains unmarked. The runes are not yet engraved, for I have need from you the words you wish carved there. But see you, the other two surfaces are complete. This one holds a likeness of Kenrick Wulfsingas drawn from the memory of myself and of others who knew him. Do you find it also meets your remembrance?”
Ysane could only nod. ’Twas a likeness of her father so lifelike, ’twas almost as if he stood before her.
“The other depicts the giant stag, which symbolizes the lords of Wulfsinraed, as it leaps above the rose bush, which signifies the ladies of the hall. I leave to you the decision of the time and place of the raising of the stone.”
Ysane blinked as moisture filled her eyes. “I have chosen, my lord, to place this stone outside the wall of the crypts, nigh the crypt where lies my mother, and where father would have lain had he died at home. ’Tis my decision to wait not for the arrival of my sister, Gemma, for none can say when that might be. Thus, I declare the ceremony of the raising will be held the day after the next new moon, providing the carving may be completed by then. ’Tis also my hope Cynric will have returned, and attend if he should so choose.”
She wished she had not added that last when Fallard’s eyes darkened and his lips compressed. It angered him Cynric had refused to stay for the wedding, thus bringing further hurt to her heart. But he said naught and the mood quickly passed.
The meal was nigh its end when Fallard suddenly stood and called for silence as he banged his empty mead tankard on the table.
“Hear me, one and all! I am pleased at the joining of my First with the woman of his heart. ’Tis my wish they live long within my hall. To that end, be it known this day I gift to Trifine of Falaise and his bride, Roana of Wulfsinraed the two lower chambers of the southeast tower, once held by Ruald the rebel, as their new home. Their belongings have already been moved. New furnishings have been provided in the bower, including a matching set of fruitwood chests commissioned by my knights.” A roar of masculine approval interrupted him. He waited for the uproar to die down. “At my wife’s behest, a private burnstów has been created for their use on the lower floor.” Fallard waggled his eyebrows at Trifine, who lifted his tankard with a nod and a grin. “To lady Roana, from my lady Ysane, goes a pair of pillows of fine purple linen embroidered with a border of lavender flowers, along with the promise of all the real lavender her heart may desire.” Laughter rang through the hall at his words. All knew Roana’s passion for the flower. “To Trifine, who is a fair musician, she gifts a silver flute.”
Giggles and guffaws followed Fallard’s understatement, for Trifine, had he wished, could have been a master scop. He played many instruments, and his voice was mellow and fine. ’Twas not uncommon for him to sing with Wurth after sup.
Not once in the hours of revelry that followed did Fallard allow Ysane to be removed from his side. Though many tried, his arm anchored her against his chest. Many were the soft, sweet kisses he stole on the sly, though he showed himself not adverse to a few deeper, more possessive assaults, all of which were met with cheers and roars of advice from the men on the best ways to ‘kiss her right’.
She found no protest with his attentions, for she enjoyed the gentle possession of his touch. She liked the taste of his kisses. The shivers of pleasure he stirred as he nibbled her earlobe, and trailed little caresses down to the pulse that beat at her throat, left her dazed. It helped not at all she also consumed more mead than was her wont, and the mellow haze in her mind grew more pleasant with the passage of time.
When the last of the light faded from the window glazing, Wurth began a popular singing saga of epic proportions. After the first few stanzas to establish the cadence, he nodded to the man sitting at the table nearest him, who took up the refrain. The entire poem was then sung to the hand harp’s melody as each person in the room sang two or three lines, while another of the musicians kept time with the deep rhythm of the hylsung. The story was so long the continuing lines passed around the hall thrice ere ’twas finished.
The riddling game followed as each woman in the room tried to remember a riddle to ask their male neighbor. The game took on hilarious proportions as men too amply supplied with wine or mead tried to puzzle out the answer.
Hoping Fallard was unfamiliar with the riddle she selected, Ysane assumed her most severe riddling face and with voice drenched in dark mystery intoned:
“I am by nature solitary, scarred by spear
and wounded by sword, weary of battle.
I frequently see the face of war,
and fight hateful enemies;
yet I hold no hope of help being
brought to me in the battle,
ere I am eventually done to death.
In the stronghold of the city sharp-edged swords,
skillfully forged in the flame by smiths,
bite deeply into me.
I can but await a more fearsome encounter;
’tis not for me to discover in the city
any of those healers who heal grievous wounds
with roots and herbs.
The scars from sword wounds gape wider
and wider,
death blows are dealt me by day and by night.
What am I?”
She sat back, smiling, and waited for Fallard’s answer. ’Twas her best and favorite riddle. The first time it had been told to her, the answer had eluded her for nigh a seven-day. But Fallard was the smartest man she had ever met, next to her father and mayhap, Cynric and Domnall, and she could but hope it kept him guessing for longer than the time it took to speak it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Fallard kept his face expressionless as he debated how long to keep his beautiful wife waiting. That she wanted him not to guess the answer immediately was obvious in her bright, hopeful countenance, but he had figured it within the first stanza. She chose the riddle, he decided, because of its martial nature, thinking it a meet test for him as a soldier. Mayhap, had he not lived by the sword for most of his life it might have come as more of a challenge. But by its very subject, the answer suggested itself to a warrior in its first words.
“Well?” Her eyes took on a glitter of impish triumph. She believed him stumped. “What say you, husband?”
He wanted to please her, so he looked away from her expectant stare and allowed a tiny frown to groove the skin between his eyes. He opened his mouth, still uncertain of what he would say, but was interrupted by the rustle of many skirts. Women surrounded them. Low, feminine laughter further down the table alerted him others encircled Roana.
A long, slow smile spread over his face as a fire ignited in nether parts. ’Twas time for the new brides to retire to their bowers. He kept his face impassive as Ysane realized the women’s purpose. She was rushed away, looking somewhat as she had earlier in the day on the path to the chapel, when he had feared she would fall at his feet like a wilted lily pad. Yet, his heart pounded like the hylsung when it seemed to him her look was not one of trepidation, but of the simple hesitancy of any woman newly wed.
Can it be she fears not our night together so much as I expected?
He had little time to ponder the question. The clamor of male voices, which had subsided somewhat, swelled again to a ferocious roar. Raucous laughter accompanied the women’s departure, while the ladies, giggling and chattering, exhibited all the panache of a swarm of demented minnows. They swept his wife into one burnstów, and Roana into the other, followed by the decidedly loud drop of the bars over the doors.
’Tw
as all he could do to pretend disinterest in the proceedings inside the bathing chamber while he waited for Ysane to be whisked up the stairs. He glanced at his First. Trifine, his smile distinctly feral, watched the opposite burnstów where Roana had been sequestered.
***
Inside the burnstów, Ysane was divested of her wedding finery and urged by the happy women into the waiting hot bath.
Lewena scrubbed her with rose scented soap until she protested. “Lewena, cease! I bathed already this morn and have no need of yet another scrubbing. I will have no skin left if you continue.”
Lynnet’s willing hands lifted her from the bath and dried her with soft, warm linens.
Lewena laughed softly. “Ah, but think how lovely will be your scent, my dear. Fallard will likely lose his head at first whiff, does he not lose his mind at first sight of you in this.”
‘This’ was a sleeping gown of the softest, sheerest wool Ysane had ever seen. She had only time to blush at its transparency, note the exquisite embroidery at cuffs and hem and wonder from where the delicate garment had come when she was swathed in a cloak and ushered from the chamber to the lord’s bower, where Lewena usurped Lynnet’s role. While the rest of the women insured the chamber was tidy and the coals in the brazier burned hot while the wine remained cool in its flagon, she plied the brush through Ysane’s tresses with relaxing strokes.
With cries of congratulations and final words of advice, the women dispersed. Ysane felt her heart melt as Lynnet and Luilda offered her glances filled with hopeful concern as they too, glided away, leaving Ysane alone in the silence with her friend. With a final stroke, Lewena laid aside the brush, then sat opposite Ysane on the bed, the covers of which were sprinkled with dried white rose petals, softened in water.
She met Ysane’s gaze straight on. “Roana asked that I speak with you ere I left you alone this eve, but I would have done so regardless.” She paused. “Are you alright, my dear? None of us knows how bad things were between you and Renouf, but those of us closest to you know ’twas a nightmare. That time is not so far past its memories cannot now be looming above you, as threatening as some dreadful sword. Only say the word, dear child, and I will ask Randel to speak to Lord D’Auvrecher in your behalf. He will do so gladly, you know, and I believe Fallard will hear him.”