by Mairi Norris
He gripped tightly with gloved fingers the wooden railing along the wall, needing its support as his boots slithered on the thick sheet of ice that covered the steps. Despite his care, he slipped once and went down, grunting as his knees made unpleasantly forceful impact with the stone. Grit would need to be spread over everything once the storm was over, or half his troops would be laid up with broken bones.
His unannounced and headlong advent into the guard tower, bundled head to foot in the black, ice-blanketed fur cloak, had the guards leaping from their huddled positions around the fire, trying with cold-stiffened fingers to pull their swords and prepare for assault. They stared at him in shocked disbelief.
Fiercely dancing light from the pit reflected off scores of tiny icicles clinging to the hairs of his cloak. He suspected he appeared to the startled sentries, some of whom had been raised from childhood on tales of ice demons, as darkness on fire. He might have been an ice-apparition for the way they ogled him.
If ‘twere not so cursed cold, he would have laughed at their expressions. ’Twould seem none but his own man was accustomed to their captain visiting them under such conditions. Good. Though his knights already knew his habit, from this moment the rest of the men would also know there was no condition under which he might not appear. ’Twould be a lesson well learned. Soldiers who expected the unexpected were men far less easily surprised by an enemy. Because of it, they lived longer.
“Captain!” His own knight, grinning at the amaze of the others, saluted him and called him over, offering Fallard his stool. A horn tankard, its rough sides warm from the hot liquid within, was thrust into his grateful hands.
“My thanks, Hugue. Everyone still resides among the living, then?” He spoke loudly, though he knew the question to be rhetorical. These were men accustomed to hardship, who took care of their own, and if anyone making a foray out onto the walls had returned not in good time, he would have been sought for until found. Still, Fallard wanted to hear for himself the answer.
“Aye, Captain.” Another man, one of the hearth companions, answered. “But I mind not admitting to gladness our shift is nigh over. ’Twould be good did more wood be brought up for the fires ere break of day. ’Twill be needed.”
“I thought as much. I will order it so.” Fallard might have spoken more with them, but the noise level was too high for ease in conversation so he sat, huddled with the rest as close to the pit as he could get until he finished his ale.
“’Tis my thought to check the stables,” he said as he stood. “Hugue, choose a man to accompany you to the chapel. I want to know Father Gregory is hale. On your return, check the cottages between here and there. Also, send two others to rouse the garrison at the east tower. We may need them do we find trouble. The rest of you, stay alert. The ice is dangerous underfoot. Pass the word to stay together. No one goes anywhere alone until the storm is over.”
Trifine and Jehan met him at the foot of the stairs, also unsurprised to find him up and about ahead of them.
“The troops in the knight’s quarters are roused, Captain,” Jehan shouted. “They help in the hall. What else needs be done?”
Fallard headed for the stables, both men following. He glanced back and yelled, “Aught that will see me back in my warm bed and my wife’s arms at the soonest possible moment.”
Faith, but he hated the necessity of leaving Ysane’s side. She needed him. The abuse she had endured the past three twelvemonths had left its mark. Despite the sweet trust with which she honored him, it had taken the best part of the night—and more gentleness and patience on his part than he had known he had—to overcome her resistance. At one point, he had reiterated his offer to wait until she could better accept his touch, but she had insisted with tears they continue. ’Twas not her fault, but it had tried him sorely. He fervently hoped they would have an easier time of it from this point on, now she knew he would not hurt or humiliate her.
Trifine’s bark of commiserating laughter at his words sounded over the gale. He turned to glare at his First. He had not meant his words to be amusing, but Jehan’s grin was also wide. He suddenly saw the humor and threw back his head to howl at nature’s jest.
Jehan grabbed his arm and dragged him toward the stable door. “Mirth is best enjoyed inside! ’Tis warmer there. But what a way to end one’s first night with one’s new bride. Though you both waived the ‘hiding’, ’twould have been kinder of nature to wait a day or two ere dragging you so early from the womanly warmth in your beds.”
His less than sympathetic guffaws were louder than the wind, earning him annoyed but good-natured cuffs from his comrades.
Feeling his way along the stable wall, Fallard reached the double doors at the entrance. He lifted the latch to open one side but had to fight the wind. Jehan was the last inside. The door slammed shut behind him with a mighty crack that should have splintered it. They halted, for ’twas darker inside than ’twas without. At least the thick walls blocked the fearsome force of the wind. ’Twas much quieter too, though the chill remained intense. They stepped deeper into the building, searching for those on duty. Around them, the horses, some already spooked by the storm, shifted and stamped uneasily.
“Ho, the stables!” Trifine called, when no one came to meet them.
A small shape loomed out of the shadows in front of them and all three tensed, but the figure resolved into a stableboy carrying a low-burning torch. The youngster squawked in fear at sight of their massive figures, made frighteningly bizarre and far larger by the furs that bundled them and the shadows formed by his torch. He turned to run. Fallard caught a fold of the heavy blanket the boy had wrapped around himself and pulled, hauling the youngster into his arms.
“Hold! Have no fear, ’tis only your lord, come to see to your safety.”
“My…my thegn?”
Fallard’s brows scrunched together. The incredulous disbelief at his presence was further proof the previous master of the burh had exhibited little interest in the welfare of his people and had rarely, if ever come among them except to torment.
“Come, give me your name, lad.” He wrapped a gloved hand around the boy’s scruff and dragged him, gently enough, towards the back of the stables. Beyond the stalls on either side, the reflected light from a fire could now be seen. From further along the row came a loud, nickering snort. The corners of his eyes crinkled. Tonnerre had heard his voice and called a greeting. He would see to the animal as soon as he finished his business with the stablemaster.
“I am called Geat, my thegn.” His captive suddenly found words to inform him.
“Well then, Geat,” he said, keeping the tenor of his voice conversational, “go and wake your master and tell him I want to look around.”
He released the boy, who threw an uncertain glance at them as he scampered behind a chest high partition that angled out from the back wall, the firelight emanating from behind it.
The three waiting men listened to a muffled commotion that held undertones of urgency, followed by several unidentifiable thumps.
“My thegn D’Auvrecher, good morn, good morn!” The short, squat figure of the stablemaster spoke in a sleep-fogged voice as he rounded the end of the wall. “How may I be of service?”
At first sight, Cross-Eyed Tuck appeared an unlikely horseman. A small, bandy-legged man, he was endowed with huge, bulging brown eyes that displayed a disconcerting tendency to cross themselves uncontrollably at inopportune moments, causing him to blink like a madman. He managed to project a constant air of incompetent befuddlement, but the mien was deceptive. Fallard had learned since his subduing of the burh that the stablemaster could ride, handle and care for horses with an uncanny knack other men could envy, but never match.
He had heard it said by those closest to Tuck he could ‘faerie’ horses, whisper enchantments to them so they would docilely do whatever he required, or follow him anywhere. The wildest stallions transformed into tame kittens beneath his weight. The most skittish mares became fearless as de
striers at his touch. The most intractable all but bowed in obeisance to his commands.
Some thought him bewitched, and feared him. None understood him. Fallard cared not if he stood on his head and gibbered, so long as the horses were in good hands, and Tuck’s were the best.
“Good morn to you, Tuck! Aware are you there is a blizzard blowing?”
“A what, my lord? A blizzard, you say? Wait but a moment, if you please.”
As the three men leaned as one to peer around the corner of the stalls in overt curiosity, he ran to the doors, carefully inched open the right portal and stuck his head out, appeared to sniff a time or two, then returned.
“Nay, my lord, that is no blizzard. ’Tis naught but a bit of a blow, though I mind not saying as how I am glad to be inside, despite it.”
Fallard caught the look that passed between Trifine and Jehan and chuckled. “Tuck is from the northlands,” he explained. “’Twould seem up there, this be but a breeze. Tuck, ease my mind and show me around the stable. We Normans dislike this kind of gentle wind. Makes us nervous.”
For the next several minutes, torches in hand, they followed Tuck around. Fallard stopped to let Tonnerre nuzzle him in welcome, feeding the destrier two of the sweet, dried apples he had stolen from the kitchen ere coming outside. He then moved to Foudre’s stall where he spoke quietly to the courser, who pranced and whinnied softly ere playfully nudging him off his feet into a pile of hay.
At the sight, Jehan guffawed. “He loves you, Captain.”
Fallard scrambled to his feet and brushed himself off, grateful the straw was clean. “I will get you for that someday,” he promised the big stallion. He felt the tremor of Foudre’s flesh as he ran his hand in a caress down the courser’s neck. “Aye, aye, you can have some too, though your manners are atrocious.”
He pulled the last two apples from where Foudre snuffled inside the folds of his cloak and fed them to the beast. He turned to Tuck. “All is well here. We go to the village now.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Satisfied no harm had come to the animals—or the people—in the stables, Fallard sent Tuck back to bed and ventured out into the ‘bit of a blow’. The sky had grown considerably lighter while they were inside and the wind had lessened its fury. ’Twas now light enough to see a figure hurrying toward them. Fallard recognized the man as Grimbol, the burh fowler and one of the huntsmen.
“Thegn D’Auvrecher!” He huffed the words as soon as he came close. His face was a mask of concern. “There has been an accident in the village. We have need of all the men who may be spared.”
“What has happened?”
The man’s panted breaths appeared nigh solid in the bitter air. “’Tis Ceorl the cowherd and his family. The roof of his house caved in. We cannot reach them.” A spasm of pain crossed his pale face and Fallard recalled Ceorl was Grimbol’s best friend. “Ceorl has a wife and nine children. The oldest is but four and ten summers. The youngest is an infant.”
“Saint’s toes!” Trifine breathed.
Fallard feared he knew which house had collapsed. There was an old wattle-walled cottage, a large structure built along the lines of a hall, on the far side of the village. He had already marked the cottage as needing major repairs or mayhap, replacement, as soon as time and weather permitted. He hoped ’twas not too late.
“Grimbol, return to the village. Tell them help comes, and to gather all the extra clothing that may be found. Jehan, apprise Ethelmar. We will need hot food and drink, blankets and buckets of hot water. Wake the stewards. Drag them out of bed, if you must, and send someone as escort for Luilda…and watch out for the ice on the steps,” he shouted after his Second as Jehan dashed for the hall.
Jehan waved acknowledgement without turning or breaking his stride.
Turning to Trifine, he opened his mouth, but his First was ahead of him. “I know. I will hurry them,” he said, and ran for the east tower and the garrison there.
Fallard sprinted toward the wall stairs, taking care on the slippery ground. In the gray light, there was not as much snow as he had expected to see, barely enough to cover his booted toes, but beneath it, the ice was thick.
Hauling himself to the guard tower for a second time, he bounded inside. “You there.” He gestured to a man he recognized as belonging to Wulfsinraed’s hearth companions, but whose name he did not yet know. “Sound the alert! There has been an accident in the village. You and you, come with me, but ‘ware the ice! ’Twill do no good should you be added to the injured list.”
He led the men toward the tunnel, still standing open from Grimbol’s passage.
The gate guards saluted. “What has happened, my thegn? Grimbol had no time to say.”
“A house has collapsed.” He threw the words as he passed.
The brassy peal of the alert, loud enough to be heard above a still vigorous wind, blared over their heads as they passed onto the bridge. Behind him came a sharp exclamation followed by several ominous thuds. Glancing back, he saw that one of the men had slipped on the treacherous ice and fallen, but apart from sporting a sheepish expression on his cold-reddened face, he was already scrambling to his feet with a hand from his companion.
Fallard raced through the village gate and felt his heart sink. The damaged home was the very one he feared, set back from the river, across from the mill. The family was poor, with little coin for upkeep. He had been told they but moved into the place within the past twelvemonth, grateful to receive a dwelling spacious enough to hold their large family in what was, for them, real comfort.
He felt his expression wax grim as he approached. Men already worked to clear debris, but the house had been a construction of considerable age and when the roof gave way, it had pulled in much of the walls along with it. Those inside were buried deep. He glanced at the lightening sky.
At least we will not be forced to dig through this broken shell in the dark, but methinks ’twill be a miracle if any still live. ’Tis great fortune the whole place does not burn. Mayhap the weight of snow and ice smothered the fires in the pit.
As he drew nigh, a shout went up. One of the men had found something.
“’Tis one of the children,” the man cried as with care he lifted away bits and pieces in an effort to prevent more debris from cascading down. “Methinks he lives!”
A cheer went up as hope, grown dim as the men worked but found no sign of life, was renewed. Moments later, a boy of mayhap four summers was lifted free of the rubble.
“‘Aye, he lives, but not for long do we not warm him. Faith! He feels colder than the snow.” The man who found him handed him to another, then cried, “There are more here! Several others slept with the boy.”
One by one, the children were brought out, their rescuers swaddling them in blankets and cradling them to their breasts.
“Take them to the hall,” Fallard said. “They are prepared for the injured.”
“Aye, my thegn!”
Though hampered by the hazardous conditions, the men redoubled their efforts as he and his companions joined them. Silence descended as they worked.
A short time later, he glanced up at a shout to see the off-duty garrison, with the stewards and their men among them, headed their way at a shambling run. Relief surged. If any more of the family yet lived, they would be out from under the wreckage in a trice.
***
Ysane shifted beneath the mound of blankets and furs, then groaned and pushed back the edges. The unnatural brightness blazing through the cracks in the shutters made her squint.
What discourteous soul raised the tapestries from over the windows and dropped the sun inside the room?
Blinking, she reached out to the space beside her, but her questing hand encountered only cold bedding. Disappointed, she sat up, alone in the big bed, then shivered as the unusually cold air in the bower ran sharp fingers down her bare skin. She peered through her lashes in an effort to blank out some of the brilliance, and wondered what time it was.
My head hurts, and I am tired. Have I slept very late?
She jumped when Roana’s quiet voice answered her, increasing the pounding in her head. “Aye, Ysane, you have slept late. You even slept through the sounding of the alert, but you must awaken now and pay attention.”
I must have said that thought aloud! ’Tis difficult to focus through the pain. The wine. It had to be the wine.
Yester day, for the first time in her life she had overindulged, then foolishly had another glass after coming to bed. Why else would the light be so painfully radiant? Her ears caught the rustle of clothing drawing nigh, but she sensed rather than saw Roana hold out a goblet.
Fighting nausea, she shook her head, but Roana grabbed her hand and forced the cup into her hand. “Luilda said to drink it all, first thing upon waking.”
She groaned again, but drank. Luilda was usually right. The bitter draught went down and sat uneasily on her stomach, but did not come not back up as she expected. Even better, the nausea began to ease and within minutes, she could actually see her cousin’s face, only to decide she wished she could not.
Roana’s expression was bleak, and the tracks of tears marked her cheeks. She rocked back and forth on the stool.
“Roana, what is wrong? Why do you weep?” A sudden, terrible thought brought her fully awake. “Oh mercy, tell me not aught has happened to Trifine?”
“Nay, ’tis not that. But my dear, there has been a tragedy in the village. Two children are dead.”
Chill bumps chased across her skin. “Tragedy? The village? Roana, make sense. What has happened?”
“’Twas the blizzard. The wind was so strong. It tore the roof off the cottage and collapsed the building onto the family. They were buried, Trifine says. The men were able to dig them out, but ’twas too late for two of the little ones, and Luilda is uncertain a third will survive his injuries.”
The correlation between the brilliance of the daylight and the cold of the room caught up with her tired brain, dulled from too much spirits and too little sleep.