by Mairi Norris
Another monk came forward. Short and slender, his face was wreathed in smiles.
“Good eve, my lord. I am Brother Paul, and ’tis my joy to attend your party. You will wish to wash, I am sure. Please follow me.” He threaded through rows of wooden tables crowded with travelers and passed through an arched doorway into a vestibule. A long, narrow hall, unadorned except for a few sputtering torches, stretched in front of him. Identical corridors opened to the left and right. In each, plain doors lined either side. He waved his hand in an encompassing gesture. “I will guide the women to their cells. If the men will wait here, I will shortly return.”
“Nay.” Fallard said. He pointed to Leda’s guards. “I and these two accompany us.”
“But my lord, no men but our own may go into the women’s dormitory.”
No one moved. Fallard stared the man down. Brother Paul huffed. Turning to his right, he started down the passage. Fallard glanced at Trifine and nodded, then gesturing to the women and Leda’s guards, followed the monk. Brother Paul stopped before a door nigh the end of the hall, gesturing to Roana and Ysane to enter.
He opened the door across from it and with hands out, palms up, indicated to the other three women they should go inside. Fallard intervened, raising his arm to bar Leda from following the maids.
“The slave will sleep in her own cell.”
“But my lord….”
“The slave is my prisoner. I take her to the king. I will increase my donation to the abbey do you see she has a separate cell. Do these doors lock?”
“Nay! My lord, this is a house of God. Locks serve no purpose here.”
“Then my guards will stay.”
“Guards? Guards, you say?” Brother Paul drew himself up. “Nay, my lord! As I said, no men may remain in this section of the dormitories. ’Tis for the women, alone.”
Fallard reached into his sash and pulled out a leather bag. He tossed it up and down in his hand. It clinked softly with the sound of many coins. “Then have one of your own, a trustworthy man, assigned to the task.”
The monk licked his lips as he stared at the bag. “I am not a greedy man for myself, you understand, my lord,” he finally said, his eyes rising to Fallard’s face. He shrugged. “But our order has many needs. I will do what I can. Yet, your request is uncommon and the abbey is nigh full this night. I must learn if a single cell is available, and speak with the abbot. Mayhap, exceptions may be made when ’tis needful.”
Fallard dropped the bag of coins into his hand. The monk bobbed his head and trotted back down the hall.
Fallard stepped to the door where Ysane stood, waiting. He bussed her lips. “Are you well, my rose?”
Eyes twinkling, she smiled. “Aye, my lord.”
He arched a brow, but the corners of his eyes crinkled. “Come to the refectory when you are ready.”
Laying hold of Leda’s wrist, he returned to the vestibule where waited Trifine.
Brother Paul re-appeared. The energetic little monk led them through a maze of halls and workrooms. He stopped to indicate a small cell, barely more than a closet. “The Abbot has agreed. I will arrange for our Brother Milrath to serve as guard for the night. He is most reliable.”
Fallard glanced at Leda. She glared back. “The slave is a beautiful female,” he said, “and knows well how to use her charms. She may seek to tempt your man in order to escape.”
Leda narrowed her eyes and hissed. She tried to pull away from his grip. He ignored her.
Brother Paul beamed. “Have no fear, my lord. I chose Milrath because he is large and strong, but he suffered an…injury, as a small boy. Should the female attempt such tricks, he will find it no difficulty to resist.”
Fallard searched the monk’s face and nodded. “Well and good.”
He hustled Leda into the tiny space. Inside was naught but a narrow cot with a pallet and a miniscule table upon which lay a pewter washbowl and water-filled pitcher. There were no windows. “My men will insure a meal is brought to the woman. Understand this. None are to speak to her, and once my men have turned her guard to Brother Milrath, this door is not to be opened without my sanction.”
The monk bowed, palms together.
“As you say, my lord, it shall be done. Do you follow me, I will take you to your cells in the men’s dormitory.”
“My First and I will bunk in the stables with our men. We require a room only to wash.”
Brother Paul blinked. “Very well.”
They left the two guards to watch Leda’s door until Milrath’s arrival.
The monk took them to a separate room off the refectory furnished only with a table and several large washbowls. “There is fresh water in the pitchers,” he said.
He bowed again and left them, muttering something about ‘lords’ and ‘difficult’ beneath his breath.
Trifine snorted and went to stand at the single, small window. He leaned a shoulder against the wall and looked out upon an extensive herb and vegetable garden being pounded by the rain. “What are you up to, Fallard?”
“Before you retire, see to it Brother Milrath is given a cup of his favorite mild beverage in thanks for his nightly watch.”
An unholy grin curved over Trifine’s lips. “I take it the drink will have an extra ingredient added?”
They removed their mail and stripped, dropping their clothing to the floor. Fallard wiped the dust and sweat from his body ere ducking his head into a bowl to rinse his hair. He dumped the filthy water into the slop basin. He tipped the contents of a pitcher over his head and stood with eyes closed, enjoying the liquid skimming in cool refreshment over his skin. He threw back his head and like a great beast, shook the water from his hair.
When he answered Trifine’s query, his tone was sardonic. “What think you?”
A long, low chuckle rumbled from his First.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
“Think you she will take the bait?” Trifine was a dark shadow resting at ease against a stable post some yards away.
“I doubt it not.” Fallard took a bite from the apple he held. The time was long past the mid-watch. The constant play of lightning coruscating through the sky repeatedly illumined a landscape made bleak by the stark white brilliance. He watched in silence as another bolt streaked horizontally across the skies, the flash outlining the form that appeared on top of the abbey wall.
“Ho! Our little bird flies.”
The rain, flung hard in every direction in wind-driven torrents, buffeted the figure and for a moment, he feared she would fall. Darkness swallowed her.
A rapid succession of further bolts gave glimpses of her pell-mell flight toward Fallewydde. She slipped in a mud puddle and went down, but immediately rose, shook her hands, and kept going.
He took another bite from the apple. The sweet juice ran down his chin. He rubbed it off and wiped his hand on his braies. Without taking his eyes off the place where the woman raced into the night, he stretched out his arm to offer the rest of the fruit to Tonnerre, whose massive head hung over the wall beside him. For all his size, the stallion’s acceptance of the gift was dainty as that of any mare.
A whisper of sound alerted him that Trifine drew nigh. “She is gone, then?”
“Aye, running like a hare toward the Crossroads. Resourceful woman that she is, she will seek aid there, ’tis certain. She will find Ruald and return with him to Wulfsinraed. We will be waiting.”
“’Tis quite a risk you take, Fallard. She loves the man. She will confirm our intent to move on to London, but she may also tell him of her confession, or at least that you know somewhat of his plans.”
“Nay. Set at ease your thoughts. She may care for him, aye, but she loves her own skin more. He would kill her without a qualm if she told him aught of what she has done, and well she knows it. She cannot speak of her knowledge without revealing her own role, so whatever tale she spins, ’twill be to her own advantage, and thus also to ours.” He paused, and then said, “Ruald never knew of my original strategy
to take Wulfsinraed, and knows not now his scheme is the same. Nor will he learn until ’tis too late.”
“’Twas a good strategy, that one, almost as fine as the new one we chose. ’Twould have worked.”
“Aye. ’Tis too bad it will now fail.”
“Aye, too bad. When do we leave?”
“There is time, yet. I have a mind to sample the delights of the faire, and watch the light return to my lady’s eyes and the joy return to her heart when I purchase for her a book of her own choosing. We will set the time of our return for the day after the morrow.”
Trifine laughed softly. “That is what I feared. Roana will insist I part with too much of my coin to purchase some of that lovely fabric she coveted. I vow your decision will beggar me, Fallard.”
“Ah, but think you how happy our friend the gypsy patriarch will be.”
Trifine’s teeth flashed luminescent in the brilliant play of light from the sky. “Do we return the women here, or take them with us back to the burh?”
“Not here. I fear the treachery of Ruald. He holds no respect for the sanctity of the Church. We know not the location of his scouts. Should they learn of Ysane or Roana abiding in the abbey, Ruald might order an assault to take them. The monks are no fighters. They might wish to protect those left in their care, but they would stand no chance against a determined force. We will keep the women beneath our own hands.”
“’Tis a sound choice, methinks.”
“Get some sleep, Trifine. Soon, there will be little enough time for rest.”
“And you, my friend?”
“I will be not long behind.”
Trifine nodded and sought his lonely pallet in the hay.
***
Fallard insured the hue and cry the following morn over the disappearance of the slave was sufficiently wrathful none would suspect ’twas deliberately contrived. Poor Brother Milrath abased himself with such excess for his failure to remain awake and effectually discharge his task that Fallard, uncomfortable at his small deceit, privately took him before the abbot to reassure them no lasting harm was done.
The news that the day would be spent at the faire lightened the mood of the company despite the muddy mess through which the horses trudged. The previous night’s storm left debris strewn all over the road, but it had broken the drought and the miserable heat, leaving the morn brisk and fresh. It promised to be a perfect day for leisurely pursuits, and all agreed a whole day at the faire was far better than a mere evening, as they had at first thought to have.
Ere dispersing the company, Fallard ordered that everyone be back at the abbey by nightfall, for the following day would be long. Catching Freyja’s reins, he pulled the horse close and stared into his wife’s happy face. A doting smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. He knew he looked the fool, but he cared not. Her eyes when they rested upon him were limpid and adoring. That look was worth being seen as a besotted lackwit.
“Where shall we begin, my rose?”
Full-blown delight suffused her countenance. Peering at him from the corner of her eyes, she said, “Mayhap, I know of a peddler we might visit who offers rare purchase.”
The rumble of a chuckle broke from Fallard. “So I thought. Lead on then, my love. I am at your service.” He turned to Roul, who chattered nonstop with Fauques. “Roul, you are released until nooning. Find me, then. I shall have packages for you to secure. Have you coin?”
“Aye, Captain.” His grin nigh split his freckled face as he loped off with Fauques.
They rode slowly through the faire grounds, the hooves of their horses grinding the brown grass of the field into the wet ground. ’Twas still early and few people were out and about, but most of the tents and stalls were open. Merchants called to them and cried the merits of their wares. Ysane was focused on reaching one stall in particular.
She rose in the stirrups and waved as they approached. “Fair morn to you, Master Claudien. Fair morn!”
The old man turned from arranging his books in the shelves at the back of his stall. The skin of his crinkled face lit up as his longtime favorite customer ran to him, her hands stretched in greeting.
Claudien returned her grasp and leaned forward to place a kiss high on her cheek, nigh her temple. “My lady Ysane, ’tis very glad I am to see you again. I have missed you, fair one, these past twelvemonths.”
“As I have missed you, old friend. Master Claudien, greet you Thegn D’Auvrecher,” she said, drawing Fallard forward. “He is my husband, and the new lord of Wulfsinraed.”
Claudien took Fallard’s measure in a glance. “I have heard tell of the Norman warrior who walks like a dark ghost in the night. ’Tis said King William values him above many another knight, and that he is brave as Beowulf in battle and loyal beyond word—which, say I, is all well and to the good. But more to the point, my lady, is he kind to you?”
“Good master!” Ysane bit her lower lip, but her shoulders shook.
Fallard frowned and crossed his arms over his chest, but said naught.
“Nay, ‘master’ me not, lady. I am not yet deaf. My old ears heard more than I wished to know of your troubles with that lout Renouf. ’Tis a kind man you are deserving of, now.”
“Then fear not for me, Master Claudien, for I can have no complaints of my lord. He is a good man, and treats me well, and I would say such even were he nowhere nigh to hear.”
Smiling, Claudien turned and rummaged in a lidded wooden box. Finding what he sought, he pulled out a small object carefully wrapped in linen and handed it to Ysane.
“I have held this for you for the past four twelvemonths, in hopes one day you would return. I found it at Braehurst Priory and knew at once ’twould be to your liking.”
Ysane unwrapped the linen folds with care. Her intake of breath was sharp on sight of what lay within.
Fallard leaned to look over her shoulder. One eyebrow rose.
Ysane lifted wondering eyes to Claudien. “You saved this for me, all this time?”
Claudien smiled and glanced at Fallard, who gave the briefest of nods.
Ysane’s hands moved reverently over the small book she held, her fingertips tracing with feather touch the beautifully illumined silver letters on the fine, calf leather vellum of the cover. She gently turned to the first page and a long sigh spilled from her lips.
“What name has the book, Ysane?”
“’Tis the poem ‘Waldhere’, my lord. ’Tis about a legendary hero of my people whose name was Walter of Aquitaine. You know of him?”
“Aye, but not firsthand. I seem to remember something about a treasure and a great sword.”
“That is the one. Waldhere was a warrior. With his lady Hildegyth, he stole the treasure of the court of King Attila. There is much in the story of battle and glory, but also some of love. It ends well. ’Tis a favorite tale of the scops.” Her voice was hushed. “Never did methink to hold in my hands the written text.”
“Wrap it carefully, Master Claudien,” Fallard said. “We have far to travel and I would insure such a treasure arrives home in one piece.”
“Oh, Fallard!” Her eyes glowed with emerald fire as she handed the book back to Claudien, then she threw her arms around his neck. She covered his face with happy, laughing kisses. So enthusiastic was her gratitude he began to laugh as well. He caught her in his arms, lifting her high, and returned her affectionate gesture with rather more passion than she had expected.
The clearing of a throat gained their attention. Trifine and Roana stood nigh them. A large linen sack draped over Trifine’s shoulder. Both wore broad smiles.
“’Twould seem your lady found what she sought, as did mine,” the silver knight said.
“Had I known the effect such a gift would have, mayhap, I would have bought her a score of books when first I came.”
Roana took Ysane’s hand. “I would have you come with me, if our lords mind not. Domnall wishes for the advice of our husbands in the choice of a certain sword. ’Twould seem the weapon is a r
are find. Domnall is in raptures, but since you and I have other interests, ’twas my thought we would walk together for a time.”
Ysane glanced at him. “Fallard?”
He nodded. “But of course, my ladies, but I would have you stay together at all times, and leave not the confines of the faire.”
He handed a goodly portion of the coins in his leather purse to the bookseller.
“I would leave our horses tethered behind your stall, master, if ’twould be no trouble?”
“’Twould be my pleasure, my lord, and I thank you.”
“Master Claudien, my deepest gratitude for the book,” Ysane said.
“For you, lady, I would have held it till my time on this earth was ended—and then I would have gifted it to you at my passing.”
She laughed. “I would much rather have need to pay for it, my friend.”
***
The rest of the day flew by on the speeding wings that always seemed to accompany happy times. Ysane and Roana strolled through the faire, chatting about their husbands, stopping to exclaim in delight at the wares displayed in the many stalls, or, once or twice, with disdain at the poor quality of overpriced goods. They listened to the songs of the scops, clapped and sang with the musical troupes, and marveled over the skills of the acrobats, throwing the appropriate coins to each.
They passed a booth filled with novelties and items of odd nature.
Ysane gasped and pointed to something in the booth. “Look you, Roana!”
The vender moved close. He beamed at them and set himself to charm.
“Think you Fallard would find this of interest?” Ysane picked up a curving, highly polished Norse drinking horn. She twisted it around to view it from every angle. The cup’s silver rim was decorated with an ancient spiral design. Sunlight flashed from the multiple lines of silver ornamentation that swirled gracefully around the curve of the horn to end at the chased silver tip. Etched in silver along the cup’s front was a depiction of the fearsome hammer of Thor. “I have noticed Fallard has taken a particular interest in the collection of Viking weapons in the hall. Mayhap, he would enjoy drinking his ale from this cup, now and anon.”