Rose of Hope (30 page)

As she turned to leave, he could resist not a gentle smack on her bottom.

She squealed, her palms reaching to cover the offended spot as she whirled. But even as Fallard belatedly berated himself for breaking her mood, her eyes lit, and she giggled, and ran lightly from the chamber.

***

Downstairs, Ysane sought out Luilda.

“My lady!” The healer stared at her in dismay. “Your hair! Your headrail…why have you removed it? Your guests! What will they think?”

“My what?” Ysane reached to touch the veil that should have framed her face. The blush that rarely left her when Fallard was nigh, scorched from chest to hairline. The villain! He had removed not only her veil, but loosened her hair to fall in waves down her back, and she had not even realized.

“Never mind, lady.” Luilda pushed an errant tress behind her ear. “I can guess well enough where the veil may be found. What is it you wish?”

Ysane gave the healer Fallard’s message and slipped to Roana’s bower, thinking all the while that if his kiss had such power, she had best take much care when alone with him, at least until after the wedding.

***

Up the stairs and around the corner from the lord’s bower, Lady Hildeth and Marlee waited for Ysane to leave in search of Luilda. Lady Hildeth giggled behind her hand. Only moments before, they had crept unashamedly to the door of the bower and peaked around the doorframe, immediately elated at the sight that met their eyes.

“Did you see them, Marlee?” Lady Hildeth’s tone was bright with gleeful delight. “Is it not delicious?”

“Aye, my lady, ’tis most exciting.”

“What a marvelously lusty man. That kiss was surely as passionate as any my Lyolf gifted to me. Think you she enjoyed it?”

“I am certain of it,” Marlee said, her countenance beaming. “Saw you her face? ’Twas as dreamy as that of any girl lost in the throes of first love. Aye, fireflies surely danced in her eyes.”

“Good, good. So I thought, also. Then ’tis certain. We shall hear again the laughter of a new babe in this drafty old hall, and none too soon, think you not?”

Marlee’s reply was indistinguishable as the two ecstatic old women crept down the staircase into the anteroom.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

A whispering buzz, very like that of a fly, dragged Ysane from deep slumber. She mumbled under her breath and sleepily brought her hand from under the furs to wave away the annoying insect, but as she sank back into sweet sleep, a tickling began on the tip of her nose.

Faith. The little beast tiptoes across my face.

Again, she swatted it away, only to feel it return.

Still lost in the groggy half-world of somnolence, she remembered that the awakening of the insect world was one of the few things about spring she hated. She had once waked to a butterfly perched on her forehead, it’s gauzy wings pulsing, and another time to a spider crawling along her forearm, the touch of its eight tiny legs making her giggle until she woke enough to be properly horrified. She had squealed, then.

The tickling came again.

A peek from beneath an eyelid assured her ’twas not even full light, and her bed was warm and cozy. She groaned, low in her throat, not yet ready to face the day. Lynnet would arrive soon to light the brazier. Then she would get up.

She relaxed. Mayhap, the insect had flown away. But the tickle came again, more annoying than ever. Mercy, but what a persistent fly ’twas! Or was it a fly? What if ’twas a bee? Such insects frequently got into the hall and betimes stung people. Her lids flying wide, Ysane’s eyes crossed as she tried to focus on her nose.

Bafflement held her in its grip. ’Twas no insect hovering, but the soft tip of a dove feather. A feather? Feathers crawled not on one’s nose.

“Ysane! Wake up, my rose, ’tis time to rise!”

The chamber abruptly swung into focus. A bare few inches from her face were the laughing midnight eyes of Fallard D’Auvrecher. Grinning from ear to ear like the naughtiest of little boys ever caught in an act of pure mischief, he whispered, “’Tis about time!” He spoke so low she understood him more by reading his lips than hearing his words. “Never have I known one so hard to wake. Arise and dress, sleepy rose. There is much to do today.”

Ere she could answer, or even decide if she wanted to laugh at his antics or be offended at his improper presence in Roana’s private chamber, he was gone.

Well, he had done it. She was awake now. She might as well get up. His silliness caught up with her sleep-drugged mind and she started to giggle, catching her hand over her mouth. She did not want to wake Roana, who slept buried to her nose beneath the furs.

She crawled from the bed, shivering in the chill air. A delighted, almost childlike excitement filled her as she mused on adventuring with Fallard. She flew about, washing and dressing as quietly as possible. Tiptoeing to the door, she grimaced as the hinges squeaked, but a glance assured Roana remained undisturbed. Faith! Did every hinge in the hall need to be oiled? She must remember to mention it to Ethelmar.

In the anteroom, she yelped as Fallard loomed above her. “Will you hasten? The day speeds away.”

He still whispered, though now they were in the hall, stealth seemed unnecessary. Ethelmar had been right in his guess. Snores, from soft, fluttering stutters and mousy squeaks to stentorian roars that nigh shook the rafters, vibrated through the huge chamber as she and Fallard stepped around and over unconscious bodies. Flat out on the floor, or draped across tables or each other, every man of them was oblivious to the world. ’Twas a good thing the rebels had chosen not to attack this morn. They would have been overcome ere they knew what had happened.

They reached the doors without mishap. Fallard drew her mantle over her shoulders. He caught her hand and stepped with her into a morn of breathtaking beauty. ’Twas already light enough to see, though the sun’s rays were only beginning to peak over the treetops.

The air was chill, but not cold, soft as a babe’s skin and as fresh as if ‘twere the first morn of the world. Above them, the azure of the sky rivaled the head of a blue tit. Birds dipped and wheeled for sheer joy across the heaven, filling it with diverse melodies. Roul came running with an unlit torch, Fauques a close shadow.

Fallard accepted the light. “Does Trifine have no need of Fauques, the two of you may have the day to do as you please. I have no wish to see you till sup.”

The eyes of both squires lit in glee at this rare treat, ere they raced off to find Trifine.

“Think you Trifine will yield the day to Fauques?”

The corners of Fallard’s eyes crinkled. “Aye. He will discern my wish in the matter.”

Ysane chuckled. Still holding her hand, Fallard pulled her down the steps and hurried across the courtyard.

“Fallard, your knee!”

“My leg is fine, little rose. Luilda tended it and wrapped it well. ’Tis sore, but truly pains me not.” He threw her a laughing glance. “Trust me. Does it hurt, I will rest.”

She sighed. Her father had responded exactly so to her mother’s protests when he was injured.

They scampered like children around the kitchen outbuildings and wended their way through the shelters, calling soft ‘good morrows’ to those few already up and about. Then she saw where they were headed…not the chapel as she had thought. Fallard drew her into the trees of the orchard and off the cobbled roadway. She slowed her pace and tugged against his hand, feeling the hair on her nape lift. There was but one destination in that direction, and ’twas a place of sorrow. To go there was to face a painful reality, to ask a question that must be answered. As of yet, none had spoken of it and she had shied away from the asking. Dread rose and she tugged harder. He glanced back to ask her purpose, but seeing her face, he stopped. He tilted his head in query, one eyebrow rising.

“Why are we going to the crypts?”

“Because I want to explore,” he said, “and I want you to explain what I see. You will also show me the secret door to the corridor and how it works.”

“But did you not send forth a messenger to Sir Gyffard through the corridor?”

“Aye, but I had Domnall deal with the sending, as I had not time.”

Still, she hung back. “Fallard, I wish not to enter there.”

Her voice wobbled despite her effort at control.

“Mayhap not, but it needs be done. There is a reason, beyond my desire to see the secret door, and methinks you know it.”

She stood her ground, but the inflection of her voice rose. “I wish not to enter the crypts!”

“But ’tis my wish that you do. I will be with you, little rose.” He hesitated. “If ’tis truly impossible for you, I will force you not, yet you must face this, and methinks ’tis time.”

He waited, the kindness in his midnight eyes snaring her breath. Her heart fell even more in favor with him that he rushed her not. Day by day, he brushed away more of her defenses as she came to know him better, and to care for him more deeply. She drew a wavering gasp and nodded.

The corners of his eyes crinkled. “’Tis well. Your courage will aid you, and I will be with you. You need not face it alone.”

They wandered through the orchard, more slowly now, until they reached the entrance of the chamber where generations of Wulfsingas lay in eternal rest.

With an effort, she relaxed muscles locked so tight they hurt as she waited for him to unlock the double doors, painted and carved with the elaborate twining-rose-and-stag theme, the Wulfsinraed crest.

Eyes alight, he glanced at her. “Hold this a moment.”

She held the torch while he lit the tallow with his flint and steel, then reclaimed the light. “Since I have the torch, I will lead. Are you ready?”

She straightened her spine and tried to smile, but feared the attempt fell dismally short. But despite the dread that threatened to swallow her whole, she could not help but be swayed by the boyish exuberance that bubbled under Fallard’s concern. Had she not witnessed it, this playful manner was a side of the new lord of Wulfsinraed she would not have believed existed. Always, he was the fearsome warrior, the forbidding captain, the stern master of the hall, the daunting man who rarely lowered his guard.

She looked into his hopeful gaze, liking very much this lighthearted Fallard, this glimpse into the boy he must once have been. She wished not to see this guise fade, banished by her own fearful gloom. No matter how difficult, she would trust him in this.

He propped the doors against the walls with rocks provided for that purpose. Cold, musty air puffed out around them, smelling of spices, dust, age and beneath it all, the faint odor of corruption. He caught her hand again and with torch held high, they stepped across the threshold. Stone steps opened out at the bottom into a small vestibule adorned with naught but a stool beneath a carved wooden cross hanging on one wall, and two extra torches in iron holders on the other.

He stopped and crooked a finger beneath her chin. “You are certain?”

“Aye.”

Something flared in his eyes and he smiled.

Beyond the vestibule, a wide hall opened out. It stretched farther than their torchlight could penetrate. To either side, the flickering flame touched on row after row of deep crypts, two in number in each row, one atop the other. Within each crypt rested stone coffins, their lids swathed with shrouds of embroidered fabric, once colorful but now decaying into the very dust that covered them.

She fell in behind as he moved to the right, toward the lower of the first set of crypts, where two coffins lay together. Upon the lid of the outer one lay a jeweled langseax, while ranged about it were a sword, helm and shield.

He pointed to letters etched into the stone above the recess. “I cannot read this. What say the words?”

“’Tis an ancient dialect, but one my father’s fathers have preserved through the twelvemonths. The first line at the top says this is the resting place of Eorl Wulfsin of Cuthendun, the Wanderer, King’s Thegn of Wulfsinraed. Below that it reads, “Elfleda, beloved consort of Wulfsin.”

“Wulfsin and his wife! The wandering warrior and long ago builder of all that is now mine.” Fallard flashed a look at her, his gaze grown solemn. “’Tis a humbling thing to stand beside this man. ’Tis as if I feel the weight of all the long twelvemonths since his time, closing upon me. Feel you the same?”

“Aye, I feel it. I can say not I like it.”

He stepped closer to the crypt, knelt on his uninjured knee, bowed his head and began to speak in the Norman tongue.

She leaned close to hear. As the words translated themselves in her mind, she caught her breath and began to tremble.

This dark knight, this Norman warrior so powerful, so strong, so stern, offered a vow to the ancient lord of Wulfsinraed.

“Wulfsin of Cuthendun. I, Fallard D’Auvrecher of Clécy, do vow upon your memory to do all in my power to be accounted worthy of this gift of your legacy. I swear to protect Wulfsinraed and give diligent care to its betterment. I also, upon my soul, do vow with all my strength to protect, cherish and provide for Ysane, Wulfsingas-daughter, with whose care I have been entrusted. May my life be forfeit, do I fail in either endeavor.”

A sudden rush of fresh air from outside fluttered Ysane’s headrail as he finished his oath. She started, and shivered, glancing around at the shadows. Was that a whisper, floating softly upon the breeze? Nay! ’Twas but her imagination. Wulfsin was long dead. He could answer not Fallard’s pledge, but could he know, she thought he surely would approve.

Fallard stepped back.

She failed to move quickly enough out of his way. “Ouch!”

“Forgive me, my rose!” He danced to remove his heavy boot from her small foot, wincing at the stab of pain to his wound, then grinned at her. She stared back, uncaring her heart must shine from her eyes. No man, not one of her old swains, not even the betrothed husband of her youth, had ever sworn for her such an oath.

He went still, watching her expression. His hand lifted to touch her cheek, but then his eyes narrowed to focus on something over her shoulder.