Rose of Hope (25 page)

Trifine shook her. “Go, lady! And stay close to the base of the wall.”

He tore away at top speed in the direction of the north tower, heeding not his own advice.

Ysane threw one last, agonized glance at the rapidly receding band of riders pounding toward the gates. The pursuers were not so many as she had first thought, and even as she watched, one horse fell to an arrow from the wall, spilling its rider. But the rest rode with a keen clarity of purpose that even she recognized. Their goal was to catch or kill the man who held her future, and mayhap her heart, in his hand.

Please let him be safe.

She threw herself down the stairs in obedience to Trifine’s command.

They will make the gates. They must! Oh mercy, they let them reach safety.

From among the shelters in the orchard, seemingly oblivious to the danger that might arc over the wall, the burhfolc of Wulfsinraed were on the move. It looked as if a host of dancing fairies surged around Ysane as more and more torches were lit and held high to light the way. They swarmed as one toward the gates, anxious to learn all that happened.

A loud commotion of sword upon sword was heard around the bridge, cut off by the thunderous thud of the outer gate as it was quick-released to plummet into place. A resounding roar of rage rose from without the wall.

Ysane was but two-thirds of the way back to the gatehouse, hurrying past the craftsmens’ cottages, when she heard shouts from ahead, picked up and wafted back to those still scurrying behind.

“They have reached the courtyard, all of them. The lord D’Auvrecher was the last inside. The gates are shut. They are safe!”

As the word reached her, Ysane sobbed, her breath coming in gasps as she tried to run faster. But the press around her slowed her pace.

By the time she drew nigh the courtyard, the light from so many torches made it seem bright as day. But such a crush of people milled she could make no headway to the gates. Everyone seemed to talk wildly or cry out at once. She sought to push her way through the throng, but there were too many. Had they recognized her, they would have made way, but she was only one woman among a teeming crowd.

At last, she spotted the unmistakable figure of Varin on the wall. She screamed his name above the clamor, then jumped up and down and waved.

He saw her. A fierce smile curved across his face. A singular colossus of a man whose Norse ancestors were said to be berserkers, those fiercest of all Viking warriors, he was broad as he was tall, as strong as a bull and as ugly, battle-scarred and rough. Two of his teeth were missing, while his nose jutted at an insane angle from where ’twas broken long before. He terrified strong warriors in battle, but with those he deemed his friends, he was a gentle giant.

He barreled his way to her through the crowd, not particularly careful who he had to seize and throw aside in the process. When he reached her side, he swept her up in a fearsome grip, ignoring her protests.

“Varin! Put me down!”

But he shielded her with his bulk, and carried her to the hall steps where he set her down as if she were fragile as the petals of one of her beloved roses.

Somewhat breathless, Ysane stared up at him. The top of her head barely reached the middle of his massive chest. “I thank you, Varin.”

In the torchlight, he grinned at her from his great height, his heart in his eyes. He bowed with strange grace, and hastened back to his post.

Ysane felt rather overwhelmed. In the few short moments he had borne her, the odd knight had left her feeling…
cherished.
None but Cynric, and most recently Fallard, had ever made her feel that way. There was no mistaking what she saw in his eyes, but with a woman’s instinct, she sensed he would want it neither known nor acknowledged. Varin would be a loyal friend, should ever she need one.

She looked around, taking stock. In her absence, Lady Matty had assumed charge and the initial mayhem around the gates had flowed into ordered activity. There was little left for her to do. She threw a grateful glance at the older woman, who was instructing boys where to take the last of the baggage. Matty grinned back.

Inside the hall, she found the young son of Lord Belleme, Funta’s steward, Roul and Fauques with him, seated at the one of the hearths with warm drinks. The other stewards’ boys gathered round, listening with awe as between bites of buttered bread, the lad told the tale of their flight. To her eyes, he seemed none the worse for wear.

Servants swarmed the tables, preparing for sup. Ysane caught up with her steward as he hurried from the kitchen. “Ethelmar! What happened at the gates?”

He paused. “My lady! The rear guard fought to stave off the rebel riders from crossing the bridge ere the outer gate could be closed, thus allowing the steward’s party to fly to safety ahead of them. Though ’twas most heroic, they lost two men, one of our hearth companions, and the other a knight from the steward’s guard. Several were wounded, including Lord Belleme. He insisted on joining the melee and received a lance wound in his shoulder for his efforts. Should you wonder, the roar you may have heard came from Ruald. ’Twas the sound of his fury when his quarry escaped and the burh defenses were successfully raised against him.”

“Where are all the men?”

Ere he could answer Trifine was at her side. “They are on the wall, watching to see what Ruald will do next.”

“Oh! Of course.”

Trifine leaned close. “Did I not tell you all would be well, to have faith in Fallard?”

But Ysane was still unnerved, her heart only beginning to slow from its frightened gait. Her terror of Ruald and fear for Fallard remained too close. She snapped at Trifine without thinking. “Nay! Your words are presumptuous, sir knight. You invite catastrophe from on high with your arrogance. Did your eyes fail to see what a nigh thing ‘twas, how nigh to death our people came? How can you be so flippant at such a time?”

Ethelmar, awaiting her instructions, visibly cringed.

The First’s eyebrows, so light they would have been nigh invisible if not highlighted by skin darkened from the sun, launched upwards, then his eyes narrowed at her tone.

Yet, his words conveyed a quiet respect. “Nay, my lady, ’twas not arrogance that fueled my words, nor presumption. You forget the long twelvemonths I have served with my captain, who is also my closest friend. Allow it that I know him, and his capabilities, far better than you. I assure you I would not have uttered such statements were I uncertain of their verity.”

Stricken, Ysane fought back a sudden need to weep. How could she have struck at the silver knight with such unmerited spite? She had behaved in the manner of a harpy. Trifine’s rebuke was gentle, but well deserved.

“You are weary,” he said. “Mayhap you are in need of a cup of ale.”

She shook her head. She hated ale.

Trifine glanced at Ethelmar as he grasped her elbow. The under-steward hastened away. Trifine led her to her chair at the center of the fire pits. Too mortified even to beg his forgiveness, Ysane lowered her gaze and kept her chilled hands clasped in her lap. Lost in the maelstrom of conflicting emotions that seethed within, she at first did not recognize the new voice that joined in hushed conversation with Trifine.

Ethelmar returned with a jug of mead and her favorite goblet of Byzantine glass. She looked up as a dark figure stepped to her side and knelt on one knee beside her chair. He intercepted the full goblet, nodding at Ethelmar, who left on his own business with a relieved sigh.

Ysane stared into the midnight eyes of the man responsible for the baffling feelings that tore at her, and made her feel as twisted as the hall kittens left her tapestry yarn.

Amusement, concern, and masculine complacency all mingled in his regard. “Trifine is concerned about you, my rose. I was in but little danger, but he believes you unduly frightened for my safety this day. Is that truth?”

He looked manifestly pleased by the idea.

’Twas too much. She flashed. “Odious man! Blithering oaf! How dare you mock my distress? I
was
fearful for your safety, for the safety of all. But how like a man to swagger so, even when but by God’s good favor does he remain well and among the living.”

She opened her mouth to lash at him further, but instead, surprising them both, she burst into tears, further shaming herself before him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Below his breath, Fallard swore. He was bone tired, famished and though the wound was minor, in considerable pain from a sword slash. The blow had caught him in the open slit of the hem of his hauberk, on the outside of his thigh a few inches above his right knee. A female’s tears seemed beyond the scope of his skills. Yet, in but a few days, this woman would be his wife, which meant her tears were his responsibility. He sighed. Mayhap, it would be not difficult to reassure her. His father seemed to find it easy enough with his mother. Surely, he was capable of no less.

“Ysane, little rose, weep not. I am safe. Everyone is safe.” He felt silly saying the words, since they were so obvious to all. But Ysane was no simpleton. He was sure that once she thought on the truth of his statement, she would cease her weeping.

Instead, his attempt at comfort resulted in worsening sobs. His brows drew together. He recalled similar scenes at home. It had always seemed so simple for his father. Why could Ysane be not sensible like his mother? Glancing around, he saw no one paid them heed. He was on his own.

He rose and lifted her from the chair, grimacing against the pain that sheared from hip to ankle. Slim arms crept over his shoulders to hold tight behind his neck. A wet face snuggled itself against the whisker-rough skin beneath his chin. His muscles flexed in involuntary possession. Ah, but she felt good in his arms.

She sniffled as they climbed the stairs to her bower. Then she squirmed in his arms. He suddenly realized the hard chain metal of his hauberk pressed uncomfortably against the soft mound of her breast and the sweet curve of her hip. Fatigue and pain, along with her need for consolation were forgotten as desire slammed through him with the intensity of a lightning bolt, so powerful it nigh knocked him back down the stairwell. ’Twas but a few days ere the wedding? Hah! ’Twas more like forever…and what if then she denied him, as he had so foolishly given her right?

Growling beneath his breath, he reached the bower. He paused beside the bed, but instead of laying her there, as he had intended, he decided to sit with her while he comforted her. Given his need, ’twas safer.

But no sooner did he carefully lower them into the chair, than did her bottom wriggle in his lap, and he knew sitting down was an even worse idea than the bed. He glanced at the linen bandage around his leg. The wound bled again. He stifled a groan at what ’twould cost him to stand.

Cursing himself for a fool, he shut his eyes, gritted his teeth and rose to his feet. He felt something give at the site of his wound and knew he had torn the flesh further. The resulting pain and dizziness caused him to stumble. He steadied himself. ’Twould not do to fall with his little rose in his arms.

“Fallard? What do you do?” The little voice beneath his ear sounded mystified.

“The saints may know. I know not,” he muttered. He kept his eyes screwed tightly shut. The whole chamber had taken to moving itself in a sickening fashion.

“Well then, put me down.”

Fallard’s spirits rose slightly. At least the cascade of tears seemed to have dried. Deciding her advice was the wisest thing he had heard since he walked into the hall to find her, he did as she said. But when he released her, she slid, with excruciating leisure, down his front, then steadied herself by leaning against him as she gained her feet. The breath that hissed through his teeth had naught to do with his pain, but it caught her attention.

“Fallard, what is wrong?”

“Naught. ’Tis naught at all.”

“Do not be absurd. Of a certain, something is wrong. You act quite strangely.”

Fallard opened his eyes, his gaze delving into hers. Was she truly still such an innocent, after three twelvemonths with her worthless mongrel of a husband?

She gazed back, concern blazing from moss green eyes, and abruptly Fallard smiled like the dunce he had earlier called himself. Mayhap, she was still an innocent in some respects. She truly seemed not to comprehend what she did to him. By heaven, mayhap, there were sweet things he could still teach her about loving.

Feeling better than he had in days, despite an unexpected wave of nausea, he caught her forearms and pushed her into the vacated chair. “Tell me why you cried.”

But she answered him not. Her silence accompanied the horror in her eyes as she stared at his thigh. He followed her glance and frowned. Blood coursed slowly from the soaked bandage and dripped past his boots to the floor. His braies and hose were dark with it.

“Fallard, you are wounded!” She jumped to her feet, nigh bowling him over. “By the saints, why did you not tell me you were hurt? You carried me—
you carried me
—up all those stairs. Oh, you foolish man! Sit down
now.”

She grabbed his belt at the sides of his waist, pulled him around and shoved him into the chair, noticing not the grimace that twisted his face. “I will fetch Luilda. Do not dare to move while I am away. The wound will need cleaning and fresh bandaging, and mayhap, stitching, as well. Do you hunger? But of course, you do. When did you last eat? I will bring ale and food, and water to wash with, too. Then you must get into bed. ’Tis likely you have slept not since you left. Why is it men must always be told these simple things?”

Ere he could explain he still had an inspection to make and orders to give to insure the burh was secure for the night, she was out the door. He heard her calling down the length of the stairs for the steward and the healer.

He thought about getting up and going outside ere anyone could catch him, but when he made the effort, pain surged in swelling waves. Nausea cramped his belly and he clenched his jaw against the need to vomit. He frowned. Were the candles sputtering out? The edges of his vision seemed to grow dark.