Rose of Hope (39 page)

Fallard’s First, in full mail except for his helm, with a sash of gold and his best sword around his waist, stood close by, as did the two excited squires, Roul and Fauques. But Trifine’s focus was Roana, and he had eyes only for her. The dragonflies in Ysane’s stomach calmed their wild play, just a little, in her joy for her cousin. Roana was enchanting in layers of saffron linen of the finest weave, soft as clouds, overlaid by gold-threaded, heavily embroidered cinnamon silk, a rare and costly fabric, that transformed her golden brown eyes to burnished bronze. She gazed adoringly at Trifine. The true love that bound her cousin and the First thrilled her heart.

A hush fell, silencing the hall. Ysane glanced to her left as the women shuffled aside to make way for Marlee, followed by Lady Hildeth, supported on Fallard’s arm. Ysane inhaled at the sight of her betrothed. As was Trifine, he was resplendent in full mail, excepting only his helm. Embroidered upon the black tunic overlaying his hauberk were shields of banded sapphire, crimson and gold on a pure white field. Within the blue bands were woven rings of golden hue, and in the yellow, leaping stags of brown, while in the red were white roses—the colors and crest of Wulfsinraed. He looked magnificent, and she was quite unashamedly dazzled.

Her sire’s mother stepped in front of her. Lady Hildeth looked her up and down with faded green eyes twinkling with lively sentience, and then embraced her.

Ysane tried to gather her wits. “Ieldramodor
,
’tis past time you came down. Everyone was waiting upon you. I thought ’twas certain you meant to sleep through my wedding.”

“And I should miss the most auspicious event of the twelvemonth? Methinks not,” Lady Hildeth shot back. “’Tis not every day one’s nefene is wed. This most handsome young man of yours,” and she gestured to Fallard, “makes me wish I was young again, and could challenge you for him. Methinks mayhap, he is nigh the equal of my own beloved Lyolf.” She kissed Ysane and whispered, “Your father would be proud, child, Norman or nay.”

“Aye, Ieldramodor
,
I know it.”

She glanced at Fallard and was snared by his unblinking stare.

Lady Hildeth turned to Fallard, her movements quick as a bird’s. “What are we waiting for, nefa? The day progresses and I would see you wed ere ’tis over!”

Silence greeted her words.

“My lord D’Auvrecher!”

***

Fallard blinked at the insistent voice calling his name. He had not the slightest notion of aught that had transpired since the moment he stepped from the tower anteroom and laid eyes on his bride.

As a young child, he had spent many summers with his father’s brother, Rollant, in his manor on the River Medway in the village of Medestan in the south of this land. He was taught to speak, and then read the language of the Saxon people so that he could glory in the telling of the old poems and sagas of epic battles with men and monsters. Now he remembered Hygd, the wise and stunningly beautiful queen of King Hygelac, uncle to the mighty warrior Beowulf. It seemed to him Lady Ysane could take her place as a peer among that exalted throng.

Adorned in the syrce of emerald velvet over a pale green silken cyrtel, she was a vision to inspire scops for generations to come. The syrce, gathered at her waist with a silver fringed girdle, was banded at neck, sleeve and hem in intricate designs wrought with silver embroidery.

A shimmering, ankle-length headrail shot through with filaments of silver thread lay like a mantle of frosted snow around her head and shoulders. Sparkling through the gossamer veil, slender ropes of silver and pearls wound through her hair, gathering and binding the flaxen strands in a graceful series of braids and coils. A circlet of multiple silver chains anchored the headdress and draped across her forehead, delicate as a spun silver web.

Yet in all this costly material beauty, ’twas the look in her clear, moss green eyes, catching the reflection of the silver threads, that stole his breath. She stared at him as though enchanted. Her sweet lips, pink as roses and glistening where the tip of her tongue had moistened them, drew his dazzled gaze, and hunger woke in him for a taste of them, more tempting than any morsel of sweetened fruit. She drifted toward him as one in a trance. The natural bloom of delicate color in her cheeks increased to a lovely blush and then retreated, leaving her pale as mist.

Saint’s teeth, but she is beautiful, my white rose, and she is mine!

Long ago in battle, an enemy had used his head to halt the hefty swing of the blunt end of his lance. Despite the protection of his mail coif and helm, it had been days ere he had ceased feeling addled. He felt no less dazed now, and strove to remember where he was and what he did. What was it about this woman that always tumbled him off-balance?

“Do you plan to marry the lady, my lord, or stand here looking at her all day?”

The mirthful question from Domnall goaded him back to awareness. He met the first marshal’s laughing eyes, then Trifine’s bemused glance. Bowing to Ysane, he took his place beside her, gently chafing her icy hand as he placed it over his arm.

Triumph heavy in his voice, he said, “By all means! We shall proceed. Most anxious am I to tie this sweet knot as tightly as may be.”

He draped Ysane’s green velvet mantle over her shoulders while Trifine did the same for his love. Lady Hildeth, with Varin’s gentle grip on her arm and Marlee beside her, fell in behind Trifine and Roanna as the procession moved from the hall into brilliant sunshine.

Ahead of them all, marched proud Roul and Fauques, dressed in their finest, carrying their lords’ helms and bearing aloft the lances from which their lords’ crested pennons streamed. Fallard lips twitched. For once, his squire’s ebullience was muted as he struggled to maintain a dignified mien, while Fauques looked more like he led a funerary procession.

A deafening shout of welcome assaulted the sky from the throats of Wulfsinraed’s populace. Along with the king’s troops, they lined both sides of the old cobbled road from the hall to the chapel. Startled birds squawked at the noise and swerved, changing course in mid-flight as they winged rapidly away for regions less threatening.

***

The march between the columns of her happy people did naught to dispel the sense of unreality that enwrapped Ysane more completely than her veil. With a smile as frozen as winter’s ice she answered unending felicitations of goodwill and blushed at the sometimes bawdy, but always well-intended wishes that she and Fallard be blessed with multiple offspring. Trifine and Roana were showered with the same.

Panic rose. Breathing became difficult as her heart pounded with the rhythm of a runaway stallion. She felt so cold, like a maid of ice, despite the hot blood that ebbed and waned in her face.

Faith! Will I disgrace myself yet again by swooning ere we reach the chapel? This is foolishness! I want this marriage.

She clenched Fallard’s arm with a death grip and started when he leaned close. “Shall I carry you, my rose?”

Concern shone from his midnight eyes. When she did not answer, the shouts of the crowd morphed into thunderous whoops of amusement and exuberant, good-natured laughter as he gathered her into his arms and kissed her. The caress proceeded so thoroughly that when he lifted his head, heat of an intensity to melt wax replaced the chill of her skin and she well knew her face had acquired the color of her roses.

He touched his forehead to hers and whispered, “Think you that you can manage on your own two feet?”

Unsure whether she wished to slap him or kiss him again, Ysane settled for a sigh of gratitude that he had shattered her panic.

As Fallard steadied her on her feet, she somehow found a hesitant smile. “I will be fine now.”

“We should like to get on with this day’s activities, if you please, nefa
.”
Lady Hildeth’s imperious voice rang out from behind them, bringing on more gales of laughter from the people.

They made their way to the chapel gate, the men bending to avoid the lowest branches of the old willow. Father Gregory, eyes alight with gladness, awaited them at the chapel door. They bent their heads in unison as the priest raised his hands in prayerful blessing, then preceded them through the mass of stewards, knights and hearth companions waiting on either side of the nave. Sir Gyffard, Sir Aalot and Sir Harold stood among them.

Curious, Ysane glanced around. Lewena had been in charge of preparing the chapel and this was her first time to see it. ’Twas beautiful. Clean, and with newly whitewashed walls, it smelled like spring. Cut branches of blossoming laurel and flowering pear were scattered about the space. A gentle breeze wafted through the open windows, entwining the spicy fragrance of the first with the softer scent of the latter. Ribbons of rainbow hue looped around the chapel’s carved support columns and formed swags between them. Soft white linen, gold-embroidered with Wulfsinraed’s stag and roses standard, lay draped over the altar. The flames of many candles flickered over the crucifix, drawing out the light intrinsic within the gold.

As Fallard halted with her before the altar, she glanced to see Jehan come behind and turn his back to them as he faced those gathered, while Domnall took identical stance in the train of Trifine and Roana. The swords of both were raised as if for battle in the ancient Saxon tradition of guarding the backs of the grooms. The sight teased another smile from her. She had asked her betrothed for this specific practice to be included in the ceremony.

Fallard had approved. “I have no expectation of violence,” he said, “but I deem the custom wise. It leaves no place for unhappy surprises.”

Father Gregory cleared his throat. Fallard caught her hand and pulled her closer and still closer until the heat that radiated from him felt to her like that of a torch against her side.

The ceremony was a simple one with straightforward vows.

“My lord D’Auvrecher,” Father Gregory intoned. “Choose you this woman, Ysane Wulfsingas, Kendrick-daughter, to take to wife?”

Fallard, his midnight eyes blazing, held her gaze. His voice rang clearly so all might hear, “I do choose you, Ysane, daughter of Kenrick Wulfsingas, as my wife. I receive you as mine, so you become my wife and I your husband.”

Ysane’s heart tripped as she repeated the words from her own feminine perspective.

Trifine and Roana then declared the oath to each other. Ysane watched in delight as Trifine slipped a band of gold upon the hand of his bride, but her breath caught in her throat when Fallard placed upon her finger the ring of Lady Edeva, held by Lady Hildeth since her mother’s death.

’Twas a thing of beauty, her mother’s ring, a heavy circlet of silver strands woven into an ancient design. Passed down through the wives of the thegns since the time of Elfleda, beloved wife to Wulfsin, upon whose graceful finger it had first rested, ’twas told the women who wore it would always know joy, aye, even in the very face of sorrow. For the first time, Ysane understood the prophecy. Though she sorrowed still in the loss of her father and daughter, ’twas joy unlooked for to become wife to Fallard D’Auvrecher.

“Kneel, my children,” Father Gregory said. He prayed a final blessing upon their union and the service was done. He led them to the chapel door and drew them outside to the waist wall gate. With Fallard and Ysane on one side and Trifine and Roana on his other, he caught the free wrists of the two knights in his hands and raised them on high, declaring the couples wed.

The wild cheers that greeted this announcement surpassed the previous shouts. Led by Wurth, Wulfsinraed’s musical troupe struck up a lively tune and in the flash of a
mode
, the whole mass of folk were dancing and singing. Ysane squealed as Varin whisked her from Fallard’s side, exhibiting an agile grace as he danced her away. Sir Harold stole Roana from Trifine, but neither groom had opportunity to complain for they found themselves joining the convivial activity as two of the steward’s wives pulled them into the throng.

A succession of partners danced the newly wedded couples back to the hall. By the time they reached the steps and were reunited, Ysane bubbled with breathless laughter and even Fallard wore a tolerant grin. Now jealously guarding her, he swept her into the hall, which was decorated to the rafters with green boughs and colorful spring blooms.

Ysane caught Ethelmar’s eye. Face beaming, her dish-thegn quickly approached.

He bowed. “My heartiest congratulations, my lord, my lady. This is a happy day for us all.”

“Thank you, Ethelmar,” she said. “Is all in readiness, even for those without?”

“Aye, my lady. Naught is left but to enjoy the celebration.”

The hall tables nigh bowed beneath the most substantial meal the burh had seen in many a twelvemonth, but those for whom there was no room inside found they were not forgotten. Every extra stool and bench available was on the practice field, and where those ended, there was no lack of furs spread upon the ground. Huge, temporary fire pits were set up wherein sides of beef, whole sheep and boars, racks of sausages and trout and spits of fowl roasted. The meats blended their delicious, sizzling odors with that of baking breads, roasting and boiling vegetables, stews and custards, and cakes made with fruits and berries garnished with nuts, cream and honey.

Fallard escorted her to the lord’s table.

He seated her and then bent to drop a kiss on her forehead. “I have feasted in William’s halls, wife,” he said, approval and admiration in his gaze, “but found there no rival for the spread I see here. You have done well in the supervision of this day’s festivities. I am proud of you, Ysane.”

Something relaxed in that small corner of her soul that had earlier quailed in trepidation. In that moment, looking into the appreciative eyes of her new husband, she understood. This was no mistake, and no farce. She would be safe within this man’s hand, and more, she would find contentment.

With a small, convulsive movement, she caught his arm. “Fallard.”

He inclined his head to her. “Aye, my rose?”