Rose of Hope (8 page)

He delighted in the oaths of fealty sworn to him earlier this day by the men and women who were now
his
people, on
his
land, to lead and defend. Those oaths had been tendered first by Thegn Randel and Domnall of Cullanis, both men whom he believed would become good and trustworthy friends. Most of the rebels locked with Sir Ruald in the gatehouse had also chosen to swear fealty, though for the nonce, they would be watched, their true loyalty in question until they proved themselves.

Come the morn, I must remember to have messengers sent to the fiefs. I will that their stewards, both Saxon and Norman, appear before me to swear their oaths. I will insist the wives and eldest sons make their appearance, as well. A man is less likely to be difficult, does he come accompanied by his family.

Fallard had re-affirmed his earlier decision that those who chose to remain with Sir Ruald—though truly, there were now less than two score—would set out for London early this morrow, escorted by the majority of William’s foot soldiers. The rest of William’s men, along with Fallard’s own knights, would remain at Wulfsinraed until the loyalty of the burh troops could be determined.

William will be pleased. The common body of an insurrection rarely survives when its noble head is removed, as has now happened with Renouf dead and Ruald a prisoner. My actions here this day will insure one less trouble for my king.

Abruptly, he laughed, the sound startlingly loud in the crystal night air. Glancing around, he saw several sentries turn to look his way, and his smile broadened. Did they think him a lackwit, or mayhap he had drunk too much ale with his sup? But he was jubilant, for now within his hand lay all his heart had ever desired.

Though the wealth of Wulfsinraed pleased him, ’twas merely an unexpected benefit to an already overflowing bounty. His inheritance from his godmother had supplied him with all the wealth he needed. Now, he had enough not only for himself, but for all who were his responsibility.

As if so much were not enough, he was now a baron. Would that not swell the pride of his father’s heart? Though as clearly as if she stood before him, he heard his mother remind him what God had given, so He could take away and he must take heed not to become vainglorious. Aye, she was wise, his mother. He must pen a missive to his family, apprising them of his good fortune, and the hopes he held in his heart for Wulfsinraed and the Lady Ysane.

Ah…the Lady Ysane, his beautiful white rose. As it had since the moment he first saw her, Fallard’s body quickened at thought of the lovely mistress of Wulfsinraed. She still lived, though she fought through the darkness and flame of a raging fever. Attended to by the women of her bower and Lady Lewena, she seemed too delicate a flower to survive the harsh treatment life had chosen to bestow. Yet still she lived! She was a fighter, his rose, and he would do all he could to aid her in her battle.

An errant breeze stirred the hem of his cloak, and with it came the sense of a presence behind him. He whirled, his sword ready in his hand ere he completed the turn. He relaxed. Trifine ’twas who approached him on silent feet, moonlight glinting off his close-cropped silver hair.

His First came alongside him as he sheathed his blade. “The hearth companions have begun to call you ‘Black Ghost’,” he said, so quietly none but Fallard would hear. “They wonder what kind of lord would stand in solitude on the wall and laugh aloud in the darkest hours of the night. They fear you daft, or mayhap fey, Fallard.”

“And what think you, my friend?”

The white of his teeth showed clearly as Trifine grinned. “I
know
you are daft, but I have long since ceased to be concerned.”

He set his gaze upon the dark forest before them. The two stood in companionable silence, the ease of long association between them.

Trifine shifted his feet. “All went well today.”

“Aye, far better than expected.”

“Domnall of Cullanis and Thegn Randel will be dependable allies, mayhap even friends.”

“That is also my thought.”

“Lady Roana sends word Lady Ysane is resting. The fever seems to have abated somewhat for the night, though Luilda can say not what the morrow will bring.”

“That is well.”

“The Lady Roana is very fair of face and figure, and soft of voice.”

“That she is.”

“I am told that like her cousin, she is good and gentle of manner.”

“So I have also heard.”

“She has no kin but the Lady Ysane, and no home but Wulfsinraed, and ’twould seem, no prospects for a home and family of her own, as women are wont to desire.”

Fallard waited, the crinkling at the corners of his eyes the only sign of his amusement. He had been expecting this since he had seen the look on Trifine’s face the moment his First laid eyes on the fair Roana.

“Methinks Wulfsinraed is a good place for a man weary of wandering and warfare to put down roots,” Trifine ventured.

“I will argue not with that.”

“You would give your blessing to a betrothal between us?”

“If the lady is willing, aye.”

Silence descended again. Then…”When plan you to wed the Lady Ysane?”

“As soon as she is well enough to stand.”

Trifine nodded. “I believe that will be as long as my betrothal to Lady Roana will last, before we marry.”

This time, Fallard hid neither his grin nor his laughter. He placed a hand on Trifine’s shoulder. “That is agreeable,” he said simply.

Trifine lifted his face to a star-bejeweled sky and inhaled sharply, his chest puffing out. He patted his lean ribs with his palms. “’Tis a fine clear night, my captain, but methinks I am for bed.”

“I shall retire with you, my friend. I have stared at the dark long enough.”

Together they traversed the crosswalk back to the comfort of the hall.

***

Despite the lateness, or mayhap earliness, of the hour he had sought his bed the night before, Fallard was in the courtyard shortly after dawn to see to the dispatching of the prisoners with William’s troops. The courtyard bustled with activity as men made ready for the long journey. The rebels were gathered together in a line in front of the gatehouse. A length of rope tethered each man’s ankles, and each was bound at his wrists by another length to the waist of the man in front of him. Ruald of Sebfeld was fettered at the center of them all.

Trifine met Fallard on the steps. “You take no chances, Captain.”

“’Tis truth. I wish William’s prize to arrive in London in one piece. I have given orders to Sir Gyffard that at no time, and under no circumstances except death are the prisoners to be released from their bonds. They are to march, eat, sleep and even relieve themselves as one man. There are to be no exceptions, and they are to remain surrounded at all times by the king’s men.”

“Sir Gyffard believes your precautions excessive.” Trifine’s quiet voice held amusement. He mimicked the young commander’s disgruntled tone.
“The force guarding the prisoners is no piddling handful, sir, but a small army of battle-hardened warriors. ’Tis believed the rebels have no force in this region capable of successfully attacking such superior numbers.”

“Normally I would agree,” Fallard said, “but though I can name no certain cause for it, I am uneasy. Renouf of Sebfeld was a powerful and influential man. Though not a trained knight, as is Ruald, the tactics he employed against our forces were both cunning and militarily sound, and cannot be discounted.”

“Aye, and together, Renouf and Ruald commanded the allegiance of hundreds of Saxon rebels, all of whom followed their leaders without question.”

“Also true. By now, word of Renouf’s death and Ruald’s intent to take his place and lead the fight will have spread far. Within but a few more days, word will have raced through the land like a wind-swept fire that Ruald is taken prisoner and on his way to face William. The rebel forces will be anxious to free him ere he arrives. On foot, a large force such as the king’s men, moving slowly with bound and shuffling prisoners, will likely travel for at least two seven-days, and mayhap, three if the weather turns bad, ere arriving in London. That amount of time will offer the rebels nigh unlimited possibilities for rescue attempts.”

“But?”

“But still and all, the greater source of my apprehension lies not with the rebels, but Ruald himself. Though he sought to conceal it, he could hide not the look in his eyes as he was brought from the gatehouse to take his place among his men. ’Tis as if he is aware of that to which no one else is privy. He is too sure of himself. He is up to some secret mischief, and whatever ’tis will bode ill for Norman lives.”

“How could he have schemed while in his cell, Fallard? He was closely guarded by our own knights.”

“Tis possible he and Renouf laid plans in advance for this contingency. A person, or persons unknown may have already put them into effect. But mayhap, I worry for naught. Sir Gyffard may think my orders excessive, but I am assured all possible precautions will be taken. He is young, but ambitious and experienced, and he will obey. He will be not complacent.” Fallard sighed. “I only hope ’twill be enough.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

After Sir Gyffard’s troops had followed the ancient Roman road west to be swallowed up by the forest, Fallard decided to explore the holding pits. Jehan had already explained their layout and he was eager to see for himself. He walked around the circular wall of the northeast tower and briefly inspected the sparsely furnished pit guardroom. He turned to the structures sunk deep in the earth alongside the hall. One entered down a short flight of stone steps and through a stout wooden door.

There were five pits in all, the middle one, the interrogation pit, twice the size of the others. He unlocked the door to peer inside, but even with the entry open ’twas too dark to see clearly.

“My lord!” Roul rushed across the courtyard, carrying a lit torch. A grin stretched his freckled face. “Sir Domnall said you might have need of this.”

“You will give Sir Domnall my thanks.”

His eyes straying to the cell door, Roul asked, his tone hopeful, “Might you be needing aught else first, Captain?”

Fallard took in his squire’s eager expression. He could well remember his own fascination with prisons as a young boy. Roul wanted badly to see inside one of these, but ’twas not his place to ask.

There is a lesson to be learned here for the boy.

“Hold the torch then,” he said, “and follow me, but not too closely. I would prefer not to become a second source of light.”

Roul’s eyes flashed and he fairly danced. A sharply curtailed giggle was his only vocal response.

Fallard entered the chamber, his head barely clearing the ceiling. Instruments of torture flashed in the light, entirely too well maintained for his liking. Here too was a fire pit, but ’twas attached to the back wall and its purpose was not for providing warmth.

He circled the room, noting several sets of manacles affixed both high on the wall and close to the floor so a man might be fettered either standing or sitting. The metal on the inner surfaces were left rough to abrade the skin as the prisoner moved. Various knives, brands, sharpened iron hooks, and stakes designed for applying the maximum amount of pain lay neatly arranged on a long table, including one instrument Fallard recognized as the razor sharp, crescent shaped blade required to perform the ancient Norse execution known as a ‘blood eagle’.

He turned away, needing to see no more. He had been told that during Renouf’s tenure, more than one hapless man had disappeared into this chamber, never to be seen alive again, and many claimed to have heard muffled cries arising from the depths at such times. Whether the stories were true remained a matter for conjecture, but ’twas his intent most of the instruments in the room would be removed and put to other, more productive use.

The manacles and corded leather whip would stay, for he approved of their use. A slave or other malefactor punished by moderate whipping usually recovered, and was soon able to return to his or her duties. As a discipline, proper whipping was proven successful in insuring loyalty and obedience without incurring hatred. But he would order the inner surfaces of the manacles rasped. He saw no good purpose in ripping the skin of a man’s wrists and ankles when his back was already lashed.

As he prepared to leave the chamber, he glanced at Roul. The squire’s face was sickly green in the torchlight, his eyes nigh bulging as he stared at the instruments scattered about the room. He caught Fallard watching him, and swallowed hard.

“Shall I explain the uses of these items?” The sweep of Fallard’s hand indicated the implements. He already knew the answer.

Roul’s ‘nay’ was high-pitched and he tried valiantly to hide the gulps betraying his nausea.

The boy’s response pleased Fallard. When confronted with the reality of what lay here, the youngster found the prospect of torture not so exciting as he had expected. Aye, ’twas a good lesson, one the lad would never forget, and mayhap ’twould one day temper the nature of the man he would become.

They climbed from the chamber and Fallard took the torch. “Return to Sir Domnall. Remember to give him thanks for the light. Make yourself available for any duties for which he has need until the nooning meal, then return to me in the hall.”

“Aye, my lord.” Roul gulped one final time. His freckles popped out with stark clarity. He needed no persuasion to leave. The corners of Fallard’s eyes crinkled as he watched his squire try to maintain his dignity by walking away very fast instead of running, as he clearly wished.

Fallard tromped to the farthest cell—the one designated the isolation pit by Domnall, the cell where Ysane had been kept—and went inside. The unexpected stench hit him first. When he reached the bottom, he could stand not upright, for the roof of this cell was considerably lower than the others. Here, the darkness and damp reigned supreme.

Anger at Ruald tore through him anew. ’Twas a cramped space, much of it taken up by the steps. The walls and floor were icy and covered with filthy, rotting matting. Moisture dripped from the ceiling and skimmed down the walls to pool under the straw. A set of manacles dangled from the wall of the narrow cleft created by the steps. There was naught else in the cell, not even a bower pot. Ruald had not even left her that.