Rose of Hope (44 page)

“Nay, my lord, that is no blizzard. ’Tis naught but a bit of a blow, though I mind not saying as how I am glad to be inside, despite it.”

Fallard caught the look that passed between Trifine and Jehan and chuckled. “Tuck is from the northlands,” he explained. “’Twould seem up there, this be but a breeze. Tuck, ease my mind and show me around the stable. We Normans dislike this kind of gentle wind. Makes us nervous.”

For the next several minutes, torches in hand, they followed Tuck around. Fallard stopped to let Tonnerre nuzzle him in welcome, feeding the destrier two of the sweet, dried apples he had stolen from the kitchen ere coming outside. He then moved to Foudre’s stall where he spoke quietly to the courser, who pranced and whinnied softly ere playfully nudging him off his feet into a pile of hay.

At the sight, Jehan guffawed. “He loves you, Captain.”

Fallard scrambled to his feet and brushed himself off, grateful the straw was clean. “I will get you for that someday,” he promised the big stallion. He felt the tremor of Foudre’s flesh as he ran his hand in a caress down the courser’s neck. “Aye, aye, you can have some too, though your manners are atrocious.”

He pulled the last two apples from where Foudre snuffled inside the folds of his cloak and fed them to the beast. He turned to Tuck. “All is well here. We go to the village now.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Satisfied no harm had come to the animals—or the people—in the stables, Fallard sent Tuck back to bed and ventured out into the ‘bit of a blow’. The sky had grown considerably lighter while they were inside and the wind had lessened its fury. ’Twas now light enough to see a figure hurrying toward them. Fallard recognized the man as Grimbol, the burh fowler and one of the huntsmen.

“Thegn D’Auvrecher!” He huffed the words as soon as he came close. His face was a mask of concern. “There has been an accident in the village. We have need of all the men who may be spared.”

“What has happened?”

The man’s panted breaths appeared nigh solid in the bitter air. “’Tis Ceorl the cowherd and his family. The roof of his house caved in. We cannot reach them.” A spasm of pain crossed his pale face and Fallard recalled Ceorl was Grimbol’s best friend. “Ceorl has a wife and nine children. The oldest is but four and ten summers. The youngest is an infant.”

“Saint’s toes!” Trifine breathed.

Fallard feared he knew which house had collapsed. There was an old wattle-walled cottage, a large structure built along the lines of a hall, on the far side of the village. He had already marked the cottage as needing major repairs or mayhap, replacement, as soon as time and weather permitted. He hoped ’twas not too late.

“Grimbol, return to the village. Tell them help comes, and to gather all the extra clothing that may be found. Jehan, apprise Ethelmar. We will need hot food and drink, blankets and buckets of hot water. Wake the stewards.
Drag
them out of bed, if you must, and send someone as escort for Luilda…and watch out for the ice on the steps,” he shouted after his Second as Jehan dashed for the hall.

Jehan waved acknowledgement without turning or breaking his stride.

Turning to Trifine, he opened his mouth, but his First was ahead of him. “I know. I will hurry them,” he said, and ran for the east tower and the garrison there.

Fallard sprinted toward the wall stairs, taking care on the slippery ground. In the gray light, there was not as much snow as he had expected to see, barely enough to cover his booted toes, but beneath it, the ice was thick.

Hauling himself to the guard tower for a second time, he bounded inside. “You there.” He gestured to a man he recognized as belonging to Wulfsinraed’s hearth companions, but whose name he did not yet know. “Sound the alert! There has been an accident in the village. You and you, come with me, but ‘ware the ice! ’Twill do no good should you be added to the injured list.”

He led the men toward the tunnel, still standing open from Grimbol’s passage.

The gate guards saluted. “What has happened, my thegn? Grimbol had no time to say.”

“A house has collapsed.” He threw the words as he passed.

The brassy peal of the alert, loud enough to be heard above a still vigorous wind, blared over their heads as they passed onto the bridge. Behind him came a sharp exclamation followed by several ominous thuds. Glancing back, he saw that one of the men had slipped on the treacherous ice and fallen, but apart from sporting a sheepish expression on his cold-reddened face, he was already scrambling to his feet with a hand from his companion.

Fallard raced through the village gate and felt his heart sink. The damaged home was the very one he feared, set back from the river, across from the mill. The family was poor, with little coin for upkeep. He had been told they but moved into the place within the past twelvemonth, grateful to receive a dwelling spacious enough to hold their large family in what was, for them, real comfort.

He felt his expression wax grim as he approached. Men already worked to clear debris, but the house had been a construction of considerable age and when the roof gave way, it had pulled in much of the walls along with it. Those inside were buried deep. He glanced at the lightening sky.

At least we will not be forced to dig through this broken shell in the dark, but methinks ’twill be a miracle if any still live. ’Tis great fortune the whole place does not burn. Mayhap the weight of snow and ice smothered the fires in the pit.

As he drew nigh, a shout went up. One of the men had found something.

“’Tis one of the children,” the man cried as with care he lifted away bits and pieces in an effort to prevent more debris from cascading down. “Methinks he lives!”

A cheer went up as hope, grown dim as the men worked but found no sign of life, was renewed. Moments later, a boy of mayhap four summers was lifted free of the rubble.

“‘Aye, he lives, but not for long do we not warm him. Faith! He feels colder than the snow.” The man who found him handed him to another, then cried, “There are more here! Several others slept with the boy.”

One by one, the children were brought out, their rescuers swaddling them in blankets and cradling them to their breasts.

“Take them to the hall,” Fallard said. “They are prepared for the injured.”

“Aye, my thegn!”

Though hampered by the hazardous conditions, the men redoubled their efforts as he and his companions joined them. Silence descended as they worked.

A short time later, he glanced up at a shout to see the off-duty garrison, with the stewards and their men among them, headed their way at a shambling run. Relief surged. If any more of the family yet lived, they would be out from under the wreckage in a trice.

***

Ysane shifted beneath the mound of blankets and furs, then groaned and pushed back the edges. The unnatural brightness blazing through the cracks in the shutters made her squint.

What discourteous soul raised the tapestries from over the windows and dropped the sun inside the room?

Blinking, she reached out to the space beside her, but her questing hand encountered only cold bedding. Disappointed, she sat up, alone in the big bed, then shivered as the unusually cold air in the bower ran sharp fingers down her bare skin. She peered through her lashes in an effort to blank out some of the brilliance, and wondered what time it was.

My head hurts, and I am tired. Have I slept very late?

She jumped when Roana’s quiet voice answered her, increasing the pounding in her head. “Aye, Ysane, you have slept late. You even slept through the sounding of the alert, but you must awaken now and pay attention.”

I must have said that thought aloud! ’Tis difficult to focus through the pain. The wine. It had to be the wine.

Yester day, for the first time in her life she had overindulged, then foolishly had another glass after coming to bed. Why else would the light be so painfully radiant? Her ears caught the rustle of clothing drawing nigh, but she sensed rather than saw Roana hold out a goblet.

Fighting nausea, she shook her head, but Roana grabbed her hand and forced the cup into her hand. “Luilda said to drink it all, first thing upon waking.”

She groaned again, but drank. Luilda was usually right. The bitter draught went down and sat uneasily on her stomach, but did not come not back up as she expected. Even better, the nausea began to ease and within minutes, she could actually see her cousin’s face, only to decide she wished she could not.

Roana’s expression was bleak, and the tracks of tears marked her cheeks. She rocked back and forth on the stool.

“Roana, what is wrong? Why do you weep?” A sudden, terrible thought brought her fully awake. “Oh mercy, tell me not aught has happened to Trifine?”

“Nay, ’tis not that. But my dear, there has been a tragedy in the village. Two children are dead.”

Chill bumps chased across her skin. “Tragedy? The village? Roana, make sense. What has happened?”

“’Twas the blizzard. The wind was so strong. It tore the roof off the cottage and collapsed the building onto the family. They were buried, Trifine says. The men were able to dig them out, but ’twas too late for two of the little ones, and Luilda is uncertain a third will survive his injuries.”

The correlation between the brilliance of the daylight and the cold of the room caught up with her tired brain, dulled from too much spirits and too little sleep.

The light is a reflection off of ice and snow! But ’twas so lovely and warm when we retired last eve. We all thought spring had come to stay. How is it there was a blizzard in the night, and, oh mercy, how can two children lie dead?

Then something else Roana said registered. “Said you the warning trumpet sounded?”

“Aye. You slept through it.”

“Why then did no one wake me?” She had never before missed an alert. She had been needed and had not been there to help. She threw off the covers and shuddered as the cold radiated through the sheepskin on the floor to assault her bare feet. The chill on the room was severe, despite the heat from the brazier, which led to her next realization. She wore naught. She grabbed a cover of white fox furs and wrapped it round herself.

“My lord D’Auvrecher ordered you not be disturbed,” Roana said. “He said you needed your sleep. He cares much for you, Ysane.”

Despite the devotion she shared with Roana Ysane flushed, a deep, betraying blush that rose from her chest to flood her face all the way to her hairline. She burned from it, but oh, the sweet magic and staggering pleasure of the joyous discoveries she found in the night in her husband’s strong arms. Even in the sober light of day, the enthralling delights Fallard had shown her bore no relation to the selfish, hurtful mating that characterized Renouf’s bedplay. Renouf had raped, and preferred and enjoyed it that way. Fallard, while lusty, was a lover, tender and considerate. He had given her little chance to sleep, but his thoughtfulness extended to ordering her rest be not disturbed. He could not have known when he left the hall that such trouble would be waiting.

“Roana, deorling, you find me truly at a loss. Help me dress, please, and tell me exactly what has happened, from the beginning.”

***

“I am the resurrection and the life….”

The burh was in mourning.

Despite the warmth of her fur-lined cloak, Ysane shivered as she listened to the words of comfort intoned in Latin by Father Gregory. She understood the words, though few others present did. Tears coursed unhindered down her cheeks and she licked the salty substance from dry lips as her eyes rested on the two pathetically small bundles being lowered into the frozen earth. As her heart ached for those who grieved, she tried not to think of how her own sweet babe had been given no such decency as a Christian burial.

Nigh to her, Ceorl’s face remained blank, stoic. His unbroken arm curved around his wife’s bowed, bruised shoulders as her body shook beneath broken wails. Further away another woman, this one elderly, wept also, but her sobs were silent. Beyond her, waited two sober lads and their father, whose expression was harsh with the effort to control his sorrow.

The fierce storm that descended so unexpectedly upon the land two nights previously had stolen four precious lives from their little community. Two were the children of Ceorl and his wife Sreda, and included the youngest babe-in-arms, whose tiny body had been unharmed by the fallen roof but had been unable to withstand the cold. Another was the husband of the softly weeping elderly woman. He had awakened during the night and gone into the storm to check on their animals, but had apparently slipped on the ice, hit his head on a fence post and knocked himself out. Death found him swiftly.

The last of the dead was the sister of one of the burh ceorls. A widow, she had lived with her widowed brother, caring for his home and his two unmarried sons. The night of the storm she was on her way home from another farm some little distance away, where she had been tending to that farmer’s sick wife. She left ere nightfall, nigh the start of the storm, had somehow become disoriented and wandered deeper into the forest. Her body had not been found until this morn.

“Thy kingdom come, thy will be done….”

Beside her, Ysane felt the tension of Fallard’s impotent rage at Renouf as the shovelfuls of dirt fell into the graves. At least two of the deaths, those of the children, could have been avoided had Renouf performed his duties as lord. Under the system of civil land management established by King William, ’twas the responsibility of the lord to insure his people received adequate food, clothing and shelter. The latter meant seeing to needed repairs of homes.

Yet, her husband felt he could not place all blame for the collapse of Ceorl’s cottage at the feet of Renouf. He had known the house was in dire need of repair, but had deemed it structurally sound enough to wait until more pressing needs had been met. That none could have foreseen the deadly force of a late winter storm did not, in his mind, mitigate his accountability. She wept a little for him, too.