by Mairi Norris
“Ysane?”
Her eyes flew wide, but she saw naught but the drunken rage on Renouf’s face as he brutally killed Angelet, and the amusement in Ruald’s eyes as he signaled her own execution. She jerked her hands from his and rose to walk to the window. She held her back straight, her shoulders rigid. She kept herself in check by but the barest restraint.
Her fingertips traced the crooked line of a crack in the stone. “Methinks this is hardly the time for a jest of such little humor, Cynric,” she chided even as she trembled. “I fear your wound has somehow affected your mind.”
She turned in time to see pity flash in the moss green of his eyes. In that instant, she knew ’twas no jest, but she could accept not his words.
Sorrow twisted her brother’s features. “Aye, ’tis a jest indeed, but a jest of fate, and one of especial cruelty to you, little one. You must accept it.”
“Accept it?” Her voice was ragged with pain and accusation. “Nay. ’Tis not possible, this monstrous thing you say. Wish you truly I should believe this…this abomination? You lie. I know not why, but you lie. Those men were monsters. Evil and cruel they were, depraved beyond words to tell. You are naught like them, naught! Why would you say such a thing? How can you be so unkind as to hurt me so? Take it back, Cynric! I believe this not! Take it back!”
Her voice rose on the words until she screamed them. Never had she felt so battered, so betrayed, not even when Renouf smashed her body with his fists or Ruald held a knife at her throat. The storm that encompassed her stole her thoughts and left her paralyzed, unable to think or fight, only to endure.
***
Fallard opened the door to his wife’s hysterics and stepped inside the bower. His eyes flew first to her, then to Cynric. His brother-by-law looked mortally stricken as he fought to free himself of the bedcovers. His feet hit the floor and he tried to stand.
Fallard shook his head. Cynric fell back upon the mattress and closed his eyes.
Fallard approached his wife, but when he tried to take her into his arms, she struck at him, blindly, bucking violently against his hold. He feared she would hurt herself or the babe, so he wrapped arms and legs about her like a blanket, her arms trapped against his chest. She wept.
He speared Cynric with his glance, but his brother-by-law lay still upon the bed, his face so white that the jagged scar nigh disappeared. His lips were pinched in a tight, straight line. His features strained, he opened his eyes to stare at his sister. Pain darkened the emerald of his gaze. He met Fallard’s look, and all emotion fled his countenance. He painfully pushed himself straight. His voice was dead. “I never thought she would reject me, or I would never have agreed to tell her. I will leave in the morn. You need have no fear I will return.”
Fallard shook his head. “Nay, Cynric.” There was compassion but no compromise in his tone. “I will allow it not. You knew this would come as a great shock, and the babe she carries renders her susceptible to a humor more bitter than normal. You must give her time to deal with this in her own way. She will come to terms with the knowledge, then she will come to you, and you will deal with it. You will work it out. Neither of you will run from this. I will have it no other way.”
He watched relief flood the other man’s face even as he grimaced. “So be it.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Three days later, Ysane sat again at Cynric’s bedside. She still felt off balance, numbed from his revelation, unable to understand how both father and brother could have kept something so important, so terrible from her for so long. She stared at her lap, and picked at the folds of her cyrce, thinking how lovely was the lavender of the soft linen and how delicate the embroidery of silver thread. Cynric caught her hands to still their agitated movement.
She looked at him. “How? How can it be true?”
Cynric sighed. “’Tis not an easy story to tell, deorling, and ’tis a sad one in part, though ’tis not a long one. I knew not all of it myself until the day when I spoke with Fallard. Our father recounted the whole tale to him ere his death.”
Her eyes went wide.
“Aye. Your husband told of his part in this story, even of his own accountability in the taking of our father to Normandy. ’Twould seem our father spoke of many things to Fallard, including much that even I never knew. Mayhap, he wished to lay aside what had become a heavy burden, or he simply hoped the truth would one day find its way to us both.
“Long ago, when our father was very young, he journeyed with his father to be presented at the new court of Edward. There he met a beautiful girl, the daughter of a rich and powerful thegn. They fell in love. Our father begged for the girl’s hand, for they both wished to wed, but though our father was of excellent lineage and prospect, her father had already long betrothed her to another of his own choosing. That marriage was but a few months away, and he would not be swayed to change his mind.
“The lovers continued to meet in secret, against the wishes of both their fathers. In due time, as oft happens in such affairs, their love bore fruit.”
Cynric grew quiet and his expression thoughtful, as if he sought an easier way to recount what must still be said. “The girl came in terror with news of her condition to our father. She begged him to flee, for though her father loved her, he was a man of hard countenance, and she feared should he learn the truth he would kill our father for despoiling her. Our father sought to persuade her to flee with him, but she was very young, and greatly affrighted, and would not. She persuaded her mother to return with her to their hall, and she hid herself away. Our father never saw her again.”
“I know not all that occurred then, for our father was able to learn of but a few things. That girl, my mother, went on to marry the man of her father’s choosing, but she told no one she and our father had been lovers, nor that she was with child. On their wedding night, when the truth was learned, her husband forced her to tell all.
“’Twas said that only her husband’s fear of the wrath of her father held his hand from killing her, for she had cuckolded him and his pride was greatly damaged. Aye, fear, and the great dowry she brought to the marriage. Her husband’s family was of high noble lineage, but had fallen on hard times and badly needed the dower.
“Also, the husband, who later became the father of Renouf and Ruald, coveted his own heirs of her blood, so he withheld his wrath and renounced her not. But he sent my mother into seclusion so none but he, a priest and a nurse sworn to silence ever saw her until after I, her first babe, was born.
“I was brought to the hall many seven-days ere my mother was allowed to return. ’Twas told to all I was the son of a baker woman from another burh, and that she died giving me life. My father was said to be one of her lord’s hearth companions, a man with green eyes who had recently died in battle. I lived at my stepfather’s hearth for nigh to four twelvemonths, though he claimed me never. During that time, Renouf, and then Ruald were born of my mother and her husband, but Ruald’s birth ended my mother’s life. As she lay dying, she begged her husband to send me to our father.
“Her husband thought on her words and found them wise. He feared the truth might one day be learned, and he would risk no trouble between his own two sons and the son of one not of his loins. Thus, at the age of four summers, I was brought to Wulfsinraed. You know the rest of the tale.”
For a long time Ysane sat, thinking of all she had been told. Cynric lay with his eyes closed, unmoving. She thought he slept. She cast a hard look his way. Aye, now she knew to look for it, she could see the resemblance in him to Renouf, though in truth, to her eyes he bore more the look of Ruald. Gratitude filled her heart that the Sebfeld likeness was of far less notice than his look of a Wulfsingas progeny. ’Twas no wonder she had never seen it. Given time, she could also learn to ignore it.
Trying to make no sound, she rose and paced. Her shock and horror was profound upon learning the brother she had trusted and loved so deeply, had also been brother to the two men who had so brutally used and hurt her.
The pain had lashed all the deeper, knowing Cynric had chosen to give his loyalty to them and left her alone to bear their cruelty. Though ’twas true, she did believe he knew not of their behavior toward her. Aye, they were ever sly and deceitful. As they had also deceived many others, while with Cynric they cleverly hid their true natures, for they had need of him.
She turned in her pacing to find his eyes upon her. She stopped. “’Twas true what you said, that your foolishness in regard to your brothers was not unwarranted. You never knew your mother, and you were spurned and rejected, as you saw it, by your father. You were lonely, and hurting. Though you knew it not, you hungered for the affection and approval of family. Now that I think on it, I understand why you turned to your brothers when they asked your help to fight the Norman invasion. They hurt me, Cynric, but you also were used and betrayed, your loyalty twisted to evil use. I know you. ’Twas never your intent to cause me harm. You would not have left me, had you known the use they would make of me.”
“I would have killed them had I known, Ysane.”
She turned away, clasping her hands together over the slight swell of her belly. “My heart is torn in pity by the pain and grief your mother endured. Our father too, knew grief at their forced parting, though I believe he eventually came to love my mother.” She looked at him over her shoulder. “What was your mother’s name? How was she called?”
“She was called Otillia.”
“Otillia. ’Tis a lovely name.”
“Fallard said our father told him she was the loveliest of all the maidens at court, fair and sweet, with a laugh as gentle and fresh as the falling rain. He never held it against her that she ran from him to marry her father’s man. He knew of her fear for him. Her death, when he learned of it, left him bereft. Methinks that is why, even after so long a time, I find it hard to make sense of his rejection. For though I was born of bastardy, yet was I the firstborn, not only of his loins, but of his love.”
“Methinks we will never know his reasons, Cynric. But mayhap, you will one day learn something from our Ieldramodor that will help you accept, if not understand.”
“Ysane.”
She turned to face him.
“Please say I am forgiven, little one. If I am ever, at long last to find peace, I must hear it from you that you hold naught of this against me.”
She frowned and pursed her lips. “You said our father absolutely forbade you to speak to me of what you knew?”
“Aye.”
“You gave him your word you would keep silent?”
“Aye.”
“You liked it not, but were obedient to our father as a son should be, and kept your honor in this matter?”
“Aye.” Curiosity now limned the word.
“Much of it you knew not yourself, until two days before yester?”
“Aye.”
“And after our father died I saw you not, except once at a distance, and twice in recent days, when the time would not have been right to speak of it?”
“A…y…e?” He drew out the word to the point of a question.
“So when exactly, would you have told me of all this, ere now?”
He blinked. A grin, slow and roguish returned the light to his moss green eyes.
She crossed the room to lean over him and kiss his cheek. “’Twould seem, my deorling brother, there is little to forgive, and for what little that may be, I do.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
London
1078 - The Month of Hunting With Falcons - Fall
The summer’s heat gave way to a glorious autumn. The journey to London to meet with King William was made in peace, the trek accomplished in easy stages to accommodate Ysane’s blossoming pregnancy. Fallard wrote to request she be allowed to remain at Wulfsinraed, but the king’s response was inflexible. Fallard debated the logic, or mayhap, idiocy of running his sovereign through if the man’s obstinacy resulted in harm to her or his babe.
As per his demand in the pact they made, Cynric traveled with them.
Fallard had expected to be in the city but a short time, only long enough for the king to hear his report and for Ysane to enjoy the sights and some shopping. But William surprised him. He made them wait a full three days before granting Fallard’s request for a private audience.
’Twas never a good thing when the king made one of his ‘favorites’ wait, especially when they came at his command.
At least Ysane disappointed him not. A vision in a russet silk cyrtel, syrce of gold velvet embroidered with gold thread, and a veil of sheerest gold with an elaborate headdress Queen Matilda would not spurn, she outshone the stars.
That she was also terrified was no surprise, but she gamely accompanied him to the palace, head held high. His own apprehension was keen as they paused at the entrance to the reception hall. Fallard took in the space at a glance. It looked little different from his last visit, stark and cold except for the dais where the king and his two highest councilors held court. Some measure of comfort surrounded William there, with thick carpet underfoot, braziers roaring and cushioned seating. Luminous tapestries covered the bare stone walls and guards displayed prominent weaponry. Otherwise, the long room was so empty it echoed, but William liked it unwelcoming. He was not a man given to great patience and did not encourage overlong formal dialogue with his barons.
“Fallard D’Auvrecher, Baron of Wulfsinraed, and his wife, the Lady Ysane.” The attendant announced their arrival in a sing-song cadence.
Fallard felt Ysane’s fingers tremble on his arm. He threw her a bracing smile. “Courage, my rose. He will not eat us.”
At the least, ’tis my hope he will not.
Followed by Cynric and Jehan, who had charge of their escort from the hall, Fallard paced forward. But as they approached the dais, it required no great insight to note the king was in a dark and foul humor.
What has William in such a fit of pique? Mayhap, I should not have requested Cynric be made under-steward of Romleygh Hall, despite Ysane’s insistence.
The king’s heavy frame was sprawled in the massive carved and gilded chair that served as his throne. Fallard had never known another man who could project both majesty and intimidation in an otherwise slothful posture. William watched them advance. Fallard fought to repress a shudder. Beneath the thinning gray hair that rimmed his pate, the king’s eyes were narrowed, his countenance grim.
Fallard spared a quick glance for his wife, who was pale as mist and looked as if she might swoon. He slid his arm from beneath her icy fingers to take her hand in a firm grip and squeeze gently. She gasped, but never took her eyes off the king. Together, they made obeisance. Fallard kept his head bowed as he waited for William’s acknowledgement.
“If I rightly recall, Fallard, I ordered your presence before me…let me think.” William paused as if considering for a moment, than continued in his rumbling voice. “Oh, aye. ’Twas more than two months past. Has the distance between my hall and Wulfsinraed grown so lengthy since then, that you could make your way here no sooner?”
Fallard felt perspiration pop out on his forehead despite the cool of the hall, but he would allow none to mark the sudden spike of tension that dried his mouth. He knew better than to back down from the challenge in William’s deceptively aggrieved statement. The king demanded backbone in his knights—to a point.
Faith! He is verily in a temper.
“I am certain my liege remembers his last orders to his vassal,” Fallard replied. He kept his tone bland. “I came as quickly as was possible, given it required many seven-days to round up the stragglers from the rebel force, bury the dead, heal the wounded, and repair the damage from the battle that rid my liege’s land of those who would dispute his God-given right to reign.”
It cannot hurt to remind him of my service to him…and its cost.
William’s gaze left Fallard and moved to a point behind him. “All of those who dispute my reign?”
Fallard’s tension racheted several notes higher.
“Jehan, I know,” William said. “But who is this other fine youth you bring to my hall, Fallard?”
Fallard gestured to Cynric to step forward. He placed his hand on his brother-by-law’s shoulder and squeezed a warning. “My liege, I would make known Cynric Wulfsingas, brother of my wife and son of Kenrick Wulfsingas, whose skill at eschecs I am certain my liege calls to mind with a measure of fondness.”
At the speaking of the names, William abruptly sat straight and leaned forward. His gaze, no longer narrowed but wide and keen, speared Cynric with a piercing glare in which speculation was rampant for all to see.
His cocked his head. “Rumor has come to me in recent days of a fearless leader of the insurrectionists who attacked my lands under the orders of Ruald of Sebfeld. ’Tis said this man, though he fought masked by a hood, had eyes the color of the green moss that grows in the forest.”
Fallard felt turned to stone. Beneath his hand, Cynric’s muscles tensed. Time seemed to slow and stop. All his surroundings fell away until naught was left but the calculation in William’s eyes. He was enmeshed in an invisible duel to which only he and his sovereign were privy. Once before had he dared such a confrontation. That instance too, had been in defense of a Wulfsingas. He had won that round, but now…?
Does he know, or merely suspect Cynric’s former activities? Of a certainty, Cynric seems somehow known to him, and not in respect of my request regarding Romleygh Hall. Mayhap, it is but that he is son to Kenrick, whom William remembers well.
“’Tis also said,” William continued, his raspy voice menacing, “this nameless leader, unlike others among the rebels, showed mercy to women and children and to those who laid down their weapons. Still, he remains guilty of treason against his king. What say you to this, Cynric, son of Kenrick Wulfsingas?”