Rose of Hope

by Mairi Norris

  For a time then, their conversation wove around the ancient myths and legends of their two peoples. They debated the existence of elves and faeries, in which Ysane believed, but Fallard did not. They discussed the tales of the terrible dragons and other portents of doom said to have plagued the people of Northumbria in the Year of Our Lord 793, and finally the merits of the even more ancient concepts of Middengeard and Yggdrasill, brought to this land by the Norsemen.

  But as the hour grew late and the night’s chill grew deep about them, Ysane sought to huddle closer to Fallard for warmth. He lost no time in taking advantage with an embrace that left them both gasping.

  “It grows cold, and I relish not the thought we are visible to the sentries,” Fallard said. He lifted her and carried her back to their bower. Taking care with her injuries, he loved her until all thought of profound scholarly concepts and all conversation regarding the deep mysteries of the universe were forgotten beneath the sweet simplicity of passion.

  ***

  Hours of honest introspection later, wearily awake while his wife slept in his arms, Fallard accepted that which he had so long sought to avoid. The unfamiliar emotions Ysane stirred in him since the first moment he saw her—and verily, even before, when Kenrick Wulfsingas spoke so eloquently of her—were now explained. He had fallen in love with his wife.

  This was the unknown conclusion he had moved toward, the very thing his soul had longed for, all unaware—that which his parents shared and for which he had long hoped. Foolishly, he had feared that giving so much of himself to another would somehow diminish his manhood and lessen his knightly skills. Yet, now that he thought, naught of the like had happened with his father or with King William, who loved his wife Matilda with a fervent adoration.

  Though he was far from ready to reveal this new awareness to Ysane, he was relieved that neither his manliness nor his knightly prowess would be compromised. He smiled in the darkness as he gently kissed her temple, sighed in contentment and promptly fell fast asleep.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  The quiet days continued as the burfolc enjoyed the return of normality to their everyday life. Randel and Lewena returned home, Lewena ecstatic at thought of being with her children again after an absence so much longer than expected. Fallard chose not to incarcerate Leda. While she had no inviolate alibi for the time of Ysane’s fall, the testimony of witnesses did not agree. Enough uncertainty remained over her whereabouts that in justice, he could do not as he wished and confine her. He did, howbeit, reinstate the watch on her that had been allowed to slacken in the recent rush of events.

  Under the assumption that Ysane’s fall was not accidental, Fallard also set men to guard her. They were never to leave her alone unless she was with him or a trusted male member of the hall, and that list of names was short. That she disliked the constant watch he knew, but she complained not. The guards did their best to be as unobtrusive as possible and he would not have relented, in any case.

  Early one morn, Ysane came to him in the hall with the request she be allowed to visit Cynric’s cottage, for the seven-day of his absence was at its end and she wished to know if he had returned.

  Fallard assigned the now inseparable duo of his valiant knight Varin and the equally doughty Saxon hearth companion Ingram as her escort.

  From his position in the south guard tower, Fallard watched her ride into the forest on Freyja, the two warriors trailing behind. Ere the trees cut her off from his sight she turned and waved, her happy smile visible even across the distance of the clearing. Fallard startled himself by laughing in return, but he lifted his hand in acknowledgement.

  How knew she that I would be here, watching? Mayhap, because she would do the same.

  He surprised himself further by whistling as he traversed the crosswalk back to the hall.

  ***

  The ride into the forest was delightful. After a damp, foggy beginning, the day had turned warm and sunny. The green growth was slowly beginning to recover from the unexpected winter blast.

  Bluebells carpeted the woodland floor and Ysane caught a whiff of their sweet scent. A nuthatch piped a long and rapid trill in warning of their approach while squirrels scampered away in alarm. She laughed outright when one anxious specimen, its tufted ears and russet froth of a tail twitching madly, ran along a branch above her only to drop the huge acorn it carried right into her lap. It raced from tree to tree ahead of her, chittering and squeaking in apparent rage, and leapt onto another low-hanging branch directly over the path. It did a somersault around it, before dropping to hang from its hind feet as it watched her approach.

  She reined in Freyja. Fat, fluffy rodent stared upside down at captivated woman, barely two feet apart. She made no sound. The squirrel’s every muscle quivered with the need to flee. Varin and Ingram fell silent some feet behind her. So slowly she might have been moving in cold honey, and making the offering with bated breath, Ysane took the acorn from her lap and raised it toward the tiny animal hanging in front of her. Moments ticked by as she sat absolutely still, waiting. The squirrel’s nose twitched as it sniffed. With a suddenness that left her blinking, it snatched the acorn from her palm and tore away along the underside of the branch, to disappear around the opposite side of the tree with one last scolding chitter and flick of its bushy tail.

  Ingram rode up beside her. “’Twould have made a fine supper, my lady,” he teased with a grin.

  Varin grunted in agreement.

  “Oh nay, not that one,” she cried, but she had to laugh. The squirrel had clearly found plenty to eat of late in the spring forest, for its coat was thick and its belly round.

  They continued their ride, reaching the turn-off to Cynric’s cottage. Freyja no sooner entered the obscure path before Varin gave an abrupt, angry bellow. Ysane twisted in the saddle to find Cynric in the path behind her. He held her two companions at bay with his bow. The arrow, unfortunately, was aimed at Varin’s heart.

  “Cynric, no!”

  She believed not her brother would shoot the Norman but she could be not sure. He seemed to have changed so much. She flung herself off Freyja and ran to place her hand on the rock hard muscles that held taut the sinew of the bowstring.

  Her heart raced. “These are my friends, Cynric. My escort. The escort you demanded. You will harm them not.”

  “They cannot pass.”

  “But they are my guards. You agreed.”

  “I agreed to an escort until you reached my side,” he said, never taking his eyes from the two. “They may travel no further, though they may return to the burh.”

  “’Twould be wise to put that bow away, young man,” Ingram said. “We have been ordered to bring the Lady Ysane to you and we are staying. But what say you, Varin? Does he seem the sort capable of protecting our lady without us, should trouble come?”

  Varin, who moved not a muscle during the confrontation, looked at Ysane. She nodded.

  “Aye,” he growled. “’Tis possible he might be of that sort.”

  “Varin, he is,” Ysane insisted. “He has protected me all my life. I still live because of that protection, when twice over I should be dead. Please. In this place, we are none of us enemies. Cynric, allow Varin and Ingram to keep watch here while I go with you to the cottage.”

  The direction of the arrow altered fractionally, then dropped to the ground as Cynric held Varin’s gaze. He began to back away. “If you ride to my place without my permission, I will kill you.”

  Varin nodded.

  Ysane believed neither man doubted her brother’s word. “Worry not,” she said, “if I come not back soon. I may be with my brother until the setting of the sun.”

  Cynric took Ysane’s arm and pulled her to the other side of Freyja, keeping the bulk of the horse between them and the two warriors. Ysane walked with him without comment until they were out of the others’ range of hearing, then she turned on him with a fury fed by slowly fading terror. “What monster has come to lurk within you, my dearest friend, that cau
ses you to turn on those who are not your adversaries?”

  Cynric looked into her eyes, unsmiling. “They are Norman, Ysane,” he said, as if that answered everything.

  “Oh, pretend not blindness! Ingram is as Saxon as we both!”

  “He is clearly friend and companion to a Norman, and that makes him enemy enough in my eyes.”

  “Oh indeed! I am now married to a Norman, and most pleased to have it so. Decide you that makes me your foe, as well? Will you slay me, too?”

  “Speak not such foolishness!” He hurled the words at her. “You are my sister.”

  “By your own words, methinks ’twould seem to matter not who I am, since I have willingly wed one you oppose. Oh, Cynric! This hate you bear is a terrible thing. I fear ’twill cost your life. What—or who—has turned you against these ones with whom our people must learn to live in peace?”

  “You can ask that of me?” Disbelief rang in his voice. “Think you I felt no pain at the companions I lost at Santlache, or that I felt naught when I searched for our father in Normandy? Think you it fed not my rage to know he died in enemy hands, far from home and those who loved him? I saw his grave, Ysane!” His voice was filled with pain. “Aye, I did. They buried him not in a tomb, or even in a graveyard, but in a great field, an unmarked burial site where he lies with a hundred others not even of his own kind.”

  Ysane felt the blood leave her face. She reached to hold his arm. “What is this you say? Fallard said Father was treated with honor, and you said you went to Germania. You said naught of Normandy!”

  “Think you I would tell that Norman dog you married I spent time in his lands, that I found where our father was laid in his death as if no more than an animal?”

  “When, Cynric? How long have you known of this?”

  He sighed and took her hand, and they continued to the cottage. He walked her past his home to the lake. Casting himself upon the grass-and-moss strewn shore, he laid back, hands behind his head. He stared at the sky through a canopy of branches that waved in the gentle breeze, then closed his eyes.

  “The day we received the news of his death, that was the day I left.”

  “I remember,” she said, sinking down into the grass beside him, watching his face.

  “Then you also remember ’twas a time of great unrest and strife. Travel was dangerous.”

  “Aye, and that is why I worried so for you, and could understand not why you left without so much as a word. When you returned not, I thought you had died.”

  “As I said before, I left a message for you. I am sorry, little one, you received it not. ’Twas not my desire you should worry. But you should recall I am not a man, as others, to travel only the roads. I went by ways through the forest even the outlaws know not, but ’twas slow. ’Twas long ere I reached the coast of the Small Sea that separates our lands from that of the enemy. The closer I got, the more oft I had to hide from companies of Normans, or find a way around them.” He gave a little huff. “They call the sea La Manche.”

  “I am aware,” Ysane said, her eyes never leaving his face.

  “Another two seven-days passed ere I could find a ship with friends aboard who hid me for the duration of the voyage. When I reached the other side I had to hide again, but my friends gave me shelter. It took time, but they learned more about our father’s death and aided my search for the field where he was buried. I fear I grieved overmuch then, little one, for I wished only to lash out in anger, to kill, as our father had been slain. My friends were forced to bind me and carry me to a place far from where lived any other man, else I would have killed many of the enemy ere perishing, myself.

  “The rage gave way to sorrow and I lay as one dead in the place where they took me. I know not for how long. I ate little and slept less. Once the bitterness of grief dulled, I thought again only of vengeance. But my friends persuaded me that to attack the enemy in the heart of his own land was the province of a fool, and would risk the lives of many innocents.

  “Thus, they found for me a ship home, and we bid our farewells on a night of storm. When I stepped on the shores of Angelcynn I knew what I must do, what had to be done to avenge our father’s death.”

  He grew still, and was silent so long Ysane wondered if he slept. Moss green eyes opened and his gaze flicked to her.

  She finished his thought for him. “You joined the rebels, and you killed Normans.”

  She ran her fingertips again and again over the smooth surface of a stone that lay half buried in the grass nigh her knee.

  “Aye. I killed Normans.”

  The movement of her fingers stopped. “Methinks I can understand. What I understand not is why you never sent a message. You allowed me to believe you dead, Cynric. Thought you I would grieve not for you, as deeply as you grieved for our father?”

  “I could tell you not, little one. ’Twas best for you that you knew naught of my actions, or my whereabouts. That which you knew not, you could be not forced to tell.”

  “And if someone had believed I knew, but simply refused to tell, what then? Would you have let me die in their effort to gain such knowledge?”

  “Be not a fool! I well knew you were safe at Wulfsinraed. Already have I explained I made certain to leave you in safe hands.”

  “And I have explained how cruel—how unsafe—those hands were! Why do you believe me not? I have never lied to you. Renouf was a monster and Ruald little better.” She turned away. “Oh, what is the use? If you choose to believe me not, there is naught I can do to convince you.”

  “I have not yet made up my mind what I believe in this matter, but I promise you I will get to the truth. Then I will decide what is to be done.”

  “Are you in contact with Ruald, Cynric?”

  He sat up and stared at her, his face impassive, and made no answer.

  “’Tis my belief you are, that you have aided him, as you aided Renouf these past three twelvemonths. You are still fighting Normans, even though you must know the cause is lost.”

  “I will give no answer, Ysane. ’Tis far better that in this, as in other things, you know naught. Yet, say I this…the cause is not lost, not until every last Saxon in Angelcynn has died or given it up. Never will I cease to fight to regain that which is mine. Never will I yield the struggle to take back that which was wrongfully stolen!”

  “Then I fear, my brother, whom I love so dear, you will die, and never gain that for which you fight. Why can you not understand you cannot win this battle? The war is over, Cynric! We lost. William’s hand is too strong. For every Norman you kill a hundred more take their place, and a hundred Saxons die. Once we were strong—strong! But still we were defeated, and now we are weak. Too many have died. Too many still die. There is no longer hope of victory.”

  “Then I will fight without hope, little one, and if I must die, then be it so.”

  Again, a taut silence grew between them, hurtful and sad. So much had changed.

  Cynric touched her arm. “What will you tell the black knight?”

  “Of all we have spoken this day? I will tell him naught, except mayhap that long ago, you found our father’s grave, and wept there.”

  “’Twill please him not.”

  “It matters not. He cannot be allowed to know of what you do, though ’tis possible he already suspects. He is no fool. But did he know for certain, ’twould be his duty to hunt you down and take you to William. I cannot—I will not, for all our sakes—allow that to happen. I will tell him we spoke of happier days, of times long past and of hopeful times to come where joy might once again spring. Methinks he will question me not. I believe not he would use me in such a way. Whatever he thinks he must learn, he will find by other means.”

  “Then he has more honor than I credit.”

  “Be not blind on purpose! Normans are not so very different than we. I have told you already there are many with greater honor than some Saxons.”

  “And I have told you that is a matter yet to be decided. But well and good. At the
least, you are happy now and I am not too blind to see he mistreats you not. For the nonce, I will stay my hand in this place, and what I do will be done far from here, so he will be not forced to search for me. I would not cause you more grief.”

  They spoke little after that. Cynric walked with her to the cabin and they shared a simple meal and a cup of mead. She asked not from whence came his supplies. There were still those at Wulfsinraed who were loyal to him for the sake of his blood and her love for him.

  So that her words to Fallard might be not a lie, they did speak together of happier times, and of hope for the future. Afterward, he picked up his pole for fishing and took her out on the lake in a skin-covered dugout so ancient she wondered how it stayed afloat. They sat in the warm sunshine in companionable silence until with a series of jerks, accompanied by a great deal of laughing and splashing, Cynric’s supper lay in the bottom of the little boat.

  When the noontide sun had moved far along its arc to the west, Ysane knew ’twas time to go.

  Cynric gathered Freyja from where she was hobbled in the shaded grass and escorted Ysane down the path until they heard the desultory chatting of her escort. He turned to her and opened his arms, and she walked into them, embracing him and resting her head on his chest. He cradled her, neither saying a word.

  She looked into his beloved face. “Cynric.”

  “Come not here again unless I send word, little one, for I will be here not,” he said, his voice low.

  She could help not but blanch as she considered his words. “You go to fight again.”

  “I know not how long I will be gone, but I promise, now and anon, I will send word.”