by Mairi Norris
Answer with care, Cynric!
The tenor of Cynric’s voice was calm and unruffled. “That such a foolish man is likely dead, my liege.”
A strange expression passed over the king’s face.
Fallard found his voice. Praying the alarm pulsing through him did not show, he said, “My liege, I, myself, killed a rebel with green eyes, an exceptional fighter, during the battle at Wulfsinraed. He lies buried with the others who died.” He paused. “May I remind my liege, that by the actions of Cynric Wulfsingas was the escape of Ruald of Sebfeld prevented, which drew forth from my liege a strong approbation. At the same time, Cynric also saved the life of my wife, but nigh lost his own in the doing. He was sore wounded, and his recovery has but recently progressed sufficiently to enable him to make the journey here.”
At his words, William bent his head and regarded him from beneath unruly brows. He said naught.
Moments passed. Somewhere outside, a woman laughed, the sound incongruous in the dangerous silence. Even as Fallard began to think they were all well and truly lost, that he had inadvertently pushed his sovereign too far, William seemed to come to a decision. He sat back as abruptly as he had risen and murmured something Fallard did not hear.
His gaze snapped to Ysane. “Ah, aye, the lovely rose of Wulfsinraed.” His expression softened and lightened a fraction as he favored her with his fierce regard. Appreciation blazed now in his eyes, for he was a man with an eye for feminine comeliness. “Your brother saved your life, eh? Well and good. A man should be willing to die to protect his sister.”
From the corner of his eye, Fallard saw Ysane nod. She was paler than before and he doubted she was capable of speech. He breathed again. Barely. Ysane’s beauty and grace could fail not to charm his sovereign and divert his thoughts, whatever they were, from Cynric.
I hope.
He slipped an arm about her thickening waist and pulled her close to his side, and not a moment too soon, for she sagged into his embrace. His little rose was utterly terrified of her monarch and feared for all their lives, but especially for Cynric.
The king abruptly laughed. “Well and good! Look at me, woman!”
Fallard groaned inwardly. “Ysane, stand straight,” he whispered. “Meet his gaze with courage. He will respect it. He merely wishes to test your mettle. Show him you are the daughter of Eorl Kenrick Wulfsingas!”
His wife licked dry lips, straightened her backbone and raised her gaze. Her voice was ragged, but clear as she dipped her head in a small obeisance. “’Tis my great pleasure to make the acquaintance of my liege, and do him honor.”
William smiled. His voice was very soft. “And you lie badly, my lady, at least about the pleasure. But come, I would have from your own sweet lips the truth. Look at me, and state your oath you had no part in the insurrection against your lawful sovereign.”
“My liege, I never once conspired against you, nor played I any part in the insurrection. I have never, by word or deed, sought your downfall nor wished you harm. I am but a woman, but ’tis my thought and belief my people must seek to live in harmony with yours, that we may learn much of each other and meld the best of our divergent cultures to create a world of peace for us all.”
Fallard’s pride soared until he thought it might float him to the ceiling. Behind him, he heard Cynric’s smothered snort and Jehan’s whispered, “Well said, my lady!”
For the first time, the darkness in William’s face gave way to beaming approval. “If I could but persuade my councilors, my friends and my enemies to such a belief, ours would indeed become a world of peace. I am gratified to hear your words, and more pleased still to see in your eyes that you mean them. Have no fear, you will leave my presence in one piece this day, as will those you love.”
He turned again to Fallard. “What is this about Romleygh Hall? I had thought to place Roland Vesli as steward there. Give me reason why my choice should be another Saxon, Cynric, son of Kenrick instead.”
“Nay, my liege, I asked not that Cynric be steward, but under-steward in service to your choice of lord, did that lord approve.”
Patiently, Fallard repeated Cynric’s timely and invaluable aid in quelling the insurrection. But then he added two final caveats, aware that the first would create an instant bond between sovereign and formerly rebellious vassal, and that the second would hasten the king’s decision.
“Of course, my liege, all men know Cynric is but the natural son of his father, which explains the original designation of Kennard, second son, as Kenrick’s heir. Yet, none at Wulfsinraed hold his birth against him, for he has shown himself a master hunter with the longbow, a master carver and a master woodsman. He is well tutored in the skills of an under-steward”—at which untruth he did not blink—”and is of a temper far less prone to nettle than the hall’s current steward.”
Whatever remaining shreds of annoyance the king might have harbored seemed to disintegrate. “A natural son, you say? Hmmm…not so different from myself, it seems. Mayhap, this Cynric may be a better choice than Vesli, despite he is Saxon and I vowed to give no further credence to their use as stewards. I must think on this.”
He turned to his councilors and began a whispered consultation.
Fallard drew them all back to give the king privacy. He exhaled, long and slow. Cynric as steward! Mayhap, his distraction had worked. As it happened, the haughty Lord Estienne and Lady Eufemma of Romleygh Hall had recently been recalled to France. The baron and his wife had become so vocal against William and so demanding that Wulfsinraed be taken from Fallard and turned over to them, that William lost patience. His temper ignited, he dispatched a request to King Philip to have the couple removed from England, stating that otherwise he would be forced to arrest them for treason. The French king, considering the baron a friend and wishing also to preserve the peace, ordered the couple to return home. They were due to depart within the month, taking their personal under-steward with them.
Romleygh Hall, at but a half-day’s ride away, was the closest of all the fiefs of Wulfsinraed. When news of the need for an under-steward reached Fallard, he told Ysane, who immediately suggested Cynric for the position, arguing they could teach him anything he needed to know.
She worried for him. As her brother healed, he became more and more restless. Though he had yielded lordship of Wulfsinraed to Fallard, Ysane believed he would never truly feel at home there. The position at Romleygh seemed a godsend. Of course, his acceptance would depend on the new lord, but if William approved, ’twas likely the new steward would agree.
Fallard glanced at Ysane, carefully banking his elation. William was no fool and well knew he was being played. But the idea of gifting the rich hall of Romleygh and the title that went with it to another ‘natural son’ like himself, while snubbing the supercilious and treacherous Lord Estienne, would proffer him a profound sense of complacent delight. Still, he might yet choose another, but Cynric was in front of him now, and the temptation to settle the matter immediately would be strong.
Ysane smiled, looking rather better with color back in her cheeks. “Whatever happens, ’twill be for the best. We will find a place for Cynric worthy of his skills and station.”
“Aye, that we will, though he will always be welcome at Wulfsinraed. But look now. Methinks William has made his decision, and if his countenance is aught to go by, he has decided to look with favor upon my request. But will it be steward, or under-steward? Either way, ’tis a high standing, and Roland Vesli is a good man. He will easily command Cynric’s loyalty. I very much favor this.”
William stood. “Lord D’Auvrecher and Cynric Wulfsingas, come forward.”
Fallard moved into step with his brother-by-law who walked, head high, to stand before the king. The two took the other’s measure.
William nodded as if satisfied. “I will now accept your oath of fealty, Cynric Wulfsingas. Kneel!”
Cynric knelt and repeated the words as prompted by the councilor.
Fallard’s unease flar
ed again at the recital, for the king, in subtle warning, directed that five words in the oath—’future’, ‘faithful’, ‘never’ and ‘without deceit’—be emphasized as they were spoken for Cynric to repeat.
But Cynric never faltered. “I promise on my faith that I will in the future be faithful to my lord the king, never cause him harm, and will observe my homage to him completely, against all persons in good faith and without deceit.”
In a loud voice, William said, “Arise Cynric, son of Kenrick Wulfsingas. This day I name you under-steward of Romleygh Hall, in service to my vassal, Roland Vesli, subject to his approval, and grant to you all rights, privileges and authority thereof, in my name. You are charged to serve your lord as you would serve me.”
But then he bent nigh, and spoke so that none but Fallard and the councilor heard his next words. “The past is set aside, the future unwritten. Serve me well and faithfully, Cynric, and I may forgive your…father’s…trespass.”
His hard gaze then moved to rest upon Fallard and his voice was stern. “I release Cynric Wulfsingas to your service, Lord D’Auvrecher, until the day my vassal, Lord Vesli, has need of him at Romleygh. Give me not reason to regret my decision this day to appoint a Saxon as under-steward to that hall.”
Ice slithered from vertebra to vertebra down Fallard’s spine. He swallowed and inclined his head to his sovereign. “So it shall be, my liege.”
William sat, and sprawled once again in his chair. He glanced at Ysane. “I will want all the particulars when my newest vassal is born, Fallard. Mayhap, I know of an old man who would be exceedingly pleased to become godfather to that child. Think you accommodations might be made to that end?”
Fallard relaxed. William would make an exacting, but magnanimous benefactor to his son—or daughter, or sons and daughters—whichever the case. For the first time since arriving at the palace, he smiled with true pleasure. “’Twould be a great honor, my liege. I, and my wife, will make it so.”
“Good, good. Then I look forward to our next meeting.”
The audience was over.
Fallard felt as drained as if he had fought a mighty battle with a dragon and won, but had barely escaped being flamed to ash by its breath. He hustled them all out of the king’s presence as quickly as court etiquette allowed, letting not his guard relax until they were back at the inn, for his sovereign’s uncertain temper was not a thing with which even his favorites deigned to trifle.
Aye, it had been close there, for a while. It could have gone very badly for them all, for he was now certain William guessed somewhat of Cynric’s past, though he could know not all or be certain of what he guessed, or both Fallard and his brother-by-law would now be languishing in the least comfortable quarters of the king’s keeping.
He roused everyone early and whisked them from London at first light the next morn, grateful to escape with head and all limbs intact, but he breathed easy only when they were many leagues out of the city.
EPILOG I
Blackbridge Manor, northeast of London
1082 - The Month of Reaping - Summer
“Do you not find Gemma a woman worthy of brotherly affection, Fallard?” Ysane leaned to whisper in his ear. “Is she not kind, and loving and cheerful, a devoted wife and mother? Arnulf wed her the twelvemonth ere the Nor…ere William came. His father is Norman, his mother Saxon. Arnulf was born in this land, though his family returned to Normandy some twelvemonths ago. He is a man sworn to William, as was his father.”
“I am aware,” Fallard said. “’Tis why William left him as steward of Blackbridge.”
“Aye, that is so. He is a good man, though as you see, somewhat grim at times, and he rarely smiles. But he cares deeply for my sister, and provides well for her and the children. ’Tis my belief they do very well together. Gemma is opposite to Arnulf, much merrier. It pleases me she gives you cause to laugh with her teasing.”
As Ysane turned to answer some comment of her sister, Fallard reclined on one elbow, watching as plodding oxen pulled a heavy cart across the blackened timbers of the bridge. Gemma had just explained those timbers were how the moated manor house of Blackbridge got its name. At the time of its construction, the bridge was thickly coated with pitch to render it easily set ablaze in defense of the house. Nigh a hundred twelvemonths later, those huge, heavy timbers were simply black with age.
His lazy gaze swept across the grasses that fronted the manor. Soft, green, and sweet-smelling they were, and the blankets he and the family were using to enjoy their noontide meal were spread upon them. A great elm sheltered them from the heat of the sun.
His eyes lifted to stonewalled pastures, beyond which was unfurled a pleasant vista that extended farther than the eye could see. Blackbridge was a vast and prosperous demesne, far larger than Wulfsinraed, situated in the midst of water meadows and rolling green pasturelands where huge flocks of sheep roamed—and all of it was his. In all his lands and fiefs together, with all their wealth of crops and herds, Fallard was lord of many hundreds of vassals, knights, men-at-arms, servants and slaves.
Yet, the value of all of it together was as naught to him when compared with the woman who sat beside him, a new babe growing in her womb, and the two children of three and a half summers who tore across the grass, screaming with laughter, fleeing their cousin Sigan. Fleeing aye, but Evart, a true son of his father, was not one to run from aught for long. He suddenly stopped and whirled to face his ‘enemy’.
The corners of Fallard’s eyes crinkled. Galloping along behind Evart was his daughter Evarette, the younger twin, who also came to an abrupt halt to see what her brother would do. Jabbing aloft his wooden sword, carved with runes and ancient patterns by his uncle Cynric, Evart screamed a challenge to Sigan. Evarette echoed the cry, then hopped up and down in sheer delight when Sigan grimaced, dropped his sword and ran in mock terror.
Fallard could not prevent the prideful grin that split his face when the twins came running to tell him of Evart’s great victory. The children’s words were uttered in the strange dichotomy of Saxon English and Norman French that Arnulf and Gemma’s children spoke, for Ysane insisted they be taught to value the heritage of both parents. ’Twas her belief if ever there was to be true peace in this land, its disparate peoples must learn to live together. After the nigh disaster with Cynric and the insurrectionists, she intended to do her part, in whatever small way she could, to make that happen.
Evart narrowly missed blundering against Fallard’s shoulder with his short, blunt sword. He threw his small arms around his father’s neck and hugged with all his might. “Papa, papa, I won! Sigan ran away. I am a great warrior!”
“Aye, that you are.”
He held his son against his chest with one hand as Evarette jumped upon him from the other side, demanding equal attention. She was passing through a stage where she imitated nigh all her adored older brother did or said. As if he had not already loudly and clearly declared it, she yelled, in a mispronunciation that made Fallard’s lips twitch, “Evart is a worrier.”
“Let go, papa!” Evart wiggled and pushed to be set loose. Fallard squeezed and tickled him until he roared with laughter.
“Me, too, papa!” Not to be outdone, Evarette demanded her share. Fallard obliged and soon both children were rolling on the ground, their voices raised in mirth.
“Children! Calm down, please. I cannot hear myself think,” Ysane said, but she eyed Fallard.
Evart postured in front of his parents with feet apart, hands fisted on his hips in imitation of a stance he had oft seen Sigan take. Evarette immediately did the same.
Fallard chuckled as he leaned to kiss his wife. “We have created monsters, my love.”
Evart’s sturdy little body looked ready to take on the world, his moss green eyes flashing while the sun struck blue lights off the wild tangle of his black hair. Evarette, identical eyes sparking green fire, her tiny form a more delicate and slender feminine duplicate of her brother, stood staunch beside him. Flicking over her
shoulder the ebon braids that hung almost to her waist, she tried her best to look stern and intimidating.
“Go and play, deorlings,” Ysane said, shooing them toward Emma’s three youngest, who were throwing a leather ball filled with sand.
Evart dropped his sword at Fallard’s feet and tore off, followed faithfully by his sister.
Fallard eyed Ysane, amused, as she leaned to brush dirt from the children’s boots off his tunic. She turned back to where Gemma sat with Kennard’s widow, Meldred, and Ysabeau, the widowed daughter of Sir Bernard, Arnulf’s older brother and the reeve of Blackbridge. The women were discussing everything from a new tapestry pattern, to the final guest list for Cynric’s wedding to Ysabeau. The betrothed couple was deeply in love and due to be married at Blackbridge in early fall, though their journey to that end had been anything but smooth.
He surveyed his domain once again and heaved a great, satisfied sigh. Even the delicate situation with his brother-by-law had worked out to the good. Cynric was a changed man since the events four summers earlier. Lord Vesli had agreed to a trial period with him as under-steward, but Ysane’s brother displayed an innate skill for the task and the position had quickly become permanent. The anger and bitterness that had eaten at his soul slowly dissipated beneath the love of his sister, the respect offered by Fallard and Roland Vesli and the acceptance of Romleygh’s burhfolc. His instant love for Evart and Evarette at their birth had completed the transformation, though his romance with Ysabeau had nigh cost his life. That affair had been a wild and difficult journey, but all had come right in the end.
William had approved Cynric’s marriage to the lovely Ysabeau for in doing so, he drew more closely beneath his hand the powerful and prosperous burhs of Wulfsinraed, Romleygh and Blackbridge. Aye, the marriage was a good match that further solidified his claim to the throne. Howbeit, the king had informed Fallard the wedding must take place at Blackbridge, which was close enough to London for William to easily attend. The king preferred not to be away from home for too long, for he was busy with the building of his massive new keep, which he deigned to call the Great Tower, and for construction of which he imported a creamy stone from Caen. When completed, the structure would be a sparkling white monument to his reign.