Rose of Hope (10 page)

“But Roana, how know we not this Norman lord merely bides his time, and when we have lowered our guard, he will strike?”

“To what purpose, Luilda? Your words make no sense, my dear.”

“Aye, they do not, and Randel will concur. Come, let us agree, as leaders of our people, to make not this new lord’s responsibilities more difficult by failing to offer support. If, in future, he shows himself unworthy of our confidence, we may speak of this again. Roana, what say you?”

“I will agree.”

“Luilda?”

“I must think on it.”

“Would you rather a rule by one such as Ruald or Renouf? Randel says….”

“I care not what says Thegn Randel! I would
rather
a Saxon with honor.” Silence. A heavy sigh. “I will accept this Norman be there no other choice, but think not I will trust him as easily as the two of you seem wont.”

“’Tis not a matter of trust, but rather of watching as events play out. Luilda, surely you must admit.…”

Ysane lay quiet beneath her bedcovers as the quarrel raged between three of the women she loved most. But when had the lady of Randel Hall come to call? She remembered not her arrival. She opened her eyes, surprised by the effort it required, and took stock of her surroundings. She lay in her own bed. The light of day sifted through cracks in the bed draperies. Why was she abed? Who was this ‘Lord D’Auvrecher’ of whom they spoke, and what was he doing in her home so that her friends argued of him so fiercely? She stirred, wanting answers. With arms that trembled with weakness, she pushed the covers away. The voices came to an abrupt halt, then fabric rustled as the bed draperies were pulled back and Lewena’s face appeared, followed in quick succession by that of Luilda, Roana and the quiet Lynnet.

“My dear! How wonderful that you awaken.” Lewena’s joy bubbled through her gentle voice like honey through good mead.

“Aye, ’tis very good,” Roana said, smiling. “How feel you?”

“How think you she feels, Roana?” Luilda’s gruff tones softened. “Weak as a newborn babe, I vow. ’Tis about time you woke, my lady. I began to think even my impressive healing skills would help you not.”

Ysane smiled at Luilda’s nonsense as she met each happy gaze, but the amusement quickly melted away. “I understand not this grave concern I hear in your voices. What has happened? Why am I abed in the day hours?”

A subtle tension passed over Lewena’s face before her expression went still. The same hush washed over the others. Ysane felt as if a door had closed. Lewena smiled, but Ysane thought it forced.

Her friend leaned closer. “You remember naught of that which has gone before this day?”

A sensation of chill touched Ysane and she shivered. Immediately, Luilda’s hand reached to rest upon her forehead. “You are no longer fevered. Mayhap, the breeze is too chill. Roana, close the shutters, please.”

“Nay!” Ysane fought to rise but the weakness defeated her. “Leave the shutters be. I prefer the light.”

“Very well. Tell us what you remember.”

Ysane focused on obeying Lewena’s request. A memory surfaced, and another. Her hands clenched upon the covers. A deluge of remembrance came. Pain jagged, but she thrust it away, fearing she would lose her very self in the resulting storm. She recalled the death of Angelet, the murder of her husband, Cynric’s abandonment and the moment nigh her execution. She would have wept, but sweeping above the granite visions of pain came the image of eyes the color of the midnight sky, filled with tenderness, and the strength of gentle arms raising her into their embrace and carrying her to safety.

A gasp escaped her and Lynnet’s fingers gripped her own in a sympathetic clasp. She closed her hand upon them.

“I died not!” She heard the wonder in her own voice.

Relieved laughter broke from the four women watching her.

Roana’s eyes were moist. “Oh aye, Ysane, you most definitely are not dead.”

“I remember a battle, a skirmish waged here, at Wulfsinraed. Was that real?”

“Aye. ’Twas a Norman troop, come to remove Renouf from power.”

“Normans. Aye. They won. They stopped the executions. There was a knight, tall and strong. He saved me. Was that also real?”

“’Twas,” Lewena said. “He rules Wulfsinraed now. He is Fallard D’Auvrecher, king’s man. He asks often after you. Methinks he is already smitten with you, though he knows it not.”

Heat coursed into Ysane’s cheeks. “Is my memory correct in thinking him handsome?”

“Methinks her memory has fully returned,” Luilda declared to the room at large, her eyes rolled to the ceiling.

“He is Norman,” Ysane said.

“Methinks it matters not,” Lewena said. “Wulfsinraed is his now, granted to him by King William. We have seen the king’s honorial proclamation, signed by his own hand and witnessed, among others, by his brother Odo. We will have him as our lord, will we or nill we. But ’tis my thought this may be a good thing for all. He is certainly no Renouf, and I believe he will be a fine and just protector. Our nation needs many such as he in this unsettled time.”

Ysane’s eyelids grew heavy. The voices of her friends began to recede and her memory of their words faded.

“She is still very weak.” Luilda reached to pull the covers to her chin. “She will sleep much these next days.”

“Then let us leave her to it,” Lewena said. “’Twill do her naught but good.”

The bed draperies dropped back into place, returning Ysane to the dark, cozy sanctuary in which she sheltered. One last thought drifted through her mind before sleep claimed her.

Mercy! He was real!

CHAPTER TEN

Ysane awakened the third morn after her double brush with death and grew stronger with each passing day. Fallard refrained from seeing her, visiting her chamber but once a day, and only when she slept, which was most of the time. He chose to wait to confront her until certain she was well and strong. She must come to terms with the knowledge that after barely surviving one marriage, she was to be thrust immediately into another, and this time, with a total stranger considered an enemy.

He thought it no surprise Lady Lewena, rather than Lady Roana, kept him informed of her progress. Roana was now rarely to be seen without Trifine either by her side or somewhere close by. Trifine had won his bet. The two were already deeply enamored. Trifine wore his heart on his sleeve and made no effort to hide it. He bore with a forbearing grin the good-natured and oft ribald ribbing of his fellow knights. Fallard heard their comments and determined none would ever have similar opportunity to ridicule
him
in such a way, amiably or otherwise. His desire for Ysane had little to do with emotion, and everything to do with his pride and his lust.

While the lady recovered, he spent his time building his friendship with Thegn Randel and learning of his new home and responsibilities, while trying not to think overmuch on the woman who was to be his wife. ’Twas most bothersome he had so little success with the latter. No woman had ever so thoroughly occupied his thoughts against his will. Even worse was the ridiculous tendency of his feet to wander in the direction of her bower when
he
wished to go elsewhere.

During this quiet period of settling in, Fallard hunted and hawked with Randel and rode the far limits of his lands with Domnall or Second Marshal Harold. He set up new training courses on the practice field for the burh’s hearth companions and gave the task of the training to Domnall and Jehan, though he oft times joined in the practice and critiqued the men’s efforts himself.

One day, he questioned Ethelmar about the hall’s northeast tower, which had a separate exterior door that opened onto the practice field.

“’Tis the former barracks, my lord. After the old wood-framed mead hall was torn down and rebuilt in stone, and the towers added, that particular tower became the quarters for the burh’s military garrison. But by the time the hall was altered from community use to the private home of the thegn, the complement had grown so large they were moved to rooms adjacent to the east wall, which are much larger.”

“Aye, I saw them.”

“The northeast tower now houses only Domnall and a few other hearth companions of higher rank.”

“It is musty and damp,” Fallard said. “I want it aired out and new shutters added. From now until I say otherwise, it shall house only Domnall, my knights and our squires. Second Marshal Harold shall be quartered with his men.”

“As you say, my lord.”

“Is there yet enough room in the garrison to house more troops?”

“Aye. The structure is little more than half utilized.”

“See to my orders then, Ethelmar.”

The under-steward bowed and hurried away.

Fallard allowed himself a moment of sheer exultation. ’Twas his intent to raise the number of knights loyal to him to five and twenty, and to bring in two score more hearth companions to replace those who were lost. There would be plenty of room to house them all.

One even after sup, he consulted with Tenney the hoarder, a man who stuttered when nervous, and who had only in the past twelvemonth bought his freedom from slavery. Aldfrid, the burh reeve was with them.

They met in the hoarding room, a warm, spacious chamber above the kitchen filled with chests and stacks of scrolls, parchments and ledgers. A locked shelf filled with books stood in one corner. Fallard had already explored the precious manuscripts and chosen a treatise on ancient warfare to read.

Tenney cleared his throat. “W-w-word has come from the thegns and barons of all of the f-f-fiefs except B-Blackbridge, my lord.” He sipped his ale as daintily as a maid, then blushed and choked when he caught Fallard’s amused gaze upon him. “T-t-they will ar-r-rive within the s-s-seven-d-day to offer their oaths of l-l-loyalty.”

Fallard stretched his lips into a smile to reassure the man, but the hoarder blanched, took another sip and choked harder. He dropped his gaze to stare at the ledger.

Tenney fears me, though Ethelmar is certain he is a faithful and honest hoarder. I will review his records to be sure, but in the meantime, I must find a way to ease his mind. His fear increases his speech difficulty. But mayhap, ’twill but take time for him to learn I am not an ogre about to eat him and throw his bones on the midden heap.

“And what of Blackbridge? My steward there is half Norman, is he not?”

Aldfrid answered for Tenney, who still recovered from his choking fit. “Aye. Lord du Theil’s father was once a counselor to King William, but long ago when the king was but a duke. Blackbridge is the furthest away of your fiefs. It will take some time to receive the baron’s response to your message.”

They sat for several hours at a long, narrow, heavy table with tally sticks and the current rent ledgers for each fief before them, discussing burh matters.

Finally, Fallard stretched and yawned. “Well and good. Is there aught else of special consequence I should know before we retire?”

“Th-there is one thing, m-my lord.” Tenney found his breath and his courage and raised his eyes to Fallard. “‘Tis not a c-certainty, and I w-w-wish not to s-s-speak of it beyond making m-mention of it, but ’tis possible t-t-two of the stewards may be inv-v-volved in some f-felonious activity. As of yet, I c-c-cannot determine its n-nature.”

“How soon before you are certain?”

“I will w-wish to speak with b-both men when they ar-r-rive.”

“They are not likely to tell you if they are stealing from me, Tenney.”

For once, complete confidence erased nigh all trace of stammering from Tenney’s words. “Nay, b-but still I will
know
. Then I will inform you immediately of what I l-learn.”

Fallard mused over the hoarder’s peculiar infirmity. “Well and good. I accept your assurance.”

Tenney’s eyes lit up. He bobbed his head and for the first time in his lord’s presence, he smiled. “Th-thank you, my lord.”

At morn two days later, though by now he held confidence Ethelmar had preparations well in hand, Fallard inspected the guest bowers. He appreciated the unexpected cleanliness he found. As one who had chosen constant warfare as his way of life, he had discovered early on that a warrior had two choices. He either learned to live with the stench of blood, gore and death upon one’s person, or he searched for ways to be clean. He preferred the latter.

As he finished his exploration, he stepped into the narrow passage outside the bowers. A stealthy movement at the far end raised the fine hairs on the back of his neck. He swiveled, all senses alert. In the muted light glowing through the arched windows that lined the corridor and overlooked Ysane’s garden, an elfin shape, fully veiled and garbed all in black came into view. It sidled from a bower and headed for the stairs.

He started to call out, but the figure stopped before he could speak and turned to face him. Small hands with slender fingers lifted the veil. Large eyes of faded green, yet which sparkled still with humor and wit, peered at him through the patchwork of light and shadow. Very old the woman was, and in appearance very frail. There was that about her that seemed familiar, though Fallard could say not why. She offered him a gamin smile.

With a voice that crackled softly like baked oatcakes between the teeth, she said, “The new thegn you are. I know of you. Marlee has told me all. Good fortune smiles upon my nefene.”

Then she was gone, moving with surprising speed and agility for one so aged. Fallard raced after her, but she was already out of sight by the time he reached the base of the stairs. He shook himself. Had she really been there? Who was she, and why had he never seen her before? Every person who belonged to the burh was supposed to have come before him to swear fealty.

Spotting the steward crossing the hall, he called out. “Ethelmar, who was that woman?”

The under-steward’s expression blanked. “Woman, my lord?”

Fallard reined in his impatience. “Aye, the old one in black who came down the stairs ahead of me. Who is she?”

Understanding dawned, replacing the bafflement on Ethelmar’s face. He crossed to stand before Fallard. “You must refer to Lady Hildeth. She is the old Thegn Kenrick’s mother. Her bower lies in the top two levels of the northwest tower, above that of the Lady Roana, though she rarely leaves it. Her maid is Marlee, who is almost as old as the lady herself, and has been the Lady Hildeth’s personal companion since childhood.” Ethelmar drew himself up as if about to declare a matter of importance. “You should know, my lord, the Lady Hildeth is not always right in her mind. Some days, she seems as rational as I, but others, she is childlike, remembering only that which happened long ago. She is harmless, but during such times she is easily confused, and believes the Lady Ysane is her dead daughter-by-law, Edeva, and that the old lord, her son, still lives.”