Rose of Hope (46 page)

What sweet, mysterious enchantment Fallard wrought with her in the depths of the night. He taught that which she had never guessed, nor even known existed…so unlike the times with Renouf. Nay! Not merely unlike, but
opposite
in every way.

Are these feelings I share with Fallard the true love of man with woman? They bear little resemblance to the songs of the scops. They are deeper, earthier, and far more satisfying than the sentiments of which the songs speak, however lovely those might be.

Idly tracing the embroidery on the canopy with her gaze, she lay still, musing on love. Cynric had said her parents loved each other deeply, though she remembered not the words ever being spoken in her hearing and had never truly considered their relationship. She recalled her mother’s death from a wasting disease when she was but three and ten summers, but ere that, there were memories of laughter and singing, of merry times in the hall that made it seem bright even on cloudy days. But the joy in her father’s eyes had dimmed the day her mother died. ’Twas a long time ere laughter had come again to the hall. Aye. It did seem love had ruled her parent’s life, for her father would not have grieved so did he not care for his wife. Pity for his pain rose to choke her, and swift tears trickled from the corners of her eyes to lose themselves in her hair. How blindly selfish she had been, not to have seen that before.

She had missed her mother, but never more so than now. She was mistress of the hall, but there was none to whom she could turn to discover the truth of what she felt. Already she cared enough for Fallard she would never betray him, and pleasing him gave her joy. She craved his company by her side, missing him even when he was but out of doors. He teased her, made her laugh and feel almost carefree, when there had been no mirth in her life for so very long. Certainly too, her body now loved him.

But cared she enough for him that his life, his future, his happiness mattered more to her than her own? Would she give her life for his? The scops always held that ideal as the highest proof of love. Mayhap, only time would tell.

The furious barking of a dog drifted to her window, reminding her ’twas past time to be up and about. A scratch on the door heralded Lynnet’s curious little face as she peeped inside.

“Come, Lynnet. I have lingered abed too long.”

She washed, and dressed in a faded blue work cyrtel. Lynnet braided her hair and pinned it in a coil at her nape, then tucked it beneath her oldest headrail. Ready for the day, she stepped onto the landing. She was late for the breaking of fast in the hall, but did she go to the kitchen, Alyce would see she had bread and cheese. Softly humming
The Maid of Sud Tun
, a merry tune of misguided love Wurth had first sung for her some days earlier, asking if ‘twere fit for use in the hall, she lifted her left foot off the landing to take the first step down.

There was no warning. A hand between her shoulder blades shoved. Caught off balance, she could not stop her body’s plunge down the curving stairs. With an instinctive and desperate effort, she twisted in midair, using the last bit of purchase she still had with her right toes against the stone tread to pitch herself into the window embrasure several steps further down. A whisper as of swishing skirts rushed past.

She slammed with a vicious jolt well inside the aperture, crying out when various parts of her body collided with and scraped against unyielding stone. Intense pain stole thought and breath. ’Twas several moments ere it subsided enough she could move. Mercy, but it hurt, especially her ribs, which had struck the sharp edge. She cautiously flexed different parts of her body, testing for pain indicating injury worse than bruises. It seemed there were no broken bones, but moisture crawled down her face from a throbbing cheekbone. It felt like the tickling feet of a caterpillar, but when she touched the tender spot, her fingertips came away red. Her forehead ached, too. Nay,
everything
hurt.

“My lady!” Lynnet’s voice shrieked above her, nigh startling her out of the embrasure. “Oh, my lady, what has happened?”

Her maid knelt beside her, dropping the bundle of bedding she was taking to be washed. “Lie still, lady, please!” She turned to call down the stairs. “Help! Help, my lady has fallen!”

“Lynnet, please, scream not so loudly.” The maid’s cries made her head throb worse. She blinked against dizziness. Between gulps to halt rising nausea, she said, “I am fine, truly.”

But her words came out as pained gasps and a weeping Lynnet ignored her command and called again for help.

She gasped as she forced herself to sit up and lean against the embrasure wall. Relieved to see only minor scrapes and scratches on exposed skin, she tried to reassure her maid. “I am merely bruised. The damage is slight.”

Though her ribcage ached abominably with every breath, she tried to stand, only to abandon the effort when Varin appeared, roaring threats like an avenging angel at whoever or whatever had hurt his lady. Directly behind him came Ingram, one of her hearth companions. The two men had become unlikely but fast friends.

“Move not, my lady,” Varin ordered as he bent to check her injuries. “What happened, Lynnet?”

“She fell, Sir Varin. God be thanked she landed in the window, but she must be terribly bruised. Methinks she should not try to walk.”

“I am perfectly fine,” Ysane whispered, “and I am capable of speaking for myself.”

No one paid her the slightest attention.

“I agree,” Varin said in reply to Lynnet. A chorus of ‘ayes’ echoed down the stairwell, which bulged with people, all exclaiming in concern. “Has Captain D’Auvrecher been sent for?”

Ethelmar, who only that moment had somehow shoved his way through the crowd, nodded. “’Tis already done.”

“Varin, I really am alright,” Ysane insisted. “I can walk. I need but the support of your arm.”

“Nonsense, my lady. Relax. I will see you safely back to your bower.” So saying, and with an anxious Ingram offering him unneeded advice, Varin lifted her from the embrasure. She could not prevent a sharp intake of breath.

Varin winced, though he carried her as if she were made of eggshell and ’twas his greatest task in life to see she did not crack.

He summoned a smile. “’Tis fortunate Ingram and I happened to be in the hall when your maid screamed. We were discussing a sword tactic new to him,” he said, as if ’twas something of great import for her to know.

With Lynnet leading the way and the entire throng on the stairs following, he returned her to the bower and deposited her on the bed. A commotion ensued outside the door and Fallard’s voice could be heard.

“Get out of my way,” he bellowed, all but shaking the rafters.

She met Varin’s glance. “Oh, dear.”

He grinned in rueful commiseration as her husband charged into the bower, trailed by Thegn Randel. Both men were bare-chested and sweating from enjoying a last sparring bout ere Randel returned home.

Fallard loomed over her, stark fear blazing from his midnight eyes. “Ysane, my love. Ysane!”

Ysane smiled in sudden delight at his words, then wished she had not. Smiling hurt, too.

“Varin!” Fallard grabbed his knight’s arm. “What goes here? How badly is she hurt? Where is Luilda? Answers! I want answers!”

***

Fallard was beside himself. The slave sent to the practice field to find him was very young, very excited and unsure of exactly what he was supposed to say. As a result his message was garbled, and all Fallard could clearly make out was ‘screaming’, ‘Lady Ysane’ and ‘stairs’. Terror such as he had known but once before in his life, when one of his brothers had fallen from a tree and he thought him dead, flooded his soul. Throwing his sword at Roul’s feet, he sprinted to the hall.

“Captain, methinks my lady will be fine,” Varin said, but he ignored him.

“Ysane, what has happened?” He ran his hands with practiced care along her limbs, his fear but slightly assuaged that she seemed awake, alert and none the worse for her accident. “Are you hurt, little rose, are you in pain?”

But she stared at him with a look akin to disbelief. “You called me ‘my love’,” she said. “I heard you. Oh, Fallard, please kiss me.”

Instantly, he forgot she was injured, forgot her pain, forgot everything as he absorbed the invitation glowing in moss green eyes. His head lowered to the soft pink of her parted lips and what little was left of the thread of his thoughts was lost. He was but a breath from the life-affirming taste of her, the need to
feel
she still lived.

“I beg your pardon, Captain.” Eyeing him with frank disapproval, Varin shoved away from the bedside, breaking the moment.

Fallard flushed.

What is this I do? She is hurt, and I wish to make love to her?

He struggled to bring under control emotions made unruly by his fear. “Ysane, tell me true. How badly are you hurt?”

“Fallard, I keep trying to tell everyone I am fine, but no one will listen. I fell down the stairs. I am bruised, of course, but quite certain no lasting damage was done.”

She sounded exasperated, and tried to sit up, but he refused to allow it. “Lie still, my love, and allow me to satisfy myself you are unharmed.” He turned his head and saw Roana and Lewena hovering. “Has Luilda been called?”

“Aye, she will be here shortly,” Lewena said. “She was in the village, apparently attending one of the elders.”

Fallard watched as with Ethelmar’s aid, Varin herded everyone down to the hall so Luilda would not have to maneuver her bulk through a packed stairwell. Even Roana and Lewena left, leaving them alone but for Lynnet.

He lifted Ysane’s hands, scratched and already turning colors, to cradle them in one of his own. He eyed the swelling bruise on her forehead and tenderly touched the ugly scrape on her cheek. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

“My lord, Luilda has come,” Ethelmar called from the door.

The healer pushed him aside. “My lord, I must see to my lady.”

He sighed. His answers would have to wait. Luilda removed Ysane’s headrail and with his help, got her clothes off so she could examine her.

He turned to Lynnet. The slave stood with her back against the wall, staring at him with no little trepidation.

Does the fool child think I will hurt her? What does she know of this incident?

“Lynnet, know you what happened with my wife?” He tried to sound unthreatening.

The maid surprised him by squaring her shoulders and facing him. “My thegn, I know only that I came from the bower with the wash in my hands, and found her lying in the window. ’Twas my thought she somehow tripped and fell.”

“You saw no one else on the stairs, nor heard aught?”

“Nay, and she said naught of any other. Nor did I hear aught, not even her cry, did she make one.”

“Very well. That will be all. Oh, and Lynnet, do you remember aught else, I wish to hear it immediately. You understand?”

She bobbed her head. “Aye, my thegn. ’Twill be as you say.”

He turned back to the bed. “Well, Luilda?”

“She has a laceration on her left palm, and as you have seen, this bad scrape on her cheek and a knot on her forehead,” the healer said without looking up. “The bump concerns me somewhat, for it grows larger. Still, it did not render her senseless and that is a good sign. I will watch to make sure no damage was done inside the head, but methinks ’tis but a minor injury.” She reached for a pot in her basket. “I must examine her further, but ’tis my belief my lady is not badly harmed, though she will have much discomfort for a few days. She complains of pain in her ribs and shows much bruising there.” She gently worked a soothing cream into the darkening areas on Ysane’s torso. “I am certain none are broken, but I wish to wrap them, lest any be cracked.”

“Should she stay abed, think you?” He slid an arm around his wife, clenching his teeth as she hissed when he lifted her, and supported her shoulders while Luilda wrapped binding cloths tight around her discoloring middle.

For the first time since her arrival in the chamber, the healer looked at him. “Nay, my lord. With such bruising, ’tis best she keeps moving, else she will grow too stiff. I will give her a draught for pain, but moderate activity is vital. I will return this eve with medicine to help her rest, and to apply the poultice she should wear while asleep.” Addressing Ysane, she said, “Should your discomfort become too strong ere then, my lady, send word, and I will come at once.”

Ysane nodded. “My thanks, Luilda.”

The healer watched her drink the pain draught, packed up her basket and left.

Fallard glanced at Lynnet as he knelt again beside the bed. “I will care for your mistress, Lynnet. You may go.”

At Ysane’s nod, the slave obeyed.

Ysane touched his cheek. “I told you I was alright, deorling. I fell but a short distance.”

“Most grateful I am you are not badly hurt, little rose, but allow me the right to hear the words from the healer.” But he mentioned not the terror he felt when he thought her nigh to death. Why it mattered, he understood not. ’Twas true he cared for her, and found her pleasing despite her occasional obstinance. Certainly, she satisfied well his manly needs in his bed. But while ’twas one thing to feel fear when a loved one was endangered, ’twas quite another to be reduced to a quivering fool by this woman—by
any
woman. It shook him to his core…and had he actually called her ‘my love’?

He shoved aside the conclusion to which his unhappy thoughts pointed and said, “Ysane, ere I allow you to be about your duties this day, I would have you tell me what happened. How came you to fall? ’Tis not like you to be clumsy or careless.”

She glanced at the door Lynnet had left partially open.

He followed her look, but though no one appeared nigh, he rose to close it.

“If you would help me with my clothing, my lord?” Pink tinged her cheekbones. “I can move, but already I grow stiff.” After a few awkward moments while they got her dressed again, she caught his arm. “I was pushed, Fallard.” The tenor of her voice was stark. “I find it more hurtful than my bruises to believe one among my people would wish me harm.”