Rose of Hope (67 page)

“I would have
killed
them had I known, Ysane.”

She turned away, clasping her hands together over the slight swell of her belly. “My heart is torn in pity by the pain and grief your mother endured. Our father too, knew grief at their forced parting, though I believe he eventually came to love my mother.” She looked at him over her shoulder. “What was your mother’s name? How was she called?”

“She was called Otillia.”

“Otillia. ’Tis a lovely name.”

“Fallard said our father told him she was the loveliest of all the maidens at court, fair and sweet, with a laugh as gentle and fresh as the falling rain. He never held it against her that she ran from him to marry her father’s man. He knew of her fear for him. Her death, when he learned of it, left him bereft. Methinks that is why, even after so long a time, I find it hard to make sense of his rejection. For though I was born of bastardy, yet was I the firstborn, not only of his loins, but of his love.”

“Methinks we will never know his reasons, Cynric. But mayhap, you will one day learn something from our Ieldramodor that will help you accept, if not understand.”

“Ysane.”

She turned to face him.

“Please say I am forgiven, little one. If I am ever, at long last to find peace, I must hear it from you that you hold naught of this against me.”

She frowned and pursed her lips. “You said our father absolutely forbade you to speak to me of what you knew?”

“Aye.”

“You gave him your word you would keep silent?”

“Aye.”

“You liked it not, but were obedient to our father as a son should be, and kept your honor in this matter?”

“Aye.” Curiosity now limned the word.

“Much of it you knew not yourself, until two days before yester?”

“Aye.”

“And after our father died I saw you not, except once at a distance, and twice in recent days, when the time would not have been right to speak of it?”

“A…y…e?” He drew out the word to the point of a question.

“So when exactly, would you have told me of all this, ere now?”

He blinked. A grin, slow and roguish returned the light to his moss green eyes.

She crossed the room to lean over him and kiss his cheek. “’Twould seem, my deorling brother, there is little to forgive, and for what little that may be, I do.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

London

1078 - The Month of Hunting With Falcons - Fall

The summer’s heat gave way to a glorious autumn. The journey to London to meet with King William was made in peace, the trek accomplished in easy stages to accommodate Ysane’s blossoming pregnancy. Fallard wrote to request she be allowed to remain at Wulfsinraed, but the king’s response was inflexible. Fallard debated the logic, or mayhap, idiocy of running his sovereign through if the man’s obstinacy resulted in harm to her or his babe.

As per his demand in the pact they made, Cynric traveled with them.

Fallard had expected to be in the city but a short time, only long enough for the king to hear his report and for Ysane to enjoy the sights and some shopping. But William surprised him. He made them wait a full three days before granting Fallard’s request for a private audience.

’Twas never a good thing when the king made one of his ‘favorites’ wait, especially when they came at his command.

At least Ysane disappointed him not. A vision in a russet silk cyrtel, syrce of gold velvet embroidered with gold thread, and a veil of sheerest gold with an elaborate headdress Queen Matilda would not spurn, she outshone the stars.

That she was also terrified was no surprise, but she gamely accompanied him to the palace, head held high. His own apprehension was keen as they paused at the entrance to the reception hall. Fallard took in the space at a glance. It looked little different from his last visit, stark and cold except for the dais where the king and his two highest councilors held court. Some measure of comfort surrounded William there, with thick carpet underfoot, braziers roaring and cushioned seating. Luminous tapestries covered the bare stone walls and guards displayed prominent weaponry. Otherwise, the long room was so empty it echoed, but William liked it unwelcoming. He was not a man given to great patience and did not encourage overlong formal dialogue with his barons.

“Fallard D’Auvrecher, Baron of Wulfsinraed, and his wife, the Lady Ysane.” The attendant announced their arrival in a sing-song cadence.

Fallard felt Ysane’s fingers tremble on his arm. He threw her a bracing smile. “Courage, my rose. He will not eat us.”

At the least, ’tis my hope he will not.

Followed by Cynric and Jehan, who had charge of their escort from the hall, Fallard paced forward. But as they approached the dais, it required no great insight to note the king was in a dark and foul humor.

What has William in such a fit of pique? Mayhap, I should not have requested Cynric be made under-steward of Romleygh Hall, despite Ysane’s insistence.

The king’s heavy frame was sprawled in the massive carved and gilded chair that served as his throne. Fallard had never known another man who could project both majesty and intimidation in an otherwise slothful posture. William watched them advance. Fallard fought to repress a shudder. Beneath the thinning gray hair that rimmed his pate, the king’s eyes were narrowed, his countenance grim.

Fallard spared a quick glance for his wife, who was pale as mist and looked as if she might swoon. He slid his arm from beneath her icy fingers to take her hand in a firm grip and squeeze gently. She gasped, but never took her eyes off the king. Together, they made obeisance. Fallard kept his head bowed as he waited for William’s acknowledgement.

“If I rightly recall, Fallard, I ordered your presence before me…let me think.” William paused as if considering for a moment, than continued in his rumbling voice. “Oh, aye. ’Twas more than two months past. Has the distance between my hall and Wulfsinraed grown so lengthy since then, that you could make your way here no sooner?”

Fallard felt perspiration pop out on his forehead despite the cool of the hall, but he would allow none to mark the sudden spike of tension that dried his mouth. He knew better than to back down from the challenge in William’s deceptively aggrieved statement. The king demanded backbone in his knights—to a point.

Faith! He is verily in a temper.

“I am certain my liege remembers his last orders to his vassal,” Fallard replied. He kept his tone bland. “I came as quickly as was possible, given it required many seven-days to round up the stragglers from the rebel force, bury the dead, heal the wounded, and repair the damage from the battle that rid my liege’s land of those who would dispute his God-given right to reign.”

It cannot hurt to remind him of my service to him…and its cost.

William’s gaze left Fallard and moved to a point behind him. “
All
of those who dispute my reign?”

Fallard’s tension racheted several notes higher.

There could be no doubt William’s glower was now centered on Cynric. He hoped his brother-by-law had sense enough not to scowl back.

“Jehan, I know,” William said. “But who is this other fine youth you bring to my hall, Fallard?”

Fallard gestured to Cynric to step forward. He placed his hand on his brother-by-law’s shoulder and squeezed a warning. “My liege, I would make known Cynric Wulfsingas, brother of my wife and son of Kenrick Wulfsingas, whose skill at
eschecs
I am certain my liege calls to mind with a measure of fondness.”

At the speaking of the names, William abruptly sat straight and leaned forward. His gaze, no longer narrowed but wide and keen, speared Cynric with a piercing glare in which speculation was rampant for all to see.

His cocked his head. “Rumor has come to me in recent days of a fearless leader of the insurrectionists who attacked my lands under the orders of Ruald of Sebfeld. ’Tis said this man, though he fought masked by a hood, had eyes the color of the green moss that grows in the forest.”

Fallard felt turned to stone. Beneath his hand, Cynric’s muscles tensed. Time seemed to slow and stop. All his surroundings fell away until naught was left but the calculation in William’s eyes. He was enmeshed in an invisible duel to which only he and his sovereign were privy. Once before had he dared such a confrontation. That instance too, had been in defense of a Wulfsingas. He had won that round, but now…?

Does he know, or merely suspect Cynric’s former activities? Of a certainty, Cynric seems somehow known to him, and not in respect of my request regarding Romleygh Hall. Mayhap, it is but that he is son to Kenrick, whom William remembers well.

“’Tis also said,” William continued, his raspy voice menacing, “this nameless leader, unlike others among the rebels, showed mercy to women and children and to those who laid down their weapons. Still, he remains guilty of treason against his king. What say you to this, Cynric, son of Kenrick Wulfsingas?”

Answer with care, Cynric!

The tenor of Cynric’s voice was calm and unruffled. “That such a foolish man is likely dead, my liege.”

A strange expression passed over the king’s face.

Fallard found his voice. Praying the alarm pulsing through him did not show, he said, “My liege, I, myself, killed a rebel with green eyes, an exceptional fighter, during the battle at Wulfsinraed. He lies buried with the others who died.” He paused. “May I remind my liege, that by the actions of Cynric Wulfsingas was the escape of Ruald of Sebfeld prevented, which drew forth from my liege a strong approbation. At the same time, Cynric also saved the life of my wife, but nigh lost his own in the doing. He was sore wounded, and his recovery has but recently progressed sufficiently to enable him to make the journey here.”

At his words, William bent his head and regarded him from beneath unruly brows. He said naught.

Moments passed. Somewhere outside, a woman laughed, the sound incongruous in the dangerous silence. Even as Fallard began to think they were all well and truly lost, that he had inadvertently pushed his sovereign too far, William seemed to come to a decision. He sat back as abruptly as he had risen and murmured something Fallard did not hear.

His gaze snapped to Ysane. “Ah, aye, the lovely rose of Wulfsinraed.” His expression softened and lightened a fraction as he favored her with his fierce regard. Appreciation blazed now in his eyes, for he was a man with an eye for feminine comeliness. “Your brother saved your life, eh? Well and good. A man should be willing to die to protect his sister.”

From the corner of his eye, Fallard saw Ysane nod. She was paler than before and he doubted she was capable of speech. He breathed again. Barely. Ysane’s beauty and grace could fail not to charm his sovereign and divert his thoughts, whatever they were, from Cynric.

I hope.

He slipped an arm about her thickening waist and pulled her close to his side, and not a moment too soon, for she sagged into his embrace. His little rose was utterly terrified of her monarch and feared for all their lives, but especially for Cynric.

The king abruptly laughed. “Well and good! Look at me, woman!”

Fallard groaned inwardly. “Ysane, stand straight,” he whispered. “Meet his gaze with courage. He will respect it. He merely wishes to test your mettle. Show him you are the daughter of Eorl Kenrick Wulfsingas!”

His wife licked dry lips, straightened her backbone and raised her gaze. Her voice was ragged, but clear as she dipped her head in a small obeisance. “’Tis my great pleasure to make the acquaintance of my liege, and do him honor.”

William smiled. His voice was very soft. “And you lie badly, my lady, at least about the pleasure. But come, I would have from your own sweet lips the truth. Look at me, and state your oath you had no part in the insurrection against your lawful sovereign.”

“My liege, I never once conspired against you, nor played I any part in the insurrection. I have never, by word or deed, sought your downfall nor wished you harm. I am but a woman, but ’tis my thought and belief my people must seek to live in harmony with yours, that we may learn much of each other and meld the best of our divergent cultures to create a world of peace for us all.”

Fallard’s pride soared until he thought it might float him to the ceiling. Behind him, he heard Cynric’s smothered snort and Jehan’s whispered, “Well said, my lady!”

For the first time, the darkness in William’s face gave way to beaming approval. “If I could but persuade my councilors, my friends and my enemies to such a belief, ours would indeed become a world of peace. I am gratified to hear your words, and more pleased still to see in your eyes that you mean them. Have no fear, you will leave my presence in one piece this day, as will those you love.”

He turned again to Fallard. “What is this about Romleygh Hall? I had thought to place Roland Vesli as steward there. Give me reason why my choice should be another Saxon, Cynric, son of Kenrick instead.”

“Nay, my liege, I asked not that Cynric be steward, but under-steward in service to your choice of lord, did that lord approve.”

Patiently, Fallard repeated Cynric’s timely and invaluable aid in quelling the insurrection. But then he added two final caveats, aware that the first would create an instant bond between sovereign and formerly rebellious vassal, and that the second would hasten the king’s decision.

“Of course, my liege, all men know Cynric is but the natural son of his father, which explains the original designation of Kennard, second son, as Kenrick’s heir. Yet, none at Wulfsinraed hold his birth against him, for he has shown himself a master hunter with the longbow, a master carver and a master woodsman. He is well tutored in the skills of an under-steward”—at which untruth he did not blink—”and is of a temper far less prone to nettle than the hall’s current steward.”

Whatever remaining shreds of annoyance the king might have harbored seemed to disintegrate. “A natural son, you say? Hmmm…not so different from myself, it seems. Mayhap, this Cynric may be a better choice than Vesli, despite he is Saxon and I vowed to give no further credence to their use as stewards. I must think on this.”