Rose of Hope (36 page)

His brows furrowed. “My rose?”

“What…what was that you said?”

Uncomprehending, he cocked his head at her. “What part? That I had a good visit?”

“Nay. That part about…about t-transporting prisoners of the rebellion to Normandy.”

“Aye, there were a great many of them, and ’twas my responsibility to see they….”

Too late, he halted. By the saints! He had been so relaxed with her he had chattered like a child and foolishly let slip a piece of information he had not intended for her to know, not yet.

She looked as if she had gone into shock, as well she might.

He kept his tone gentle. “I wish to know what you are thinking, little rose.”

“My father. ’Twas you! You were the captain who took him from his home, imprisoned him in that foreign place where he died alone and in pain, and all the while you enjoyed your own home and family, while we grieved. ’Twas you, was it not?”

“Ysane….”

But accusation rang in her voice. “Admit it, my lord! ’Twas
you.
”

His heart counted five slow beats ere he answered. “Aye. Kenrick Wulfsingas was among the prisoners I took to Nourmaundie.”

Trembling, her chest heaving, she squirmed away from his side and stood to face him. “Was it your intent to wed with me without telling of this?” She gave a little sob and looked away. “Mercy! I am to wed the man who stole my father from me.”

He counted heartbeats again, holding to his patience and his temper with a fierce grip. Here was the last secret he had yet to explain, but ’twas not the time he would have chosen to reveal it.

He caught her hands and would not let her go, though she tugged to free herself. “You will sit down, and be silent.” He waited until she complied, though she would not look at him. “Ere I answer you, say me this. Now you know, what good has it done for you to learn this information?”

Her head jerked around. The glint of tears gleamed, turning moss green eyes into emerald brilliance. “Good! Good? You ask if the learning of this is a thing I find ‘good’? How think you that, my lord? What strange path leads to that end?”

“I said
not
that ’twas good, Ysane, and that is my point. You have endured much in the past twelvemonths, and I sought not to add to your pain. ’Twas my belief this knowledge would but bring you torment, and for that reason, I chose to withhold it until such time I deemed you able to bear it with less misgiving.”

“Ah. I see now. You had but my best interests in mind.”

“Think as you will, but ’tis truth I did think it best. Ysane, ’twas not my choice to transport those prisoners. ’Twas my given duty. I have never yet failed to obey my king. I am sorry, truly sorry, your father chose the path of rebellion against his liege-lord,
but ’twas his choice!
If in the end, William had lost his battle, things would be different. Most likely, your father would still live, you would have wed your betrothed, and naught of the past three twelvemonths would be as it is.

“But William won, my lady, as he has always done—always! There were consequences to the barons’ defeat, and one of those was the price your father had perforce to pay.”

“Speak not to me of consequences, Fallard D’Auvrecher!” She flung the words at him as if she wished they were knives. “You could have offered mercy. William could have granted clemency. My father was not a young man. You knew he would survive not his imprisonment, and so far from home.”

“Aye, I knew. ’Twas not meant that he should. His banishment was for life. Think you of the words you speak, Ysane! Your father freely gave his oath of fealty to King William, and then he willfully broke it. ’Twas an act of dishonor he chose of his own will. Well he knew that forfeiture of all he held dear would be the price of failure. Think you not he counted the cost ere he made that choice? What would he say to you, stood he here now, in front of you? Would he weep and cry he had been sorely used? Methinks not.”

He reined his anger. “I became acquainted, somewhat, with Kenrick Wulfsingas during that journey to his imprisonment. I found him thoughtful, a man of conscience and strong loyalties. He held no rancor against me, or even against William. He understood, as every man of war must, that ’twas the consequence—aye, Ysane, the consequence, like you the word or not—of defeat, and of the breaking of his oath.”

He sighed. “Would it ease your heart to know he was well during the journey, that he ate heartily and laughed, and that he and I played
eschecs
on many a night, as he had played with William ere leaving London? Indeed, ’twas his proficiency at the game that led William, on a whim, to exile him instead of putting him to death.”

“You…and the king, played chess with my father?” She looked dumbfounded.

“Aye, and he won most of our games.”

She stared at him, unblinking. Finally, she looked beyond him, at that which only she could see. Her lips curved in a painful hint of a smile. “He would have. He was a master player, oft times defeating King Harold, and before him, King Edward.”

“We also spoke of you.” He lifted her chin. “Your father was deeply concerned for your welfare. His only regret in the decision he made was in fearing you would be forced to pay for his mistake. But he knew not of Renouf, and he had great hopes you would marry your betrothed and be happy. When last I spoke to him, ere he was taken away, he asked that if ever I came to this part of the land, I find you and speak of his love for you. ’Twas his wish you be told of that love, and he was especially anxious you worry not for him. ‘Who knows,’ he said once. ‘Mayhap I will yet come home at some later time.’ He expected not to die in Nourmaundie. He expected to live. ’Twas the fault of no one he survived not the fever. A great many others of my people also died from that same illness.”

Fallard urged her into his arms. She resisted him not, though she held herself as one of stone. “His request concerning you was the other reason I asked to lead the attack against Renouf of Sebfeld. I swore an oath to Kenrick Wulfsingas I would do all in my power to see to your care, did I ever come here. I had a debt to pay, to you. It pleased William not, but he had, perforce, to agree.

“Aye, I will hide not my desire. I did wish to rule Wulfsinraed, and to wed with you. With all your father spoke concerning you, ’twas my belief we would do well together as husband and wife. But you must believe I came to respect and admire him. Had the decision been mine, he would have returned home. Yet ’twas none of my doing, and your father understood that. I can only hope one day, you will also.”

They sat silent while the sun slid toward the west. The light faded. The shadows returned inside the tiny copse ere Ysane spoke again.

“’Tis truth, what you say. Once defeated, father would have fought not his fate, nor bemoaned it. Indeed, he could have reached safety ere William’s soldiers arrived to take him away. He chose rather to face with dignity and courage the outcome of his actions, though I begged him with tears to flee.

“Methinks you came to know somewhat of the man my father was. Despite his decision to revoke his sworn oath to William, he
was
a man of honor. I remember well his arguments with Thegn Randel. He made not that decision lightly, without thought, or for glory or praise. He said he could ignore not the atrocities William committed against our people in the north of this land. Had those awful things occurred ere he gave his oath he would never have made it. In the end, ’twas that black evil that swayed him toward his choice.

“’Twould have been convenient had his conscience allowed him to ignore it, for he knew ’twas not right to break his oath. But when the choice lay between two wrongs, and still he must needs choose, then the consequence of one, the lesser wrong, became an arrow to his heart, while the other, the greater wrong, an arrow to his soul.” She raised her gaze to him. “For him, which would have been the more fatal, think you?”

“Ysane, I understand your father’s dilemma. For an honorable man, the choice would have been clear. It seems Kenrick Wulfsingas willingly accepted the arrow to the heart, and though it cost his life, he died at peace with himself, his conscience clear. No man can ask for more when his life’s journey reaches its end.”

He held her close to his chest, his chin resting on the top of her head. “I am honored, little rose, to have known Kenrick Wulfsingas, and am much pleased to seek a life with his daughter, for she is in her way a woman of like kind with her sire.”

A shiver passed over her as a playful zephyr caressed them.

At once, he reached for her mantle to wrap round her. “You are cold.”

“’Tis only because ’tis still spring. In summer, the glade is wonderfully warm. I used to bathe in the pool oft times. ’Tis deep enough, and when the sun is high overhead, warm enough. Cynric insured I would not be disturbed. But it has been twelvemonths since the last time.”

Instant heat sizzled through Fallard’s veins, coalescing into desire so strong he feared he would lose control. Images of Ysane rising from the pool with water sluicing from her unbound hair and down her wet skin burned through his thought like the strange lights that betimes streaked across the night sky.

He set her away from him and stepped outside the little copse into the glade, needing a diversion to his thoughts. Aye, he had been dangerously distracted, for too long, from that which occurred in the forest around them. Rather than succumb to the desire that thrummed within him from head to toe, he paced across the glade and focused all his senses on aught of his earlier unease.

It struck him again, stronger this time. Someone, or something, still waited. He knew it,
felt
it, but could put no finger on what it might be. As he swung round to call to Ysane they were leaving, a faint ping sounded behind him and something brushed his jaw. Ere his mind fully registered an arrow had missed his throat by a hair’s breadth, he was already running, yelling at her to take cover.

He heard the twang that accompanied the release of a second shaft, followed rapidly by a third off to his right. He flung himself hard in the opposite direction. A grunt sounded behind him.

He looked to where Ysane should be and drew a sigh of relief when he saw her hugging the earth, just outside the copse. Her eyes were wide as she sought him out. Praise be! She had obeyed, and she was safe. He half-rolled, half-crawled behind the sheltering boll of an oak and sought to quiet his mind. His sword was useless against a bow, but a warrior might use other weapons to defeat a hidden enemy.

For endless seconds the startled silence in the glade remained unbroken. As he prepared to make a dash to another tree—he had to try to get behind the assailant, if he could—he registered soft footfalls coming his direction. Whoever ’twas made no effort at stealth, and he believed the other thought he was down.

The footsteps came to a stop on the other side of the tree trunk, some few feet away. He had time only to wonder if the man had lost sight of him or simply waited for him to move ere shooting him down, when Ysane’s scream echoed across the glade. He was on his feet in a flash, barreling around the tree toward her, arrows and swords notwithstanding, only to slide to an astonished halt as he watched his little rose fling herself, weeping and laughing at the same time, into the waiting arms of a tall, bronzed man in woodman’s garb. A longbow and quiver of arrows lay on the ground beside him where he had dropped them to catch her. The stranger lifted her high and swung her around in a circle, once, twice, thrice, ere setting her back on her feet and catching her once again in his arms. She rained ecstatic kisses all over his face.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

I will kill him!

Fallard’s entire body stiffened, as rigid as the steel of his blade. Inside his gut, something squeezed. His lips compressed over a snarl that shocked him in its intensity.

She freely offers kisses and laughter to this stranger, but I must work to coax from her even one smile.

He shook off the new and unpleasant sensation to glance around the glade, wondering what had happened to their assailant. He thought he could guess, remembering the release of a third arrow. Waiting with diminishing patience to be remembered by the two who still stood altogether too close for his liking, he decided there was but one person this newcomer could be.

“Fallard!” Ysane’s face was radiant. “Come and greet Cynric.”

The stranger turned to face him, his arm around Ysane’s waist.

He saw at once the rumors were correct. Without doubt, Cynric Master Carver was the son of Kenrick Wulfsingas. Mayhap, five twelvemonths Fallard’s senior, he bore the stamp of his paternity in moss green eyes, in the lines of his face and in the same unconscious stance of authority and self-assurance that had characterized Kenrick.

Though his hair was darker, honey-brown rather than flaxen, he also bore a striking resemblance to Ysane. A jagged scar wound its way down his right cheek, from his ear almost to the corner of his mouth. Despite the disfigurement, Fallard thought his sisters would consider him handsome with his powerful shoulders and strong, stout limbs.

But there was somewhat else he could not descry, a certain look, as if his features were a thin overlay of another face he knew, but could remember not. His previous unease returned full force. Cynric reminded him of someone he knew and distrusted, but recognition hovered just beyond his grasp. Thus, his greeting was not so genial as it might otherwise have been.

Laughing, Ysane hurried to him, her hands wrapped around Cynric’s arm, tugging him along. ’Twas as if she feared did she let him go, he would vanish once again from her sight. The love that radiated from her expression set twinges of annoyance to flickering. Why did she look not at
him
that way?

Abruptly realizing he was jealous of Ysane’s
brother
, Fallard cursed beneath his breath. Jealousy was a childish and unworthy emotion, and one that unfailingly brought more grief than ’twas worth.

Why then, do I still wish to pummel this man with my fists, if not run him through with my sword?