Rose of Hope

by Mairi Norris

  The light is a reflection off of ice and snow! But ’twas so lovely and warm when we retired last eve. We all thought spring had come to stay. How is it there was a blizzard in the night, and, oh mercy, how can two children lie dead?

  Then something else Roana said registered. “Said you the warning trumpet sounded?”

  “Aye. You slept through it.”

  “Why then did no one wake me?” She had never before missed an alert. She had been needed and had not been there to help. She threw off the covers and shuddered as the cold radiated through the sheepskin on the floor to assault her bare feet. The chill on the room was severe, despite the heat from the brazier, which led to her next realization. She wore naught. She grabbed a cover of white fox furs and wrapped it round herself.

  “My lord D’Auvrecher ordered you not be disturbed,” Roana said. “He said you needed your sleep. He cares much for you, Ysane.”

  Despite the devotion she shared with Roana Ysane flushed, a deep, betraying blush that rose from her chest to flood her face all the way to her hairline. She burned from it, but oh, the sweet magic and staggering pleasure of the joyous discoveries she found in the night in her husband’s strong arms. Even in the sober light of day, the enthralling delights Fallard had shown her bore no relation to the selfish, hurtful mating that characterized Renouf’s bedplay. Renouf had raped, and preferred and enjoyed it that way. Fallard, while lusty, was a lover, tender and considerate. He had given her little chance to sleep, but his thoughtfulness extended to ordering her rest be not disturbed. He could not have known when he left the hall that such trouble would be waiting.

  “Roana, deorling, you find me truly at a loss. Help me dress, please, and tell me exactly what has happened, from the beginning.”

  ***

  “I am the resurrection and the life….”

  The burh was in mourning.

  Despite the warmth of her fur-lined cloak, Ysane shivered as she listened to the words of comfort intoned in Latin by Father Gregory. She understood the words, though few others present did. Tears coursed unhindered down her cheeks and she licked the salty substance from dry lips as her eyes rested on the two pathetically small bundles being lowered into the frozen earth. As her heart ached for those who grieved, she tried not to think of how her own sweet babe had been given no such decency as a Christian burial.

  Nigh to her, Ceorl’s face remained blank, stoic. His unbroken arm curved around his wife’s bowed, bruised shoulders as her body shook beneath broken wails. Further away another woman, this one elderly, wept also, but her sobs were silent. Beyond her, waited two sober lads and their father, whose expression was harsh with the effort to control his sorrow.

  The fierce storm that descended so unexpectedly upon the land two nights previously had stolen four precious lives from their little community. Two were the children of Ceorl and his wife Sreda, and included the youngest babe-in-arms, whose tiny body had been unharmed by the fallen roof but had been unable to withstand the cold. Another was the husband of the softly weeping elderly woman. He had awakened during the night and gone into the storm to check on their animals, but had apparently slipped on the ice, hit his head on a fence post and knocked himself out. Death found him swiftly.

  The last of the dead was the sister of one of the burh ceorls. A widow, she had lived with her widowed brother, caring for his home and his two unmarried sons. The night of the storm she was on her way home from another farm some little distance away, where she had been tending to that farmer’s sick wife. She left ere nightfall, nigh the start of the storm, had somehow become disoriented and wandered deeper into the forest. Her body had not been found until this morn.

  “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done….”

  Beside her, Ysane felt the tension of Fallard’s impotent rage at Renouf as the shovelfuls of dirt fell into the graves. At least two of the deaths, those of the children, could have been avoided had Renouf performed his duties as lord. Under the system of civil land management established by King William, ’twas the responsibility of the lord to insure his people received adequate food, clothing and shelter. The latter meant seeing to needed repairs of homes.

  Yet, her husband felt he could not place all blame for the collapse of Ceorl’s cottage at the feet of Renouf. He had known the house was in dire need of repair, but had deemed it structurally sound enough to wait until more pressing needs had been met. That none could have foreseen the deadly force of a late winter storm did not, in his mind, mitigate his accountability. She wept a little for him, too.

  Though it might be too late for the children, a new cottage, sturdy, spacious and comfortable was to be built for Ceorl. In the meantime, he and his surviving family members would be sheltered with others.

  “…through the mercy of God rest in peace.” The benediction echoed through the trees where the village had long ago chosen to locate the burial ground.

  ’Twas over, the dead laid to rest. Life for those remaining must now go on. It eased her heart there would be many willing hands among her people to care for the survivor’s needs as the seven-days passed.

  She walked back through the village, Fallard’s arm draped over her shoulders. Her husband had done more than his part in the difficult digging for the graves. Now he smelled of sweat, wood smoke and cold air, a combination she liked very much. Cuddling closer, she took in the damage the storm had wrought to nature. Bedraggled blossoms drooped, the blooms already browning in the sunlight where they lay loose on the ground. Branches broken by the weight of ice littered the scene, while further on an entire tree had been felled. As the sun rose higher and its warmth increased, sharp snapping sounds, accompanied by the tinkle of shattering chains of ice, announced further limb breakage.

  In yards here and there, animals killed in the storm—a few chickens, a suckling pig and a young goat—lay where they fell. Soon their frozen bodies would be butchered to preserve what meat could be saved.

  ’Twas hoped spring would now return and with it, warmer air to melt the ice. Already three of Wulfsinraed’s inhabitants were laid up with broken bones, and none had yet been out to the far-outlying farms to assess damages. There might yet be more deaths to mourn.

  But not all the storm wrought was destruction. The glitter of light off the ice dazzled the eyes with the brilliant, broken prism of the rainbow, while soft puffs of breeze wrought music like that of tiny bells as ice rattled against ice on tree and bush. The entire landscape sparkled as if sprinkled with fairie dust. Had no one died to blight it, the exquisite wintry scene would have been unsurpassed in splendor.

  The river flowed black and sluggish between the crusts of ice that rimmed its banks. As they approached the bridge, Fallard took her elbow to guide her across the span, still slippery despite the grit sprinkled liberally across its surface.

  He saw her safely to the hall, but left her at the doors. “I ride with a troop this morn to take stock of damage in the outlying farms and make lists of needed supplies. We will return as soon as may be.”

  He possessed her lips in a bruising kiss that spoke eloquently of the feelings he kept locked inside.

  “Take care, Fallard. All of you.”

  “That we will. You may count upon it.”

  She watched him astride Tonnerre, one gloved hand grasping the saddle pommel. The fingers of his other hand raked impatiently through his hair—which was beginning to grow long enough to fall over his forehead—as he called last minute instructions.

  He glanced at her. She sent a smile that triggered from him a teasing leer. A blush burned and she escaped into the hall, her heart happy that her husband found her pleasing, despite the sorrow of the day.

  The stewards and their families were preparing to return to their homes. They wanted to leave before the ice melted and turned the roads into an impassable quagmire. All but Thegn Randel and Lady Lewena were anxious to learn what damage the storm had wrought to their holdings. But Randel Hall had been left in capable hands and its thegn deemed his retur
n could wait another day. He rode out with Fallard.

  Sir Aalot and Sir Gyffard had already left for Witham with their men, the horses picking their wary way along slick paths. That very morn, the two commanders had received new orders. Sir Aalot was to return to Witham and regular patrols, while Sir Gyffard was called back to duties in London.

  Fallard had told her as soon as repairs of storm damage were well in hand, he would be sending out patrols under leadership of Jehan and Domnall, despite Cynric’s assurance all the rebels had fled. He and Trifine would take their turn leading the patrols after a reasonable time spent at home with their new wives.

  She made her way around chests, satchels and piles of other baggage, sidestepping busy servants, and maids on various missions for their ladies. She reached the kitchen in time to hear Alyce berate one of the slaves whose carelessness with boiling water had resulted in an ugly burn to another girl’s arm.

  She took note of the sullen expression of the young miscreant and decided to have Ethelmar discipline her when work in the kitchen was less hectic. The girl was given to whining and had been reprimanded more than once for laziness. Now, another had been hurt due to her negligence. Mayhap, a touch of the whip would serve to remind her of her good fortune in living at Wulfsinraed, for in many another burh, her heedless action would have resulted in a far more severe punishment than a simple tongue-lashing. Alyce and Alewyn were kinder taskmasters than most.

  “Oh, my lady, ’tis glad I am to see you,” Alyce said as she returned to the dough she kneaded. “There is a matter needing your attention.”

  “What is it, Alyce?”

  “My lady, I am nigh ashamed to mention it, but ’tis in regard to the Lady Eufemma.”

  Oh mercy, what complaint has the woman this time? How I wish a whip could be taken to her back!

  Lady Eufemma was wife to Lord Estienne of Romleygh Hall, the closest, best appointed and most prosperous of Wulfsinraed’s fiefs. Normans both, and nigh as wealthy as King Philip, with whom the baron was close friends, they believed supremely in the superiority of their noble lineage. Lady Eufemma was most at home in the Court of France, and though Philip himself had commanded their move to England, she hated her new home with a high passion. She made no secret of the contempt she held for everything English—including the remnants of Saxon nobility. Her sneering regard toward Ysane had so angered Fallard he had taken Lord Estienne aside and ordered an end to it.

  During her stay at Wulfsinraed, Lady Eufemma had driven Ysane nigh to distraction with constant harping on the inadequacies of Wulfsinraed Hall, and how much better she would be at managing the place. She found unending fault with the food and the comforts—or the lack thereof, as she had asserted—and complained incessantly over the dearth of suitable entertainment and the discomfort of their bower. This despite they had been given the most luxuriously and comfortably furnished of the guest chambers. Even the weather was bitterly berated by the couple.

  When Ysane was forced to intervene when the lady beat one of the hall’s servants for no more reason than to ease her own frustration, she confessed her displeasure to Fallard. He admitted the baron was as disagreeable as his wife. ’Twas his belief their discontent was due to their resentment at being relegated to a stewardship, rather than being appointed Wulfsinraed’s masters. They had never forgiven King William, whom they detested and considered an upstart usurper of common birth, for appointing them to a social position lower than that which they believed their due. Lord Estienne had made more than one appeal to King Philip in an attempt to change their situation, but Philip had matters of far more import in hand and had finally warned them never to bother him again on the subject.

  She sighed at this new umbrage from the ill-natured lady. “Tell me, Alyce.”

  “Yester morn, the Lady Eufemma sent her maid to demand roast lamb pies of a special nature be prepared for their travel this day. My lady, the reciept for the pies was of a difficult nature, and took the best part of the day to complete. This morn, the Lady Eufemma required a taste. I fear she was most displeased, and she did throw the entire dish of pies to the floor and demand I make more. But even were there time, I could make no more, for one of the ingredients was pennyroyal, and I used the last of our winter supply in the pies she destroyed. What shall I tell her? ’Tis my thought she will make trouble for my people if I can satisfy not her desire.”

  Ysane hid her vexation behind a stiff smile. “Worry not, Alyce. I will deal with Lady Eufemma. Since she has wasted the special dish prepared for her, she may eat of the same traveling repast prepared for everyone else. If she finds that not to her liking, she may go hungry! Now then, have you need of aid in finishing the day’s travel meals for the other stewards, or is all complete?”

  “Oh, my lady, my most fervant thanks, but ’tis finished, except for the last of the honey cakes, which bake even now. All is in readiness.”

  “As usual, Alyce, you and Alewyn have surpassed yourselves. ’Tis why I ordered a simple meal for sup. You have worked hard these past days and deserve an easier time of it this eve.”

  Alyce smiled as she covered the bread loaves with a cloth and reached for another to clean her hands. “Aye, my lady, a simple sup ’twill be.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  By late noontide, all the guests but Lord Randel and Lady Lewena had departed. Ysane regarded the newly quiet hall with relief. The enjoyment in having visitors without the callous brutishness of Renouf and Ruald to ruin those visits had been wonderful. But having all of the stewards present under her roof at one time, for so many days, and under such arduous conditions had begun to pall.

  She wandered the hall, offering encouragement to the slaves cleaning the guest bowers. She gave advice to servants restoring order to storage cupboards and chests rummaged by visiting maids, and listened in sympathy while Luilda ranted that someone had been among her potions and herbs in the buttery.

  A goodly portion of the afternoon she spent closeted in the hoarding room with Tenney, Ethelmar and Alewyn, making lists of provisions needed to replace depleted stocks of everything from foodstuffs and linens to gaming pieces. Several sets of the hall’s various dice and board games were missing pieces, a situation not uncommon after a lengthy stay by so many visitors. Nor was missing linen. For reasons Ysane had never understood, some guests seemed to find her bathing and bed linens too desirable to leave behind.

  But Tenney’s news dismayed her. “M-m-my lady,” he said, “’tis my s-s-sorrow to report the special Hnefatafl board is missing. I have servants s-s-searching the hall for it even n-n-now, but methinks it will be not found.”

  “Oh, no. Not the one from the joint court of the brother-kings?”

  “Aye, l-l-lady, that is the one. ’Twas used by the s-s-stewards last even and was in its place this morn. ’Twas accounted m-m-missing shortly before we began our t-t-tally.”

  Ysane sincerely hoped ’twas simply misplaced. The set with its gameboard of rosewood, exquisitely carved jet and ivory game pieces, and double king pieces of silver was a priceless treasure, for it had been crafted for use in the joint court of Sigeheard and Swaefred, brother-kings who shared the rule of Eastseaxe in ages past. That any of her friends or stewards might have stolen the irreplaceable game was unthinkable.

  The morn’s final disagreeable encounter with the Lady Eufemma crossed her mind. ’Twould take no effort of the imagination to consider Lady Eufemma might covet the set, and simply account it as her right to take such a precious item as recompense for what she perceived as ‘slights’ offered during her visit. ’Twas but a guess though, and without proof.

  “You do right to search for it, Tenney,” she said, “but do you find it not, you must fret not. If ’tis gone, ’tis gone, and there are other sets.”

  She rose, unobtrusively stretching stiff muscles, glad the preparation of the lists was finished. The first of the twelvemonth’s peddlers would soon arrive at the hall and now she was ready.

  “I thank you all,” she sa
id. “You may return to your regular duties.”

  She wandered back to the bower she now shared with her husband. Opening his private chest, she fiddled absently with the items inside, finding comfort in touching his things.

  Fallard!

  Such a short time had passed since he rode into her life, and so much had happened. She yearned to slip away, far from the hustle and noise of the burh, to a quiet and private place where she could think undisturbed, not only on her life with her new husband, but on an unwelcome and disturbing thought.

  Cynric had lied to her.

  She sat in her chair before the brazier, her hands idle in her lap while her focus turned inward. It intensified her hurt to learn he had been nigh these past twelvemonths, but had made no effort to see her. Oh, mayhap ’twas true he had done pilgrimage to Germania, as he claimed. But such a journey, even supposing he had stopped now and anon, long enough to earn coin for continued travels, should have taken no more than a few months. Where had he been the rest of that time? She was certain she knew. In truth, her heart had suspected for a long time, all the while her mind prayed she was wrong. But the time frame involved was too coincidental. She knew him so well, knew his long hatred for the Norman usurpers. The knowledge terrified her for his sake…and what of Fallard, so fiercely loyal to William? What would her husband do, did he learn her brother fought with the rebels?

  Weariness descended like a fog, overwhelming and chill. She flung aside her slippers and syrce, dropped to the bed, and cuddled into a fur. She slept so quickly she remembered not even closing her eyes.

  ***

  She woke to darkness and languorous warmth all along the length of her back. The slow, lingering caress of a calloused hand traced across the curve of her hip beneath her cyrtel. The hand shifted at the same moment lips brushed feathery kisses back and forth along her shoulder blade. Shuddering with the joy his touch evoked, she caught her breath as Fallard’s arm slid round her waist to ease her closer. Soon after, she dissolved beneath an onslaught of shimmering, coruscating sensation.