Rose of Hope (20 page)

At her final words, he groaned and crushed her slight form against him as if he would imprint the feel of her forever upon his skin. He lifted her face and took her lips in a soul-searing kiss, staking his claim.

***

Fallard had held his breath as Ysane revealed so much of her heart. He cradled her sweet flesh close, sharply aware of the enticing curves beneath her syrce. His kiss grew deeper, more insistent.

A voice suffused with mirth intruded. “Forgive me for interrupting your um,
farewells
, Fallard,” Trifine said from the door. “The first patrols are ready to leave. Roul came up here to assist with your armor, but now he skulks in the hall like a cat with its fur rubbed the wrong way, waiting for you to finish your lovemaking.”

Fallard scowled as he tore his mouth from Ysane’s, and the words he snapped at Trifine were snarled. “Know you not how to knock?”

He launched invisible daggers at his First even as he cradled Ysane’s heated face close against his chest.

“You left the door open,” Trifine remarked with cheerful disregard, not at all put out by his captain’s aggravation. He made no effort to hide his amusement or his enjoyment of Ysane’s pinkened face.

“Next time I will not only close it, but
bar
it, as well. Mayhap, that will keep disrespectful Firsts in their place.”

“’Twould do little good. I would only have to beat on it and yell all the louder.”

“Enough! What must a man do to find privacy with his betrothed? Go tell Roul to get up here, and Trifine?”

“Aye, Captain?”

“Come not back.”

Trifine’s laughter echoed all the way down the stairs.

Fallard set Ysane from him. He turned toward the stand on which he kept his hauberk, although for the nonce he still slept with his men in the northeast tower.

“Forgive my First, little rose. What he lacks in finesse, he makes up for in tactlessness. Will you stay while I don my mail?”

“I will.” She sat on a stool by the door.

Roul flew through the portal, coming to an abrupt halt when he caught sight of Ysane. He flushed. “My lady.”

“Where have you been, boy, I have not all the day.” Fallard growled the complaint, but his hand ruffled his squire’s tousled hair. “Is Tonnerre ready?”

He pulled his padded gambeson over his linen shirt, then lifted the heavy, blackened hauberk, bent forward and with Roul’s help, slipped it over his head.

“Who is Tonnerre?” Ysane said.

“My destrier. My courser is Foudre.”

“Ah, of course. Thunder and lightning. Appropriate.”

“You have seen them, have you not, when I took them for exercise?”

She nodded. “Aye, I have seen them, and beauties they are. But Tonnerre is like the blackest of shadows and to my eyes, roughly the size of a small hill.”

Fallard chuckled at her description.

“Tonnerre is chomping for a run, he is,” Roul said. He grasped the hem of the hauberk and pulled it down to Fallard’s knees. “Tuck saddled him, himself. All the other stable hands are afeard of him.”

The supple leather hood, mail coif and ventail went on next, followed by black leather arm greaves and the flexible gauntlets.

“Think you we will catch the knaves today, my lord?” Roul rambled on without ever giving Fallard time to answer, but Fallard was accustomed to his squire’s chatter and made no demur. “I would wager we find them right away. They will have no chance against us, aye, that they will not. Cowards they are, jumping out like toads from the dark. Afeard to face us like men!”

He handed over the leather sword belt. Fallard buckled it on over the hauberk, then wrapped the scarlet girdle with William’s crest around the belt.

Ere sheathing his great sword, Fallard brought it to Ysane. His pride in the weapon, a blade bequeathed to him by a favored uncle, was strong. He showed her the silvered cross-guard inlaid with obsidian gemstones. Black leather worn smooth from long use covered the grip, butting up against the silvered pommel.

“See you this.” His gauntleted finger followed the elegant tracery of letters forged deep into the thickness of the blade’s length. “
‘F A L L A R D’
. ’Twas gifted to me at my accolade by Rollant, my father’s elder brother.”

Once she admired his weapon to his satisfaction, Fallard slipped it into the protective fleece inside the black wooden scabbard. Roul held the black and silver conical helm as Fallard reached for his dark-shafted lance. He slung his shield, of a teardrop shape with a painted ebon and silver starburst design, damaged by the dents and slashes of battle and nigh as tall as himself, over his shoulder.

“Go out to the yard, boy, and give the saddlebags a last check. Make sure you have forgotten naught,” he said to Roul, who grinned again and skipped away to do his bidding.

He faced Ysane, who caught her breath. He noted the gleam of approving wonder in her eyes and could avoid not a strut as he sauntered toward her, the tinkle of his spurs accompanying the low thud of his boots against the floor. Hah! ’Twas a good thing to know his little rose thought him a fine figure of a man. He would carry her admiring expression with him into battle, and ’twould give him the courage of a dozen knights.

“How long will you be gone?”

’Twas the age-old question of those whose role was to stay behind and wait.

“’Twill depend on how quickly we find the parties of the stewards, or those who attacked the first group.” He refrained from stating his belief they were Saxon rebels, or that he suspected Ruald had escaped. “No more than two or three days, methinks. But within that time, I may return with some of the stewards.” He took her arm. “Walk with me.”

Together they descended to the courtyard, where Ysane joined the other women already gathered on the steps. The tunnel between the gates was overflowing with people, carts and animals. The villagers and the ceorls from the farms were beginning to stream inside the walls, getting underfoot of the mounted men, who yelled at them to watch out lest they be trampled by restless hooves.

Fallard stared in disbelief at the chaos, then started to laugh. “What a ridiculous sight.”

He caught Ysane in his arms, careful not to hold her too tightly lest the rough metal of his hauberk press through her syrce and cause her hurt. He kissed her once again, heedless of all who saw.

“Take care,” he whispered.

He strode down the steps, drew himself up onto Tonnerre’s back and donned the helmet Roul handed him. Guiding the great destrier to the head of the mounted patrols, he yelled loudly enough to gain the attention of all. “If you wish not to be trampled, move out of the way.”

Those on foot scrambled to obey, mothers grabbing children and fathers hauling on supplies, and within moments, the pavement was clear. Fallard raised his arm. “We ride! Good fortune to us all.”

He set Tonnerre to a slow trot with an imperceptible movement of his legs. As he crossed the bridge and turned west, he noted Ysane’s arrival on the wall above through his peripheral vision. As he urged Tonnerre into an easy gallop, he looked not behind, but knew the beautiful green eyes of his rose rested upon him. He drew back his shoulders and held his head high, his spine as straight as his lance.

***

Ysane tightened her cloak about her shoulders and watched the empty road long after the patrol was swallowed within the trees. An ancient thoroughfare it was, built by the Romans, and still serviceable after the countless twelvemonths since they had passed away. Master builders, those Romans had been, but hardly more so than the Normans. They, too, were grand builders, and like the great conquerors ere them, they built in stone, to last the ages.

Normans! Conquerors and enemies of her people. Some would expect her to hate and fear them, and fight them to the death. Some would advise she flee marriage to the one who claimed her, while others would whisper she seduce him, and when he slept from the exhaustion of their play, slip a knife into his heart.

But not all of his kind were brutes or cruel masters. Fallard was honorable and just, and even his men were respectful of her people.

She thought of the sight he made in full armor. A thrill, part fear and part admiration, had swept through her as she took him in from mail-coifed head to black leather boots and gilded spurs. By the saints! He was terrifying, but he was also magnificent. He mounted the massive Tonnerre as easily as if he wore no mail and the horse, no more than a pony.

’Twas no wonder the fierce warriors were so feared. Even Domnall, the greatest fighter she had ever known, had met his match with Fallard on the practice field.

She waited on the wall, looking west, until the sun sank low enough to throw its bright rays beneath the cloud layer, forcing her to shade her eyes. The air grew too cool for comfort even in her warm cloak.

“Ysane?”

She turned. Roana stood there, her lovely face troubled. Ysane held out her arms and her cousin came into them. They clasped each other closely, finding comfort in the embrace of deep friendship underscored by the close family tie. Ysane understood Roana’s unspoken need. Trifine was gone too, leading one of the patrols. So newly had they come to care for the men so recently thrust into their lives, that neither knew how to feel the emotions roiling within. After a time, arm-in-arm, they went down to sup in the hall, where lights blazed and warmth beckoned. They were the mistresses of Wulfsinraed, and guests awaited them.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Ysane looked out over the courtyard the next morn, trying to decide where she wished to go. Almost ere she finished dressing, Ethelmar had arrived at her bower to firmly evict her, giving orders for the chamber to receive a thorough scrubbing, from wooden floors to raftered ceiling.

Her dish-thegn had everyone in the place cleaning. Even Tenney the hoarder was involved, temporarily called from his records. He was in the hall, helping to take down the tapestries. Ysane had no need to enter the kitchen to hear the same lively diligence being pursued there. The voices of Alyce and Alewyn, the bubbly, skinny twin sisters who were her cooks, carried clearly into the hall as they directed the kitchen slaves in scouring everything that could be scrubbed.

The frenetic industry had her hunting a refuge, since no one would allow her to help, for Fallard had left word she was to rest. She could not mind the order. Her dreams the night before had been unsettling, and she had awakened tired and dispirited. Her head ached.

Even her sitting room was no haven. The chamber was crowded with servants mending bedding while the ladies bent over their embroidery. The room had taken on the aspect of a cage, overflowing with chattering, fluttering birds.

So she fled outside, only to discover ’twas no better than within. In the cottages of the burh craftsmen that adjoined the wall west of the gates, the activity was hectic. From the stables to the carpenter’s stall, no one, except mayhap the smithy, seemed exempt. The day was certainly made for such work. ’Twas warm and sunny with a clear turquoise sky, the color so deep ’twas easy to imagine it as an upside down lake, rippling over her head between the horizons.

She stopped beside Jehan, who stood at the foot of the steps. He directed the squires, among them the methodical Fauques and lighthearted Roul, in their task of shoveling dung from the courtyard. With the unplanned influx of families from outside, plus their livestock, the pavement of cobbled stone had become mired in manure and mud. The boys shoveled it into buckets, carried it to the river and dumped it into the swift-moving waters. They returned with buckets full of clean water to sluice the stones.

Despite the ache that buffeted her head, she chuckled. Roul laughed, chattered non-stop and teased the other boys, regarding the chore a game, but he splashed more of the odiferous mess upon himself than in the buckets. Like it or nay, his destiny this eve was a thorough dunking in a clean bath. Fauques merely cast forbearing glances at his friend’s antics and carried out his task with painstaking care. So very different they were, yet, each balanced the other.

She turned to Jehan. “Has every soul in the burh had been taken by the fever of cleaning? When the men return, they will not recognize this place.”

She was not entirely jesting.

Jehan chuckled. “Ethelmar and I decided ’twould be better if no one had too much time to think.”

With a grin and a wink, his brown eyes laughing, he strode off toward the stable.

Well. That explained the madness.

Following the curve of the tower, Ysane was drawn to the activity in the center of the practice field. Harold must have every off-duty warrior involved in training. The clash and clang of mock battle mingled with the grunts of hard-hitting, sweating men.

The grounds surrounding the field were crowded with makeshift shelters. Ieldramodor had once told her that long ago, ere the village moved outside the walls, those grounds had been cobblestoned lanes lined with workshops, storehouses, an alehouse and bake house, with snug cottages clustered among them. She wished she could have seen it back then, filled as ’twould have been with life and movement, with laughter, shouts and mothers calling to their offspring. Mayhap, it might have looked a little as it did now.

She turned in the opposite direction. Skirting the courtyard and the busy squires, she passed beneath the high arch that supported the crosswalk overhead only to discover the orchard too, was chock full of humanity. Everywhere, people laughed, argued and chatted. Women cooked over open fires while small children ran and played, enjoying the unexpected holiday. Animals of every description barked, clucked, brayed, mooed or bleated. Her headache spiked.

She ran back to the hall. Weaving adroitly through the army of workers, she slipped into the southwest anteroom and worked her way around servants whitewashing the walls to reach the door to the garden. She shoved it open and fled through. Leaning against it, she sighed in relief, face upraised to the sunlight, and impatiently pushed an errant braid of her hair beneath her headrail. The high walls that enclosed the garden blocked the sight, and at least some of the noise, of the chaos without.