by Mairi Norris
“This is Luilda, my lord. She is our healer, and highly skilled.”
Fallard glanced curiously at Luilda. Her hair was the only thin thing about her, for she was so round she rolled when she walked like a sailor new come to land. Her full face shone as if waxed. She carried a large reed basket covered with a linen cloth. She threw him a brief, sour glance and nodded.
“This,” and now Ethelmar pointed to a very comely younger woman, the same lady Trifine coveted, “is the Lady Roana. She is youngest daughter to my lady’s mother’s sister. She is widowed. Her family is dead and she now resides at Wulfsinraed.”
Lady Roana offered him a graceful bow without pausing. “My lord.”
Fallard thought her older than Ysane, mayhap by five or six twelvemonths.
“The maid,” Ethelmar continued, nodding to the last of the women, a timid-appearing girl and very young, “is Lynnet, my lady’s handmaiden. She will help you with aught my lady might need.”
The girl’s hands were knotted against her abdomen and she kept her head bent so low Fallard hoped she would walk not into a wall. She wore no headrail and her hair was shorn, indicating her slave status and explaining her servile posture.
He observed in passing the wary expressions of others who loitered, but he heeded more the luxury of the room they traversed. He had been told Wulfsinraed was a wealthy demesne, but if the hall was indication, Fallard had won for himself not only a title, but a greater wealth to match than he had imagined.
Whitewashed walls of stone rose two stories to a cross-timbered ceiling, black with age and the smoke of countless fires. Four columns carved and painted in the same rose and stag design as decorated the exterior doors, supported the roof. Tapestries of vibrant colors lined the walls between curtained sleeping alcoves. Three circular fire pits were centrally arranged in a triangular formation. Bright gold and blue flames leaped and writhed within, dispelling the chill, the smoke spiraling out through vent holes in the ceiling. Set within their midst were cross-legged chairs and carved benches.
Against the back wall behind the pits was what appeared to be a newly constructed platform raising the long family table above the others. An iron candleholder hung suspended above each end, fat beeswax candles perched on their frames. Flanking the platform and the fire pits were rows of mead-tables. All were set as if for a feast.
A heavy scowl darkened his features. Sir Ruald had intended to follow the morn’s grim work with a lavish celebration to break the fast. For the space of several breaths, Fallard heartily wished he had killed the man.
They approached the arched doorway. Through it was a small antechamber. Inside was a door that opened to what was clearly a burnstów, or bathing chamber. Beyond it ran a corridor. Fallard could not see around the curving wall to where it led, but realized they were entering the hall’s southwest tower. To his right was a straight staircase.
Reading his glance, Ethelmar said. “This is the lord’s tower. Those stairs lead to the hoarding room above the kitchen. The left corridor takes you to the guest bowers and the back garden. ‘Ware the steps, my lord.”
The under-steward’s warning was needful as they ascended the staircase that curved between the tower’s inner and outer walls. ’Twas so narrow Fallard had to turn sideways and press his back to the inner wall so as not to scrape the lady’s feet. Open shutters in the regularly spaced window embrasures shed light into the cramped space.
They arrived at the landing of a bower, beyond which the stairwell continued winding to the tower’s third level. Ethelmar entered the comfortable chamber. Fallard followed and stepped toward the bed, a huge affair enclosed at the top and on three sides by a solid, carved wood frame. Lady Roana dragged aside a richly embroidered coverlet.
Fallard leaned through the green velvet bed draperies, looped back to each side of the bedframe, to lay his burden upon a thick pallet. He moved away, halting against the opposite wall nigh a warmly glowing brazier. Roana and Lynnet set to work removing Ysane’s filthy cyrtel while Luilda laid out her supplies.
“My lord?” Ethelmar spoke quietly at his elbow. “I assure you Lady Ysane will receive the best of care. If you will come with me, I will pour for you a mug of our finest ale.”
Fallard turned to stare at him. Understanding dawned. The corners of his eyes crinkled as his respect for the man increased. The plucky steward had risked dismissal—or worse—to offer his new lord a not-so-subtle reminder that ’twas not his place to be present while the women cared for their mistress.
His humor faded as he turned back to Luilda. “Will she live?”
The healer threw him an indecipherable glance. “I will do all I can, but the outcome will be in the hands of our Lord.”
Fallard nodded and followed the steward from the room. They pressed against the inner wall to allow two serving girls carrying water, bathing linens, and other supplies to pass them. Both girls, eyes wide, seemed to be trying to burrow into the wall to avoid him. He decided not to reassure them. ’Twas no bad thing to have one’s subjects fear one at the onset of one’s rule.
He stepped into the hall as the great doors opened to admit Trifine. His First’s glance found him and he hurried forward.
“Captain, Sir Ruald and his men are secure.” He grinned. “I fear our guests are not happy with their new accommodations, nay, not at all. They are rather vocal about it, in fact.”
Trifine sounded as if naught in a long time had pleased him more.
“Has Jehan returned?” Fallard asked. He suppressed a groan of appreciation as he savored the drink supplied him by Ethelmar. Not even the king had ale so fine.
“Aye, he rode into the courtyard but moments ago. Captain, the stablemaster is a queer one, but the horseflesh is prime.”
“I begin to appreciate how superb everything is at Wulfsinraed.” Fallard finished the ale in two gulps, complimented the steward on its excellence, and stepped outside with Trifine, pausing at the top of the steps. The rain had slowed to a fine drizzle.
“I will hold the ceremony for the Oath of Fealty in the hall after noontide. See that all attend, unless too ill or infirm. I want the name of any who refuses, or is accounted missing. Oh, and forget not to make one final offer to Sir Ruald’s men. Explain their life may well be forfeit do they refuse. In the meantime, find a place to house our men.”
“Aye, Captain.”
The First Marshal came out the door to the gatehouse. Seeing Fallard, he called out. “My lord, how fares my lady?”
“The lady fares as well as can be, Domnall. If you are finished with your tasks, I would have you accompany me on a preliminary tour of the burh.”
“Certainly. Where would you begin?”
“On the wall. I wish to see the full layout from above.”
Domnall turned and spoke to a hearth companion behind him. The man nodded and hurried toward the tunnel.
Over the next hour, Fallard walked the circumference of the wall with Domnall.
“The fortress is old,” the first marshall said. “Eorl Wulfsin of Cuthendun, King’s Thegn, also known as Wulfsin the Wanderer, kept extensive records of the work. The scrolls can still be read. They are held in the hoarding room. Wulfsin was granted these lands by Æthelstan, called ‘Glorious’.”
Fallard started in surprise. “Æthelstan! But that was nigh on to....”
“Aye,” Domnall interrupted, chuckling. “Fifty and one hundred twelvemonths. According to Wulfsin’s records, he became a mariner in his youth and traveled much, even so far as the lands of the Romans and the Greeks. He saw there great stone structures that had survived for centuries. He determined to build for himself the same, for wooden burhs were too easily burned, their people enslaved or scattered. He wished for greater protection for his legacy. He found this island and recognized in its configuration a natural defensive formation. His sons, hearth companions and many ceorls labored nigh seven twelvemonths to build the wall.”
Fallard admired forward thinking men, and Wulfsin of Cuthend
un had been one such. To hold this small fortress of stone in a land of wooden burhs was a mighty accolade.
Though not large, Wulfsinraed Burh was truly an island fortification. To the west, the river forked as it coursed around the base of a solid promontory vaguely resembling the bow of a ship. As the two branches split, they bent away from each other to curve in a lazy, irregular oval, then curled back again to meet in a gentle churning of waters downriver, forming in their midst the narrow islet upon which the stronghold was built. An ancient road, paved by hands centuries in the grave, wove its way west–to–east alongside the river, through the village and on toward the sea.
The design of the burh was efficient in its simplicity. There was but one entrance, facing north. To breach it, an enemy must cross a dangerously exposed wooden bridge, penetrate a fortified outer gate, traverse a short, arched tunnel beneath the north guard tower, and finally, advance through the heavy inner gate. The wall, wide enough for two men to walk abreast alongside the parapet, meandered to closely follow the contours of the island. The parapet, chest high, was unbroken, in contrast to its commonly crenellated counterparts in Nourmaundie. Four squat guard towers jutted up, one at each compass point to overlook the land.
Inside the wall, the practice field, where the hearth companions spent many hours rehearsing the art of war, took up much of the open area on the eastern side. The hall, with its round, three-level towers at each corner, sat roughly at the island’s center. An orchard comprised much of the western side.
Nigh the practice field, butting up against the southeast section of the wall, was a large structure Domnall said was the barracks for the burh’s military garrison. A number of smaller structures, partially underground, rested snug along the hall’s east wall, between the curves of the towers.
Fallard pointed to them. “Those are the holding pits?”
“Aye. That far one yonder is the isolation pit where my Lady Ysane was imprisoned these past three days, though my men and I were locked in the gatehouse.”
A shudder of commiseration vibrated through Fallard. He had once been imprisoned for several seven-days in an underground cell without light. He still harbored a horror of such places.
“The gatehouse is a far more comfortable lodging than yon underground cells.” Domnall said. He paused. “Mayhap, you would like Sir Ruald moved to the cell where he kept my lady?”
An unholy light of hope shone from the first marshal’s hazel eyes.
“Nay, Domnall. ’Tis my preference to keep them all together for the nonce. But your suggestion carries much merit in my mind. Were I not sending the rebels to the king on the morrow, I would heed it.” He pointed to a large structure east of the gatehouse. Jehan and several other men were exiting the building. “That is the stable?”
“Aye, and you’ll find none finer. The stable-master is Tuck, called ‘Cross-eyed’.” Domnall grinned. ’Tis a wonder the man can even walk without falling over himself. Still, ’tis possible Tuck is the best man with horses in all of this land.”
Fallard looked north and east, upon the lands now his. Out in the búrlands—the far-flung fields that awaited spring planting, and the farmhouses that dotted them—ceorls were beginning to plow. Behind the sturdy wooden wall surrounding the village were well-kept thatch-roofed cottages, a bake house and the alehouse he had visited while reconnoitering. Narrow daub and wattle fences between the cottages enclosed small gardens.
Even in the soaking drizzle, the scene was colorful. Doors, and the plaster on the walls were painted a gay, if winter-faded, rainbow of hues. The first vibrant blooms of spring paraded beneath windows covered by flaps of scraped and oiled hide. The only jarring note to the otherwise bucolic scene was the gallows set to the north of the village gate, which at the time of his arrival at the burh had been occupied by a newly hung corpse—an outlaw guilty of theft and murder, according to Trifine.
At the far end of the village, river water churned white down the millrace beneath the millwheel. Burhfolc, dressed in woolen clothing as colorful as their homes, crossed back and forth over the bridge and hurried along the footpaths beside the river. They went about their daily business as if naught had changed. It occurred to him that mayhap, for them, it had not. One master or another made little difference to the grind of survival, though these folk seemed much better off than most.
He felt a vast peace grow within his soul. Wulfsinraed was more than he had envisioned, and he had dreamed much.
Domnall cleared his throat, then pointed beyond the village.
“Follow the road some few leagues further and you will come to the shores of the Sea of Germania.”
“’Tis so close? I had not thought.”
They rounded the eastern curve of the wall, and after a rambling walk, came to a halt just beyond the south guard tower.
“These are unlike aught I have seen,” Fallard said, stopping at the head of a cross passage to the third level of the lord’s tower. The upper level of both this tower, and the northwest tower on the opposite side of the hall, were connected with the top of the wall by buttresses of arched stone, which supported slender crosswalks of wood.
“They were added by Thegn Vane, based on drawings left by Wulfsin.”
“They are a fine innovation, a military advantage worthy of passing on to others who build their holdings across this land.” He pointed to a walled-in area filled with plantings behind the hall. “I was told there is a garden. I assume this is it?”
“In truth, there are two, my lord, a herb garden over there, outside the kitchen and this one. To hear her tell it, my lady grows the finest roses in all Angelcynn. I know not, of course. Save for their colors, all flowers are alike to me. Yet, I am willing to take her word for it, for she should know. She is much like her roses, strong and hardy, blooming through storm or shine.”
“You are willing to take her word for most things, are you not, Domnall of Cullanis?”
“Aye. That I am. Lady Ysane is the gentlest and most honorable of woman. Forgive plain speaking, my lord, but Lord Renouf was unworthy of her. He gave her naught but contempt and strove to break her spirit.” Hazel eyes suddenly hard, Domnall looked into the distance, his jaw tight. “Lady Ysane is strong, but when he murdered Angelet, her wee babe, we feared he might have succeeded.”
“’Tis certain then, Renouf killed the babe?”
“Oh, aye. The lady would never have taken the man’s own sword to his sorry hide had he not.”
“How old was the babe?”
“Barely come into her third month of life.”
Fallard cursed. “How was it done, this murder?”
Domnall shrugged, but the movement ill disguised his anger. “Lord Renouf was sotted. ’Twas naught unusual. He was a brute, but the drink made him worse and then ’twould be but a wee thing to set him to use his fists against my lady.
“That night, we heard him scream at her to stop the babe’s weeping, but she could not, for the babe was ill. I slipped up the stairs to be close should I be needed. I had interrupted before to keep the blackguard from killing her. He never remembered when he woke afterwards.
“My lady begged the lord to let her take Angelet away, so her fretfulness would not disturb him. But the lord refused, and my lady knew better than to disobey.” Domnall shook his head. “’Tis still unclear exactly what happened. We think the lord grabbed the babe from her mother’s arms and threw her against the wall so hard it broke her poor wee skull.”
Domnall stopped his report at a growled imprecation from Fallard, who had turned away from him.
“My lord?”
Fallard faced the first marshal. Domnall stepped back, his look abruptly wary.
Fallard spoke through gritted teeth. “So the lout murdered his own babe, and brutally used a vulnerable woman.”
He understood discipline and the use of force. Founded upon violence, his profession was one of savage and bloody action. But he despised cowards, and ’twas his belief a man who used his greater stre
ngth to brutalize the helpless and innocent was the worst of all that ilk. ’Twas not his way to raise his hand against such, nor would he allow it of his men, though ’twas not uncommon behavior among warriors. But for the sake of the Lady Ysane, the rage that swept through him at Domnall’s words sent a red haze spiraling through his vision, making him long for an enemy to fight, nay, many enemies at once. He wanted to kill someone. Specifically, he wanted to kill Renouf of Sebfeld, slowly, with his own hands.
But Ysane, lady of Wulfsinraed and by all accounts a most gentle soul, had already done the deed, avenging her babe’s death. He felt not a moment’s need to punish her for the act. A fierce desire—mystifying in its intensity, for he had never experienced its like—to protect her from further violence consumed him.
He mastered his rage. “Tell me the rest.”
Domnall relaxed. “Well now, the lady began to scream like as if she faced all the demons of hell. Two of my men came, for her cries were worse than ever before, and then they ceased. We feared for her life. We broke through the door, but Sir Ruald appeared and shouldered his way past. We found the lady standing over her lord, who lay on his face. His sword was plunged fair deep in his back, my lady’s fair hands still enwrapped about the hilt. Methinks rage and grief must have gifted her with strength beyond her norm, for ’twas known she could bare lift Lord Renouf’s blade. Of course, the lord was so thoroughly sotted he could protect not himself.”
Fallard humphed.
Domnall’s last comment was thick with satisfaction. His sympathies lie entirely with the Lady Ysane. Good. His instincts are correct. Does he prove trustworthy, he will make a fine addition to my command.
“What happened then?”
“My lady stood as silent as death. Her gown was ripped, and red marks ringed her neck. Methinks when he killed the babe she attacked him, and he tried to strangle her. In their struggle, he fell. ’Tis my thought that is when she stabbed him.
“Sir Ruald grabbed her. He cursed her and screamed she had murdered his brother. He hit her. I was too far away to stop him. She fell like a stone dropped from a tower. She never spoke another word, not from that night to this morn, at least none that I heard, but I had little chance to hear much of aught, after that.
