by Mairi Norris
At the river’s narrow bank, she stopped. In the deep darkness beneath still heavily overcast skies, she could not see the water, but when she had forded it earlier with Ruald, his hand holding hers, ’twas but knee deep. Fear clutched at her heart. What if she fell? She could not swim. Nay! ’Twas not so bad. At worst, she would but get wet again. She could manage this. She had to. There was no other choice.
She thought to leap into low, sluggish waters. Instead, she stepped straight into a flood. She floundered in the rapid current that closed over her head. Shock and terror held her under for several stuttering heartbeats before she struggled to the surface, but some small corner of her mind screamed the truth.
The rains! The heavy weather to the west had triggered a significant rise in the water level and the cresting surge had arrived. What had earlier been a watercourse easily waded was now a torrent in deep flood, the current dangerously fast. She had seen it happen before, and knew of those who had died when caught by the power of the water.
She fought to stay afloat, but her gasping attempts to cry for help merely choked and gagged her as dirty water filled her open mouth and poured down her throat. In despair, she realized that even had she been able to scream there were none to hear, for no sentries would be walking the wall above her. They would yet be engaged with events in the courtyard. As her waterlogged cyrtel become entangled with something large, horribly soft and yielding being carried along with her in the flow, utter panic assailed her. She went under again. Instinct drove her to gasp for air, but she was dragged beneath the dark water before she could finish the breath.
She was but dimly conscious when her head broke the surface one final time. She thrust a stiffly splayed hand above the river’s surface, but was swept underneath and past the bridge.
She vanished in the night.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Vivid striations of violet and sienna vied with pulses of gold to push their way higher into the inky wash of pre-dawn sky, revealing a disintegrating cloud cover. The increasing radiance overwhelmed the dying torchlight to lay bare a muddy, heartbreaking scene that bespoke the end of a fierce conflict.
Men stood in the shambles of the courtyard, their mail stained with gore, their weapons dripping. Staring at the chaos, they huffed and panted as if they had run a league at top speed. Around them lay the dead and wounded. The cobbled stones were bathed in crimson muck. The stench permeated the air.
In the eerie quiet that oft marked the aftermath to the horrendous maelstrom of warfare, pitiful cries could be heard.
Trifine’s eyes searched through those both standing and fallen. He turned to Jehan. “Have you seen the captain? I lost track of him in the melee and have seen him not since the battle began.”
“Nay, nor Varin, either.” Jehan’s weary face, sporting a new slice on his chin, smeared from where he had tried to staunch the bleeding, reflected Trifine’s worry. “Yet, I see them not among those fallen. I cannot think where they may be. We should search. Mayhap, they lie somewhere we cannot see.”
“Aye. Make it so.”
Harold approached. The doughty old warrior looked exhausted, but still carried himself with pride. “Orders, sir? I see not Captain D’Auvrecher to ask.”
Trifine assured the second marshal they would find the captain and issued orders to see to the wounded and begin the clean up. He began his own fruitless search among the bodies, greatly fearing his friend and captain had fallen. If so, ’twould be but one more private grief, for another blow had already been struck him this day, one he would mourn for some time to come.
“Trifine!”
When Fallard called to him from the orchard, his relief was as immense as his surprise.
The orchard! What does he, there?
He called to Jehan, just coming from the gatehouse, and pointed to the captain. The Second’s eyes closed and his face was swamped with a grin.
Curiosity piqued, Trifine left Harold, Jehan and Domnall to deal with the mess in the courtyard and ran to meet his captain. He came to an abrupt halt some distance away, stunned to see Ysane step from behind Fallard, her clothing dirty, torn, and blood-stained. Tears streaked her face. She trotted to keep up.
Varin carried a third man in his arms. As they neared, Trifine recognized Ysane’s brother from the description given by Fallard.
But ’twas the sight of Ysane that inspired in Trifine terror such as he had never known, for Roana was not with them, and where Ysane went, his wife was usually close by. He understood not what he saw, for he had left them both safe in the forest.
“Where is Roana?” He roared the words and cared not if all heard his dread.
’Twas Ysane who answered to allay his alarm. “Nay, fear not, Trifine. Roana came not with me. She remains safe where you left her.”
“Which is also where you should be, my rose,” Fallard rumbled as they approached. “I assure you ere this day is out, there will be a reckoning with me as to why you are not.”
But the arm he curved around her shoulders tightened.
Trifine closed his eyes and sought to return the steel to knees gone wobbly.
She is safe.
He blew out a long, shaky breath and faced Fallard. “What happened? How is it Ysane is here?”
Varin, with Ysane following so close she nigh tripped him up, moved on to carry an unconscious Cynric into the hall where the noncombatants had huddled, awaiting the outcome of the hostilities. Fallard studied the battlefield, then, as they climbed to the hall and stepped inside, gave a rapid account of all that transpired.
A little stunned at the report—he had thought Ruald still safely trussed in the corridor with the other rebels—Trifine paused to look around at the orderly activity. Someone, likely Luilda, had organized the servants, who hurried to supply clean bandages and fresh water to those tending the wounded. Still others fetched food and ale. The healer was bent over a soldier with a badly bloodied arm.
Someone recognized Cynric, and called his name. Gasps went up among the burhfolc. Willing hands threw a thick pallet on an empty table. Varin laid his burden upon it.
Trifine’s brows rose as the giant stepped in front of Ysane and smiled at her down his crooked nose. “Try to fret not, lady. I have seen lesser men recover from worse wounds.”
He gently stroked her cheek with dirty, blood-crusted fingertips ere striding out the great doors.
Ysane had ceased weeping. She straightened her shoulders as she called for Ethelmar and Luilda. The healer finished binding the soldier’s wound and hurried to the table where Cynric lay.
Trifine found a dark, empty corner where he could savor his relief that his beloved wife was not among the dead or wounded, and where, if his tears for another loss should escape his control, he could let them fall, unmarked.
***
From atop the hall steps sometime later, Fallard surveyed the damage. Though the battle was won, ’twas not without great cost. The rebel force had seriously outnumbered the burh warriors. Despite the twin advantages of surprise and Fallard’s return with his troops, the battle had been close. When they realized they were cornered, the rebels fought with the single-minded ferocity of those who know they have naught to lose. Any who survived would be sent to William for judgment and this time, there would be no rescue. A quick death in battle was better.
Fallard caught sight of an undamaged Harold. “Second-Marshal!”
“Aye, Captain?”
“’Tis good to see you unharmed. We have people in the forest. They wait in a glade north of the road, some half a league west of the burh. Send a contingent to escort them home.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Trifine, in conversation with Ingram as Fallard gave his order, turned to him. “Fallard, Ingram reports that of our people, six and ten of the hearth companions and two of your knights, Wiscar and Deryk, are dead. Of the rebel force, only four and ten survive apart from those we captured in the corridor. There are no numbers yet for our wounded, but ’tis great. H
e thinks more than half our total force.”
“’Tis as I expected, though I had hoped the number of dead would be less,” Fallard admitted on a sigh. “But ’twas as fierce a battle as any I have seen, and it could have been worse. Still….”
“Aye. Nine and ten dead is a hard price to pay.”
Silence reigned for a moment, and then Fallard frowned. “Nine and ten? The count Ingram gave is one less than that.”
Trifine’s jaw clenched tight, and his expression was as grim as Fallard had ever seen. When his First spoke again, unashamed grief colored his voice. “Aye. He knows it not yet, but there was one other. Young Fauques lies among the fallen.”
Fallard’s eyes closed and he cursed. “How?”
“Protecting my back, as you once did at Sanguelac to protect Comte Riviere. Though I ordered him to stay clear of the fighting, I am told he darted in to thwart a blow I could not see coming. He took the thrust in my place. Roul saw him fall and ran to his side. Somehow, he dragged him clear. He died in Roul’s arms. Fallard, if not for that boy’s fearless heart, my body would be among those growing cold as we speak.”
“Where is Roul?”
“He hides—and weeps—beneath the healer’s table in the buttery.”
Fallard stood silent, watching the activity in the courtyard. That his thoughts flowed along the same path as his dear and longtime friend, he knew. They were warriors and battle their way of life, and suffering and death an accepted part of it. But betimes, that cold blade sliced more keenly and closely than at others.
“I will go to him,” Fallard said, his tone heavy.
“Nay. Allow me. Fauques was my responsibility, and Roul’s friend. Ours is a shared sorrow. We will grieve together, as men.”
***
Three days later, the body of Leda the slave was found some distance downstream, trapped in the tangled, muddy roots of a tree close to the riverbank. Two of the hall’s kitchen boys, sent to catch trout for sup, saw a scrap of wool floating upon the surface and went to investigate. As they drew nigh, they saw the tree’s roots were exposed by the heavy wash of the current as it ate away at the verge, revealing their sad burden.
They buried her in the mass grave beyond the fields opposite the lake, where lay the rest of the rebel dead.
The bundle she had dropped was recovered shortly after and the priceless Hnefatafl set returned to its place in the hall, but ’twas much longer before Lady Hildeth, during one of her ‘aware’ periods, remembered to tell Ysane about the old stair inside the southeast tower. Thus was the mystery explained of how Leda had moved about the burh, with no one the wiser as to her purpose.
***
Diffused by a fine, lazily rolling mist, the light of early morn fell on Fallard’s torso where he stood by the open window embrasure. The moisture flowed into the bower to caress his skin with gossamer fingers, reminding him of the even more delicate touch of his wife. He thought of the life-affirming pleasure she had offered him this night, such as never before had been his, and shuddered with the thought of it. But the spasm that rolled through him had as much to do with remembrance of how close he had come to losing her as with thoughts of the fiery zeal of their loving.
The burh had been unnaturally quiet the past two days as his people sought to deal with the aftermath of the carnage. The gore was washed from the stones of the courtyard, the wounded made as comfortable as possible, and the dead readied for burial. The latter number had increased by one during that first afternoon when another burh defender died of his wounds, bringing to a score the total number of burh dead. The hall and the village were again in mourning, for some who died had families. Fallard and Ysane visited them all, assuring widows and orphans of continued provision.
So many rebels lay dead the digging of the mass grave was still not complete, for of necessity its size was very great. Fallard thought ’twould be finished come noontide on the morrow. In the initial heat of his wrath at the man, he had ordered Ruald’s body buried in the anonymous grave with the rest of the enemy dead, but at the last moment decided against it. Instead, he ordered the body washed and wrapped for transport. Since there had, as yet, been no time to send home the body of Renouf, as he had promised Ysane, the brothers would be loaded together into a cart and returned to their family. Despite his own burning anger at the rebel leader for forcing the battle for reasons not of honor, but for the sake of his own greed, Fallard recognized that mayhap, there were those in the Sebfeld home who cared for them. If not, at very least they would know their fate and bury them where they belonged.
But not until this night had Fallard had chance to deal with his own mystery.
By what awful misfortune was Ysane in that corridor with Ruald?
Following a decidedly somber sup, most of the hall’s folk retired early. As soon as he could decently do so, he had pulled his wife from Cynric’s side and led her to their bower, insisting her brother could be left to the care of others for a time, for he needed her just as badly. He bolted the door, stripped them both without a word and carried her to their bed, where he yielded to the storm that had roiled within him since the moment he recognized her in the corridor, Ruald’s langseax at her throat. In loving her with a nigh frenzied passion, he had at last been able to release the terrible fear and embrace the crushing relief that she and his child still lived, that she lay warm and safe and sated in his arms.
She slept now, curled beneath the bedclothes in sweet repose. But his time of waiting for answers was over. He would know, and he would know now, what had brought her there. Since her quickening, she found waking difficult, and needed her rest, but he would wait not. ’Twould be too easy for the needs of the day to interrupt ere all that needed saying could be said.
He left the window open and clothed himself in a clean tunic. From Ysane’s trunk, he withdrew a nightdress of thickly woven linen and threw it across the foot of the bed. He wanted no distractions hindering their discussion. He picked up a taper, thrust it into what was left of the live coals in the brazier and went around the room, lighting candles. Then he poured a cup of wine for himself and one of mead for his wife.
“Ysane, wake up. Come, my white rose, open your eyes. We must talk.” With gentle hand, he pushed her hair off her face as her eyes fluttered open.
“Fallard? What…?”
Pulling aside the bedcovers, he helped her to sit up and pull the voluminous nightdress over her head. He carried her to the chair beside the brazier and wrapped a fur around her knees, making sure to protect her bare feet from the chill of the floor.
She blinked at him, her mind still clouded, but accepted the mead he thrust into her hands. She stared at the cup as if wondering what it was. “Fallard, what do we do?”
“We are going to talk, my love.”
“Talk?” She sounded grumpy. “But, ’tis the middle of the night. Can this wait not till the morn?”
“’Tis already morn, and nay, the sooner we begin, the sooner you may return to your repose. So, wife, you will tell me now, and leave out naught, of how you came to be in the corridor that eve, when I had thought you safe where I left you in the wood.”
Ysane sighed and sipped her mead, as if trying to collect thoughts that flittered away even as she reached for them. “’Twas because of the nightmare.”
“A nightmare. You had a dream, and this led you to risk your life and that of our child to leave the safety of the forest? Tell me of it.”
Briefly, she described the moment she had awakened to the certainty he was in mortal danger and only she could prevent his death. She held naught back, not her fear for him, or for Cynric, or even her decision that his life must come before that of herself and their child.
“I could bear not the thought of your death, Fallard, for I love you beyond the words to tell. How it happened so quickly I know not, but you have become my life…and as I have said, ’twas not only you I sought to protect, but my brother. I am certain, had I not been in the corridor, and Cynric had come upon y
ou fighting with Ruald, he would have done exactly as my dream foretold, for Ruald would not have spoken the words that opened Cynric’s eyes and he would have struck to kill you. I would have lost not only you, the love of my heart and the light of my soul, but also my brother, for well we know now what fate Ruald meant for us all. Cynric’s intent was hindered by my presence. It gave him time to stop, to think, to hear Ruald taunt you with the truth of his plans. In the end, his actions saved both our lives, instead of ending yours.”
“But you could have known naught of how events would play out when you made your decision.”
“I said not the choice was easy. Many hours passed while I searched my heart and my thoughts ere I determined to act. I sensed every moment’s delay might mean I would be too late. But if mayhap, my choice was wrong, I cared not then, and still care not, for ’tis truth I would do the same again.”
Fallard knelt before her. He took her hands and watched the reflection of candlelight in her eyes. “Ah, Ysane, my sweet rose. Whether ’twas right or wrong, foolish or wise, I also know not. Yet, ’tis done now and we may be grateful all occurred in our favor. For that reason, and because there is truth in your words, I refrain from punishing you for disobeying my order.
“But know you this. When Ruald turned with you in his hands and I saw the knife at your throat, I was made helpless as a babe. A vision filled my thoughts of all the barren, lonely, meaningless twelvemonths that would define my life without you, should Ruald’s hand move but a little. Countless battles have I fought with cold will and relentless intent, never fearing for my life, for once hostilities were enjoined there was naught but the need to fight and keep fighting until my enemy was defeated or I lay dead.