Rose of Hope (58 page)

“There is time, yet. I have a mind to sample the delights of the faire, and watch the light return to my lady’s eyes and the joy return to her heart when I purchase for her a book of her own choosing. We will set the time of our return for the day after the morrow.”

Trifine laughed softly. “That is what I feared. Roana will insist I part with too much of my coin to purchase some of that lovely fabric she coveted. I vow your decision will beggar me, Fallard.”

“Ah, but think you how happy our friend the gypsy patriarch will be.”

Trifine’s teeth flashed luminescent in the brilliant play of light from the sky. “Do we return the women here, or take them with us back to the burh?”

“Not here. I fear the treachery of Ruald. He holds no respect for the sanctity of the Church. We know not the location of his scouts. Should they learn of Ysane or Roana abiding in the abbey, Ruald might order an assault to take them. The monks are no fighters. They might wish to protect those left in their care, but they would stand no chance against a determined force. We will keep the women beneath our own hands.”

“’Tis a sound choice, methinks.”

“Get some sleep, Trifine. Soon, there will be little enough time for rest.”

“And you, my friend?”

“I will be not long behind.”

Trifine nodded and sought his lonely pallet in the hay.

***

Fallard insured the hue and cry the following morn over the disappearance of the slave was sufficiently wrathful none would suspect ’twas deliberately contrived. Poor Brother Milrath abased himself with such excess for his failure to remain awake and effectually discharge his task that Fallard, uncomfortable at his small deceit, privately took him before the abbot to reassure them no lasting harm was done.

The news that the day would be spent at the faire lightened the mood of the company despite the muddy mess through which the horses trudged. The previous night’s storm left debris strewn all over the road, but it had broken the drought and the miserable heat, leaving the morn brisk and fresh. It promised to be a perfect day for leisurely pursuits, and all agreed a whole day at the faire was far better than a mere evening, as they had at first thought to have.

Ere dispersing the company, Fallard ordered that everyone be back at the abbey by nightfall, for the following day would be long. Catching Freyja’s reins, he pulled the horse close and stared into his wife’s happy face. A doting smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. He knew he looked the fool, but he cared not. Her eyes when they rested upon him were limpid and adoring. That look was worth being seen as a besotted lackwit.

“Where shall we begin, my rose?”

Full-blown delight suffused her countenance. Peering at him from the corner of her eyes, she said, “Mayhap, I know of a peddler we might visit who offers rare purchase.”

The rumble of a chuckle broke from Fallard. “So I thought. Lead on then, my love. I am at your service.” He turned to Roul, who chattered nonstop with Fauques. “Roul, you are released until nooning. Find me, then. I shall have packages for you to secure. Have you coin?”

“Aye, Captain.” His grin nigh split his freckled face as he loped off with Fauques.

They rode slowly through the faire grounds, the hooves of their horses grinding the brown grass of the field into the wet ground. ’Twas still early and few people were out and about, but most of the tents and stalls were open. Merchants called to them and cried the merits of their wares. Ysane was focused on reaching one stall in particular.

She rose in the stirrups and waved as they approached. “Fair morn to you, Master Claudien. Fair morn!”

The old man turned from arranging his books in the shelves at the back of his stall. The skin of his crinkled face lit up as his longtime favorite customer ran to him, her hands stretched in greeting.

Claudien returned her grasp and leaned forward to place a kiss high on her cheek, nigh her temple. “My lady Ysane, ’tis very glad I am to see you again. I have missed you, fair one, these past twelvemonths.”

“As I have missed you, old friend. Master Claudien, greet you Thegn D’Auvrecher,” she said, drawing Fallard forward. “He is my husband, and the new lord of Wulfsinraed.”

Claudien took Fallard’s measure in a glance. “I have heard tell of the Norman warrior who walks like a dark ghost in the night. ’Tis said King William values him above many another knight, and that he is brave as Beowulf in battle and loyal beyond word—which, say I, is all well and to the good. But more to the point, my lady, is he kind to you?”

“Good master!” Ysane bit her lower lip, but her shoulders shook.

Fallard frowned and crossed his arms over his chest, but said naught.

“Nay, ‘master’ me not, lady. I am not yet deaf. My old ears heard more than I wished to know of your troubles with that lout Renouf. ’Tis a kind man you are deserving of, now.”

“Then fear not for me, Master Claudien, for I can have no complaints of my lord. He is a good man, and treats me well, and I would say such even were he nowhere nigh to hear.”

Smiling, Claudien turned and rummaged in a lidded wooden box. Finding what he sought, he pulled out a small object carefully wrapped in linen and handed it to Ysane.

“I have held this for you for the past four twelvemonths, in hopes one day you would return. I found it at Braehurst Priory and knew at once ’twould be to your liking.”

Ysane unwrapped the linen folds with care. Her intake of breath was sharp on sight of what lay within.

Fallard leaned to look over her shoulder. One eyebrow rose.

Ysane lifted wondering eyes to Claudien. “You saved this for me, all this time?”

Claudien smiled and glanced at Fallard, who gave the briefest of nods.

Ysane’s hands moved reverently over the small book she held, her fingertips tracing with feather touch the beautifully illumined silver letters on the fine, calf leather vellum of the cover. She gently turned to the first page and a long sigh spilled from her lips.

“What name has the book, Ysane?”

“’Tis the poem ‘
Waldhere’
, my lord. ’Tis about a legendary hero of my people whose name was Walter of Aquitaine. You know of him?”

“Aye, but not firsthand. I seem to remember something about a treasure and a great sword.”

“That is the one. Waldhere was a warrior. With his lady Hildegyth, he stole the treasure of the court of King Attila. There is much in the story of battle and glory, but also some of love. It ends well. ’Tis a favorite tale of the scops.” Her voice was hushed. “Never did methink to hold in my hands the written text.”

“Wrap it carefully, Master Claudien,” Fallard said. “We have far to travel and I would insure such a treasure arrives home in one piece.”

“Oh, Fallard!” Her eyes glowed with emerald fire as she handed the book back to Claudien, then she threw her arms around his neck. She covered his face with happy, laughing kisses. So enthusiastic was her gratitude he began to laugh as well. He caught her in his arms, lifting her high, and returned her affectionate gesture with rather more passion than she had expected.

The clearing of a throat gained their attention. Trifine and Roana stood nigh them. A large linen sack draped over Trifine’s shoulder. Both wore broad smiles.

“’Twould seem your lady found what she sought, as did mine,” the silver knight said.

“Had I known the effect such a gift would have, mayhap, I would have bought her a score of books when first I came.”

Roana took Ysane’s hand. “I would have you come with me, if our lords mind not. Domnall wishes for the advice of our husbands in the choice of a certain sword. ’Twould seem the weapon is a rare find. Domnall is in raptures, but since you and I have other interests, ’twas my thought we would walk together for a time.”

Ysane glanced at him. “Fallard?”

He nodded. “But of course, my ladies, but I would have you stay together at all times, and leave not the confines of the faire.”

He handed a goodly portion of the coins in his leather purse to the bookseller.

“I would leave our horses tethered behind your stall, master, if ’twould be no trouble?”

“’Twould be my pleasure, my lord, and I thank you.”

“Master Claudien, my deepest gratitude for the book,” Ysane said.

“For you, lady, I would have held it till my time on this earth was ended—and then I would have gifted it to you at my passing.”

She laughed. “I would much rather have need to pay for it, my friend.”

***

The rest of the day flew by on the speeding wings that always seemed to accompany happy times. Ysane and Roana strolled through the faire, chatting about their husbands, stopping to exclaim in delight at the wares displayed in the many stalls, or, once or twice, with disdain at the poor quality of overpriced goods. They listened to the songs of the scops, clapped and sang with the musical troupes, and marveled over the skills of the acrobats, throwing the appropriate coins to each.

They passed a booth filled with novelties and items of odd nature.

Ysane gasped and pointed to something in the booth. “Look you, Roana!”

The vender moved close. He beamed at them and set himself to charm.

“Think you Fallard would find this of interest?” Ysane picked up a curving, highly polished Norse drinking horn. She twisted it around to view it from every angle. The cup’s silver rim was decorated with an ancient spiral design. Sunlight flashed from the multiple lines of silver ornamentation that swirled gracefully around the curve of the horn to end at the chased silver tip. Etched in silver along the cup’s front was a depiction of the fearsome hammer of Thor. “I have noticed Fallard has taken a particular interest in the collection of Viking weapons in the hall. Mayhap, he would enjoy drinking his ale from this cup, now and anon.”

Roana admired the implement. “’Tis a thing of both use and beauty. What man would not?”

“That particular horn belonged to a very rich and famous jarl, none other than Thorfinn Turf-Einarsson, Eorl of Orkney, also known as Thorfinn Skull-Splitter,” the vender interjected smoothly. “Though ’tis hardly fit for a lady’s tender ears, methinks you will wish to know—so you may tell your esteemed husband—that legend passed down from that time says the eorl loved to drink the blood of his enemies from the horn.” He leaned forward and motioned with his hand to the two women to come closer, and then whispered in ominous tones. “’Tis told he cut out their hearts while they still lived and poured the blood directly into the horn even as the severed organs pumped their last.”

“Ugh.” Ysane gave a delicate shudder, while Roana pressed her hand over her bosom.

“Aye, and all would expect beautiful and high-born ladies of delicate humor such as yourselves to be distressed by such a wicked and barbaric custom.” His eyes glittered and he spoke directly to Ysane. “But I must ask, my lady, if your husband be a mighty warrior, would he not find it a tale worthy of recounting to his friends?”

Roana’s trilling laughter rang out. “Methinks our friend is wise in the ways of his trade, Ysane. He knows well how to reach our purses through the tempers of our husbands.”

Unoffended, the vender bowed to Roana, acknowledging her insight.

“Mayhap, but he is right,” Ysane said. “Fallard
would
enjoy imparting that information to his friends. I shall buy it for him.” She turned to the merchant. “Have you also a holder?”

“’Tis good you asked, my lady, for I have here a holder meet for such a fine cup.”

He handed Ysane a heavy, blackened silver holder in the shape of the scaled lower half of a dragon, its clawed feet and speared tail forming the triangle of the base. He set the cup into the holder to show her how well it fit.

“Oh, aye, that will do! ’Tis as if ‘twere made for the cup. I will take it. Roana, see you here aught that might catch Trifine’s eye?”

“Mayhap, that.” Her cousin pointed to a cloak pin half hidden beneath a jeweled dagger.

The vender handed the pin to her. “Forgive me, lady, if I seem impertinent, but ’twould appear you are wise not only in the ways of merchants, but possess a discerning eye, as well. ’Tis clear you note the piece you hold is not one of my finest. Mayhap, my lady would find her interest more captured by this piece, instead.”

Reaching into a drawer behind him, he withdrew a small, cloth-wrapped item. He pulled aside the flaps to reveal a cloak pin beautifully crafted of black glass, silver and black and white cloisonné enamel.

A tiny inhalation and a flicker of her eyelids was all that indicated Roana’s excitement, but Ysane saw the vender note it. He handed the piece to her. “Please, do me the honor of examining it with your expert eye. You will discover ’tis the finest of cloisonné work, crafted by a master of the art in the fabled city of Constantinople. ’Tis said the artist is a man of deep religious conviction, who never sells a piece he crafts unless ’tis first hallowed by a holy father who has received his training in blessed Rome itself. Good luck follows those who wear items of his crafting.”

Ysane smiled as Roana examined it closely. Her cousin loved Byzantine cloisonné enamel. “Look you here, Ysane, at the craftsmanship. The good merchant lies not. ’Tis an exquisite piece. Think you not it will look well against Trifine’s cloak of sable velvet?”

“That can be of no doubt, Roana. ’Tis an excellent gift for a knight of consequence.”

Satisfied with their choices, Ysane and Roana settled their purchases with the merchant, bid him good day and wandered away among the other faire-goers.

After a particularly humorous gossip about a most oddly dressed couple that passed them as they ambled along, Roana mused aloud. “Suppose you others gossip about us, as we do about them?”

“If so, ’tis but fair, methinks,” Ysane said. “Why should we have all the fun?”

Roana laughed gaily and hooked her arm through the crook of Ysane’s elbow. “Ysane, my dear, ’tis wonderful to see you laughing and carefree again. It has been too long, my kinswoman. My heart rejoices for you.”

Ysane said naught, but smiled and placed her hand over Roana’s. “’Tis almost noontide. We have passed a great many food stalls and the wonderful smells bewitch me. Let us seek our husbands and have them buy us food, lest we starve.”