Rose of Hope (49 page)

“They cannot pass.”

“But they are my guards. You agreed.”

“I agreed to an escort until you reached my side,” he said, never taking his eyes from the two. “They may travel no further, though they may return to the burh.”

“’Twould be wise to put that bow away, young man,” Ingram said. “We have been ordered to bring the Lady Ysane to you and we are staying. But what say you, Varin? Does he seem the sort capable of protecting our lady without us, should trouble come?”

Varin, who moved not a muscle during the confrontation, looked at Ysane. She nodded.

“Aye,” he growled. “’Tis possible he might be of that sort.”

“Varin, he is,” Ysane insisted. “He has protected me all my life. I still live because of that protection, when twice over I should be dead. Please. In this place, we are none of us enemies. Cynric, allow Varin and Ingram to keep watch here while I go with you to the cottage.”

The direction of the arrow altered fractionally, then dropped to the ground as Cynric held Varin’s gaze. He began to back away. “If you ride to my place without my permission, I will kill you.”

Varin nodded.

Ysane believed neither man doubted her brother’s word. “Worry not,” she said, “if I come not back soon. I may be with my brother until the setting of the sun.”

Cynric took Ysane’s arm and pulled her to the other side of Freyja, keeping the bulk of the horse between them and the two warriors. Ysane walked with him without comment until they were out of the others’ range of hearing, then she turned on him with a fury fed by slowly fading terror. “What monster has come to lurk within you, my dearest friend, that causes you to turn on those who are not your adversaries?”

Cynric looked into her eyes, unsmiling. “They are Norman, Ysane,” he said, as if that answered everything.

“Oh, pretend not blindness! Ingram is as Saxon as we both!”

“He is clearly friend and companion to a Norman, and that makes him enemy enough in my eyes.”

“Oh indeed! I am now married to a Norman, and most pleased to have it so. Decide you that makes me your foe, as well? Will you slay me, too?”

“Speak not such foolishness!” He hurled the words at her. “You are my sister.”

“By your own words, methinks ’twould seem to matter not who I am, since I have willingly wed one you oppose. Oh, Cynric! This hate you bear is a terrible thing. I fear ’twill cost your life. What—or who—has turned you against these ones with whom our people
must
learn to live in peace?”

“You can ask that of me?” Disbelief rang in his voice. “Think you I felt no pain at the companions I lost at Santlache, or that I felt naught when I searched for our father in Normandy? Think you it fed not my rage to know he died in enemy hands, far from home and those who loved him?
I saw his grave, Ysane!”
His voice was filled with pain. “Aye, I did. They buried him not in a tomb, or even in a graveyard, but in a great field, an unmarked burial site where he lies with a hundred others not even of his own kind.”

Ysane felt the blood leave her face. She reached to hold his arm. “What is this you say? Fallard said Father was treated with honor, and you said you went to Germania. You said naught of Normandy!”

“Think you I would tell that Norman dog you married I spent time in his lands, that I found where our father was laid in his death as if no more than an animal?”

“When, Cynric? How long have you known of this?”

He sighed and took her hand, and they continued to the cottage. He walked her past his home to the lake. Casting himself upon the grass-and-moss strewn shore, he laid back, hands behind his head. He stared at the sky through a canopy of branches that waved in the gentle breeze, then closed his eyes.

“The day we received the news of his death, that was the day I left.”

“I remember,” she said, sinking down into the grass beside him, watching his face.

“Then you also remember ’twas a time of great unrest and strife. Travel was dangerous.”

“Aye, and that is why I worried so for you, and could understand not why you left without so much as a word. When you returned not, I thought you had died.”

“As I said before, I left a message for you. I am sorry, little one, you received it not. ’Twas not my desire you should worry. But you should recall I am not a man, as others, to travel only the roads. I went by ways through the forest even the outlaws know not, but ’twas slow. ’Twas long ere I reached the coast of the Small Sea that separates our lands from that of the enemy. The closer I got, the more oft I had to hide from companies of Normans, or find a way around them.” He gave a little huff. “
They
call the sea La Manche.”

“I am aware,” Ysane said, her eyes never leaving his face.

“Another two seven-days passed ere I could find a ship with friends aboard who hid me for the duration of the voyage. When I reached the other side I had to hide again, but my friends gave me shelter. It took time, but they learned more about our father’s death and aided my search for the field where he was buried. I fear I grieved overmuch then, little one, for I wished only to lash out in anger, to kill, as our father had been slain. My friends were forced to bind me and carry me to a place far from where lived any other man, else I would have killed many of the enemy ere perishing, myself.

“The rage gave way to sorrow and I lay as one dead in the place where they took me. I know not for how long. I ate little and slept less. Once the bitterness of grief dulled, I thought again only of vengeance. But my friends persuaded me that to attack the enemy in the heart of his own land was the province of a fool, and would risk the lives of many innocents.

“Thus, they found for me a ship home, and we bid our farewells on a night of storm. When I stepped on the shores of Angelcynn I knew what I must do, what had to be done to avenge our father’s death.”

He grew still, and was silent so long Ysane wondered if he slept. Moss green eyes opened and his gaze flicked to her.

She finished his thought for him. “You joined the rebels, and you killed Normans.”

She ran her fingertips again and again over the smooth surface of a stone that lay half buried in the grass nigh her knee.

“Aye. I killed Normans.”

The movement of her fingers stopped. “Methinks I can understand. What I understand not is why you never sent a message. You allowed me to believe you dead, Cynric. Thought you I would grieve not for you, as deeply as you grieved for our father?”

“I could tell you not, little one. ’Twas best for you that you knew naught of my actions, or my whereabouts. That which you knew not, you could be not forced to tell.”

“And if someone had believed I knew, but simply
refused
to tell, what then? Would you have let me die in their effort to gain such knowledge?”

“Be not a fool! I well knew you were safe at Wulfsinraed. Already have I explained I made certain to leave you in safe hands.”

“And
I
have explained how cruel—how unsafe—those hands were! Why do you believe me not? I have never lied to you. Renouf was a monster and Ruald little better.” She turned away. “Oh, what is the use? If you choose to believe me not, there is naught I can do to convince you.”

“I have not yet made up my mind what I believe in this matter, but I promise you I will get to the truth. Then I will decide what is to be done.”

“Are you in contact with Ruald, Cynric?”

He sat up and stared at her, his face impassive, and made no answer.

“’Tis my belief you are, that you have aided him, as you aided Renouf these past three twelvemonths. You are
still
fighting Normans, even though you must know the cause is lost.”

“I will give no answer, Ysane. ’Tis far better that in this, as in other things, you know naught. Yet, say I this…the cause is not lost, not until every last Saxon in Angelcynn has died or given it up. Never will I cease to fight to regain that which is mine. Never will I yield the struggle to take back that which was wrongfully stolen!”

“Then I fear, my brother, whom I love so dear, you will die, and never gain that for which you fight. Why can you not understand you cannot win this battle? The war is
over
, Cynric! We lost. William’s hand is too strong. For every Norman you kill a hundred more take their place, and a hundred Saxons die. Once we were strong—
strong!
But still we were defeated, and now we are weak. Too many have died. Too many still die. There is no longer hope of victory.”

“Then I will fight without hope, little one, and if I must die, then be it so.”

Again, a taut silence grew between them, hurtful and sad. So much had changed.

Cynric touched her arm. “What will you tell the black knight?”

“Of all we have spoken this day? I will tell him naught, except mayhap that long ago, you found our father’s grave, and wept there.”

“’Twill please him not.”

“It matters not. He cannot be allowed to know of what you do, though ’tis possible he already suspects. He is no fool. But did he know for certain, ’twould be his duty to hunt you down and take you to William. I cannot—I will not, for all our sakes—allow that to happen. I will tell him we spoke of happier days, of times long past and of hopeful times to come where joy might once again spring. Methinks he will question me not. I believe not he would use me in such a way. Whatever he thinks he must learn, he will find by other means.”

“Then he has more honor than I credit.”

“Be not blind on purpose! Normans are not so very different than we. I have told you already there are many with greater honor than some Saxons.”

“And I have told you that is a matter yet to be decided. But well and good. At the least, you are happy now and I am not too blind to see he mistreats you not. For the nonce, I will stay my hand in this place, and what I do will be done far from here, so he will be not forced to search for me. I would not cause you more grief.”

They spoke little after that. Cynric walked with her to the cabin and they shared a simple meal and a cup of mead. She asked not from whence came his supplies. There were still those at Wulfsinraed who were loyal to him for the sake of his blood and her love for him.

So that her words to Fallard might be not a lie, they did speak together of happier times, and of hope for the future. Afterward, he picked up his pole for fishing and took her out on the lake in a skin-covered dugout so ancient she wondered how it stayed afloat. They sat in the warm sunshine in companionable silence until with a series of jerks, accompanied by a great deal of laughing and splashing, Cynric’s supper lay in the bottom of the little boat.

When the noontide sun had moved far along its arc to the west, Ysane knew ’twas time to go.

Cynric gathered Freyja from where she was hobbled in the shaded grass and escorted Ysane down the path until they heard the desultory chatting of her escort. He turned to her and opened his arms, and she walked into them, embracing him and resting her head on his chest. He cradled her, neither saying a word.

She looked into his beloved face. “Cynric.”

“Come not here again unless I send word, little one, for I will be here not,” he said, his voice low.

She could help not but blanch as she considered his words. “You go to fight again.”

“I know not how long I will be gone, but I promise, now and anon, I will send word.”

“But what of the raising of the runestone for our father and my daughter? The ceremony is but a few days hence. Will you not come?”

“I will come, but not to be present among those gathered. But you will know I am there, and I will hear what you speak.”

“’Tis not my wish you should continue to be estranged. You are my brother, blood of my blood. You belong at Wulfsinraed. Even Fallard agrees. He would have you return, not as a burh workman, unless that be your choice, but as the son of Kenrick Wulfsingas, taking his rightful place.”

“But of a certainty that ‘rightful place’ is not lord of the burh. Is it, Ysane?”

She cast down her eyes. “Nay, my brother.”

“Then until that time comes I belong not, and I will take not a lesser place than that which is mine by right.”

“Oh, Cynric, this is such a tangle! I know not how it may be resolved and for that I am sorry, and afraid.” Teardrops slipped down her cheeks.

“A wise man once told me that in the future, good may come of things that now seem evil. We will pray the good may come.”

He took her face between his hands and kissed her forehead and then the tip of her nose, and she uttered a shaky little laugh. He wiped away her tears with his thumbs. When he spoke, his voice was a whisper. “
Westu hál,
Ysane.”

“Westu hál,
my brother. I love you.”

“As I love you, little one.”

As she turned away, she knew his eyes, solemn but resolute, kept watch while she moved down the path, and that he followed her, out of sight until she reached her escort. He would trail the three of them. As always, he would protect her until she was safely returned to the burh.

Varin and Ingram rose when she appeared, and she surprised unsmiling concern on their faces.

“We were discussing mayhap, ’twas time to come visiting, my lady,” Ingram said.

“Aye, and never mind the Saxon’s
friendly
words,” Varin growled, still clearly angry at having had an arrow aimed at his heart.

Ysane offered a gentle laugh that was not entirely forced. Their concern for her welfare was unfounded, but ’twas real enough. Nor would she allow her fear for Cynric to mar the joy she felt at being with him again, or allow that fear to cause men such as these to wonder
why
she feared for him.

“Had you come,” she said, “you would have found a brother and his sister, falling asleep in a boat on the lake.”

“You slept in a boat?” Varin’s ugly face mirrored his confusion.

“On the
lake
, my lady?” Ingram sounded no less mystified, and not a little perturbed by her admission.

“Aye. We fished for Cynric’s supper.” She flung the words over her shoulder as she walked Freyja to a fallen log and climbed into the saddle ere either could move to help. “But ’tis truth, I fear to say, the fish were in little humor to be caught. Howbeit, we were favored by fortune, for a nice little perch, exactly the right size, obligingly leapt out of the water and landed right at our feet.”