Rose of Hope (3 page)

His companion led Fallard to the alehouse, a long, low structure built in typical Saxon style with a deeply slanted thatch roof. They entered through a painted door of faded blue hue. Smoke joined the smell of various brews to swirl around the room before drifting through the smoke-hole in the ceiling. They settled with their backs to the wall at a battered wooden table in a corner nook.

A tired serving girl with a broom in one hand stared at them in wary curiosity. “We have bread, cheese, roast boar and venison stew. The stew is hot and fresh. The boar is not.”

Fallard exchanged a wry glance with his companion. “We will have stew and small beers.”

’Twas quiet in the house, the kind of surly hush that accompanied fear and rancor. The only patrons were burh craftsmen who hurried to finish their meals. The tenor of their conversations was low-keyed and burned with suppressed ire.

A man at the table next to them, clearly the worse for drink even at the early hour, leaned forward, his rough voice barely above a whisper. “By what right, I ask, does Sir Ruald hold trial for the Lady Ysane and sentence her to death? ’Tis the true crime, that. The lady is a gentle soul, and already carried a burden of sorrow before that brigand Renouf killed her sweet babe. I say, did there must be a trial, she should have been sent to the shire court. They would have meted true justice, aye, a fine of wergild mayhap, though Thegn Renouf was worth naught. Bah! ’Tis a mockery.”

His face crumpled. Fallard thought he might weep, but he lifted his tankard, took several chugs and mumbled to the remaining contents.

Fallard understood his confusion. Why would Ruald risk ordering her death when as the wife of a nobleman, she should have been sent to William? The knight held no title and little authority. ’Twas a situation, he mused, when the old maxim came to mind—the weak must suffer the domination of the strong. Ruald’s warriors had overwhelmed those of the burh’s first marshal. He now had complete control. Had Fallard not been sent to deal with Renouf—and Ruald as well, did the man but know it—the king would never have known the truth of these events. ’Twas even possible William might have granted Ruald the barony.

The serving maid returned, this time without the broom, and slapped their bowls and tankards in front of them. Fallard listened to what could be heard of the conversations around him as he ate.

“The burhfolc hate both the Sebfeld brothers,” said the man at his side.

Fallard nodded. “Aye, and ’twould seem Sir Ruald wasted no time proclaiming himself their new lord. Heard you the comments about the lady?”

“That he seeks vengeance against her more because she spurned his suit to wed her, than as a punishment for his brother’s death? It seems a petty action.”

“He is a petty man. For too long, the people have borne the contempt and vicious backlash of both men’s foul tempers. ’Tis time it stopped.” He set his tankard down. “We are finished here.”

He dropped coin on the table, nodded to the barman and wended his way through the sullen crowd toward the door. He tensed, his hand settling on the hilt of his sword beneath the cloak, as the portal swung open to admit several of Ruald’s warriors. Conversation ceased and tension rose. Head down, cowl lowered to hide his face, he slid to the side and waited. But the soldiers were interested in naught but getting warm and drunk by the fire. They gave notice to none.

A short while later, Fallard met Trifine inside the dense cover of a copse bordering the burh. His First had more news. “Captain, one of the spies has befriended a young woman, the daughter of a ceorl. The maid spoke freely. Her family has a strong dislike of the Sebfeld brothers. Even better for us, her family is in debt to the Lady Ysane for the life of one of the children. They bear her much respect and affection.”

“’Tis truth, she won the devotion of her people long ago, which may prove useful.”

“You have further thoughts to flesh out the plan?”

“Aye, but they are not without risk. Ruald may be a brutal leader, but there is no great love for Normans among these people. Will they accept our rule? ’Tis a question yet to be answered.”

He went silent, his thoughts considering all angles, then decision made, he met Trifine’s expectant gaze. He uttered a soft snort. He and Trifine had fought together too long. His First already knew what he would say, but he said it, anyway. “Order the spy to approach the girl. I wish to know if the burhfolc will refuse to take up arms against us when we launch our attack. Let it be known I offer my oath to try to save the Lady Ysane, to be a fair and careful lord, and if all goes as planned, offer respect and an honorable marriage to the lady.”

“And if the people can be convinced?”

“Then warn the village elders of what is to come and explain the role they are to play.”

“Exactly what I was thinking.”

Fallard’s derisive grunt floated over his shoulder as he headed back to camp.

***

Back at the ravine the following eve, Fallard met with Trifine and Jehan to finalize plans. Roul brought them bread, cheese, and a skin of ale. “Your mail and weapons are cleaned and oiled for the morrow, sir, and your bedroll laid out.”

“Well and good, Roul, but there will be little sleep for any this night. Go now. Find your own bedroll and get what rest you can.”

“Aye, sir. Think you there will be a great battle?” Roul sounded as if he hoped for naught less than Armaggeddon.

Jehan cuffed the back of his head, knocking him to his knees. “A bloodthirsty beggar you are, lad. Have you not yet learned ’tis better to avoid battle if it may be prevented? Would it please you did the river run red from our play?”

Grinning, Roul clambered to his feet. “I would be pleased for a fight, sir, but mayhap, without
so
much blood.”

“Go to bed, Roul.” Fallard said. “’Tis my thought your wish may be granted, but I suggest you think on the merits of peace as you seek sleep.”

As the squire moved off, Jehan looked at Fallard. “The elders agreed, but dare we trust their word?”

“Methinks much depends on their devotion to the lady,” Trifine mumbled through a mouthful of bread, “and their willingness to lay aside whatever hatred and distrust they may harbor toward a Norman lord. I say we chance it. Mayhap, if we show confidence in their decision, ’twill work further to our advantage.”

Fallard made a face and spit. “This cheese is too far past its prime. One might as well chew twigs. I agree, Trifine. ’Tis worth the risk. Jehan, what more have you heard?”

“The executions are expected to take no more than a short span of the morn. With the exception of a few sentries on the north wall, the people have been ordered to assemble in the clearing opposite the gates ere dawn. Not even the children are excused. ’Twould seem Sir Ruald suspects no interference. He appears confident that with all the burhfolc under the eyes of his hearth companions, there is no reason to secure the gates. I believe the surprise will be complete.”

Fallard swallowed the last of his ale. “I have learned ’tis unlikely Ruald is aware of the king’s knowledge of his treachery. For this reason, I expect he will issue no special security orders. The burh will be all but defenseless, but timing will be critical, especially for you, Trifine.”

“I know it. My bow is ready, as is my arm, but one last thought. What if the fog is too heavy? I cannot hit what I cannot see.”

Fallard stared as the first star of the even blinked into view in the deepening dusk. “’Tis of no import. Ruald’s action in forcing all to witness these events speaks to a wish to intimidate, and to reinforce his authority. If needful, he will wait till the sun’s rising banishes the mist. We move at mid-watch. Silent passage. Pass the word.”

***

“’Tis truly a plum full ripened, and ready to be picked,” Fallard murmured. He stood concealed with his men at the edge of the forest north of Wulfsinraed, watching the unfolding of the dawn. Beneath his helm, his face was stiff with pre-battle tension. The lady’s execution was to be the first, and was set for sunrise. ’Twas nigh that, now.

“Captain?” Roul peered up at him.

On Fallard’s other side Varin, his company blacksmith and best hand-to-hand fighter, spoke in a rumble that seemed to rise from deep beneath the earth into his chest. “’Tis naught, lad. Your captain merely clears his throat.”

Fallard felt his tension ease. His sword hilt rested, solid and comforting in his hand. All was in place and his men were ready. They would not fail.

Awaiting Trifine’s unmistakable signal, he focused his gaze on the soldier, backlit by torches, stationed behind Lady Ysane. Here lay a minute element of risk. In order to sight the guard with his bow, Trifine’s sharp eyes must penetrate the misty shadows that lingered in these last moments ere the clouded sunrise. If his shot went wide or fell short, the lady’s life would be forfeit.

Fallard shook off the possibility. Trifine never missed.

Once the executioner was down, the village elders would join the ceorls in a ‘panic’ designed to create as much chaos as possible. Under cover of that confusion, the assault would begin with his archers dealing with the sentries on the wall.

At the same time, Fallard and his men would split. Most of them, led by Jehan, would attack the armed men in the clearing while Fallard led the smaller group through the tunnel between the open gates to take control of the burh. At all costs, they must prevent Ruald from reaching the courtyard and closing those gates. The corners of his eyes crinkled. If the plan proved successful, Roul would get his wish. Wulfsinraed Burh would be taken quickly, and with but a little bloodshed.

“Soon, now,” Varin said. Dawn was breaking even as he spoke.

Fallard flexed gauntleted fists and slid his sword from its fleece-lined sheath, the silent action repeated by a hundred arms to either side of him. Tension spiraled in a subtle escalation.

Movement at the rear of the motionless crowd in the clearing drew his attention. Hidden in clear sight among those who were gathered, Trifine threw back the edge of his cloak. In the space of little more than an eye’s blink, he raised his great bow, notched an arrow and sighted.

There came a discernible lightening of the gray skies. One bright ray of sunlight pierced the gloom. Ruald’s hand lifted and dropped.

The faint twang of Trifine’s bow sounded twice in rapid succession. Fallard’s gaze flicked back to the wall. From his position, he could not see if Trifine’s arrow reached its mark, but seconds later, the liquid splash of the soldier’s body plunging into the river was drowned by his battle cry. His men echoed the yell as they swarmed from the trees. The bloodcurdling screams of
“Dex Aie”
froze the response of Sir Ruald and his troops for those critical first seconds that gave Fallard and his men immediate advantage.

The onslaught of arrows against the handful of soldiers manning the walls wiped out that opposition. Pandemonium reigned. Wails of terror filled the air as burhfolc scattered. Warriors shouted in rage as they leapt to the defense. Agonized cries mingled with the clash of swords. Spears and axes punched through chain mail to rend the vulnerable flesh beneath. The fighting was intense, for the hearth companions were well trained, but the surprise was shockingly complete and the skirmish brief. Sir Ruald’s troops were overwhelmed. Some dropped their swords and surrendered, suing for mercy.

Fallard’s group poured through the tunnel into the courtyard, but as expected, found no one to fight.

Jehan’s contingent overpowered the last of the soldiers in the clearing, taking Sir Ruald prisoner even as the soles of his boots thudded on the wooden planking of the bridge.

The clamor of battle ceased as abruptly as it had begun.

Fallard’s gaze swept the courtyard, seeking hidden opponents. There were none. His men took up position at the gates.

Shortly after, Trifine was at his side, shadowed by his squire, Fauques. “We have a number of wounded, but none severely, and no dead among our people. There are three and twenty dead among the burh guard. Wulfsinraed is secure, Captain.”

“It went well,” Fallard replied, surveying the bodies littering the courtyard. “The plan was sound.”

“Aye, Captain.” The blue ice of Trifine’s eyes glittered. This was his victory as well.

Fallard clasped his First’s shoulder and squeezed. “See to the clean up and check on the burhfolc. Make certain the surviving soldiers who fought us are shaved.”

“What of the rest?”

“Nay. They chose not to take weapon against us. I will not dishonor their decision with humiliation.”

As Trifine moved away, Fallard removed his helm and gauntlets and handed them, with his sword to Roul. Turning, he looked up, his eyes searching for and quickly finding the diminutive figure of the Lady of Wulfsinraed. He strode toward the stone steps leading to the top of the wall. ’Twas time to claim his most precious prize.

CHAPTER FOUR

The seagull soared from Ysane’s line of sight. Her eyelids dropped. Her bound hands clenched as she waited for the cold death-kiss of the blade.

For what does he wait? Oh faith, be done with it!

A sound, as of a barely perceived whisper, sighed past her head. Her executioner released his grip on her hair with a howl. She heard his hadseax clatter against the stone of the parapet as he staggered away. Her eyes shot open and she watched his hand grasp at the arrow lodged at an odd upward angle through the flesh of his shoulder. She struggled to make sense of the sight even as a second brief
pfft
heralded a soft but solid thud. The guard grunted and bent forward as both hands grabbed at the shaft protruding from his midsection.

Sluggish recognition came then. That baffling, furtive movement she had seen earlier at the back of the crowd of burfolc was a man throwing aside the edge of his cloak to bend a longbow.

The entire tableau seemed to freeze as the guard stared at the blood seeping between his fingers. Then he gaped at her, the astonished knowledge of his own death clouding his brown eyes. He collapsed like a drained wineskin and toppled over the edge into the river below.