Rose of Hope

by Mairi Norris

  Ethelmar grew quiet, clearly not wanting to remark further, but Fallard was determined to learn the truth. “Go on. I want the right of this. What happened?”

  “Well, my lord, no one rightly knows, exactly. The miller is a fair man, but hard, and ’tis certain the boy was unhappy in his life and took to heart the rumors about his possible relation to the old lord. Late one eve, when Cynric was one and ten summers, he appeared in the hall demanding the truth of his paternity. All thought Thegn Kenrick would set the boy in his place but instead, he put everyone else out of the hall, even the Lady Edeva.

  “What was said between them was never told, but ’tis known there followed a terrible argument, for their angry voices could be heard clear to the wall. Suddenly, the doors crashed open and the boy dashed out, his face red, they say, with wrath. He ran out the gates, followed by the old lord who yelled at him to come back, and disappeared into the forest.

  “’Twas grown dark by that time and the lord could follow not. But he took horse and went out after the boy the very next morn. He was gone for all of one day and most of the next, but when he returned, he had the lad with him.”

  Ethelmar’s voice took on a shade of pity and regret as he continued. “Something happened out there in the forest. None knows for sure, but ’tis said Cynric was savaged by an animal, mayhap a boar or a wolf. He had a terrible wound on his face, below his right ear and stretching almost to his mouth. He lay fevered and nigh death for days, but survived. Once well enough to leave his bed, he and the lord held another long talk, and at the end of it, Cynric walked back into the forest.

  “Thegn Kenrick sent men to help him build a cottage, and after that, made sure the boy had food and other needful things. The boy became…solitary. Time passed and most forgot him, for he came never to the burh or the village, and none from the village sought him out. I can say not how he survived, but most likely, the thegn quietly took care of it.

  “Then one day Cynric saved the life of the Lady Ysane, when she was but a wee one of four summers. She wandered away from her parents while they were, umm…together while enjoying a meal in a forest meadow. They thought she slept. Cynric heard the shouts of those who searched for her and used his woodman’s skills to track her. With his bow, he killed a starving wolf about to attack the child. After that, Thegn Kenrick announced Cynric as the new master carver, but the young man would remain in his cottage in the forest and work would be sent to him there.

  “There is naught much else to tell of him, my lord, except that with Thegn Kenrick and Sir Kennard he fought on the fields at Santlache. Thegn Kenrick came home and told how he would have died in the battle had not the lad been with him, so ’tis apparent Cynric in some way saved the thegn’s life.

  “’Tis also known he and the Lady Ysane became close, some say, as brother and sister, though he is her elder by many twelvemonths. ’Tis no secret she loves him dearly, though ’tis believed she knows not he may be her brother. But after her wedding to Lord Renouf, when word came of Thegn Kenrick’s death in the land of Normandy, Cynric disappeared. ’Tis said he has been glimpsed, in the forest, but once or twice since then, and the last time was nigh to a twelvemonth ago.

  “Many believe he died in some far off place, though none would say so much to Lady Ysane. It nigh broke her heart when he left, without so much as a word. Methinks she has seen him not in these past three twelvemonths. But ’tis my belief that were Cynric nigh, he would never have allowed either Lord Renouf or Sir Ruald to hurt my lady, for he loves her and named himself her protector. His absence, more than aught tells me he is far away, if not dead.”

  “I thank you, Ethelmar. You are correct. This is information I had need to know.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  As the under-steward went on about his business, Fallard strode into the anteroom leading to the lord’s bower, reflecting on all he had learned. Almost, his wayward feet carried him to the second floor chamber, where Ysane lay sequestered. He caught himself in time. Muttering under his breath, he followed the curving corridor instead and reached the windowed hall that fronted the lower level guest bowers, and came to the door that opened onto Ysane’s garden.

  He had seen everything of his new holding but the crypts and the chapel. It had been his intent to wait to visit the latter until Father Gregory arrived, but now he had a notion to go there alone. He wanted to think about this Cynric. The possibility had occurred to him as Ethelmar spoke that the man might be the missing link between Ruald and the rebels. ’Twould certainly fit the facts as he now knew them, especially the timing. If Cynric were in truth nigh to the burh, but keeping well out of sight, he could easily spy for the rebels. None who saw him would remark him. He could literally come and go as he pleased and raise no suspicions.

  He stepped out into the garden. ’Twas a private space, completely enclosed by high stone fences that stretched on either side from the hall to the wall. One of these formed the base for the soaring arch supporting the south crosswalk. Winding pathways of crushed shell meandered through orderly flowerbeds with their winter-dormant plants, leading to east and west gates. He followed one path to the west door.

  Renouf had wanted no one in the garden except those he allowed, and he had ordered the gates locked at all times. He, alone, had kept the only keys. Fallard had them, now. He chose the proper one and went through, re-locking the portal behind him. A few yards outside, the path was intersected at right angles by another walkway that passed through another gate set in a waist-wall, which joined the smokehouse and the buttery with the kitchen, creating within its confines a protected area where a vegetable and herb garden was laid out for the kitchen’s use.

  Fallard continued beyond that second path and came to the cobbled roadway through the orchard. A brisk walk under bright spring sunlight brought him to the chapel. To his left, close to the underground structure housing the crypts, he saw Roul and Fauques stalking through the trees, intent on some youthful adventure to enliven their many duties. The corners of his eyes crinkled. As always, his irrepressible, mischievous squire led the way, the more cautious, serious-minded Fauques trailing behind. The two were nigh inseparable.

  Willow trees, their naked limbs lifted high in graceful arcs like waterfalls of slender rope, lined the waist wall of the chapel, the branches of one hoary old grandfather draped over the gate. Stone-slab benches were positioned here and there between the trunks, offering rest to weary feet. Halfway to the doors the shell path split to encircle a round flowerbed. In the midst of the bed lay a primitive grinding stone.

  Here, as everywhere else in the burh, the mortared walls, shutters and doors were carved and painted. The dry vine of ivy crept up the face of the walls, waiting for springtime ere shedding its facade of death and returning to green, vibrant life. In summer, this courtyard would become a place of serene tranquility, a retreat, well come, from the harsh realities of daily life.

  He winced when the iron hinges on the chapel door screeched from disuse. ’Twas very dark inside, and after the soft light without, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. Stretched before him was the central aisle of the nave, lined by columns of stone that supported the vaulted ceiling. Shutters, closed for the winter, flanked triangular windows. Empty candle sconces hung on the walls between them. Dust lay over everything and the musty smell of neglect filled his nostrils. Fallard opened several of the shutters to allow light and fresh air inside.

  The wall behind the altar was graced with a high round window with more of the thick glazing he’d seen in the hall. In a deep alcove below it stood a life-size Madonna. Carved from some hard wood, the icon was painted in rich, vivid colors that were beginning to fade with time. Fallard approached the altar and knelt in genuflection, then rose to admire the chalice of gold and a silver crucifix upon the faded blue altar cloth.

  Starting there, he sought the door opening to the crypt. He found it not.

  An anteroom on the right led to the priest’s bower. The chamber, sparsely furnished with
a narrow bed with a chest at its foot and a small stand with a bowl and ewer, was empty. Here too, dust covered everything, and though Fallard poked and prodded, pushed and pulled, he found naught that suggested a hidden opening.

  Back in the chapel, he sneezed his way through an investigation of the floors and the walls throughout, but still he found no sign of a door. He was about to give up and return to the hall when a quiet voice startled him, once again, into almost pulling his sword.

  “May I be of service, my son?” Then, ere Fallard could answer, “You need not your weapon in this holy place. Of a certainty, I am no threat.”

  The white-haired man standing in the door of the chapel, back-lit by sunlight, wore the vestments common to priests. His face was in shadow. Though he appeared elderly, his movements were that of a younger man as he moved into the building.

  The priest approached him, a warm smile on his lined, sun-browned face. His eyes, the color of dark ale, were kind and alight with humor.

  Fallard did not smile. “Father Gregory, I presume?”

  “Aye, and you would be Thegn D’Auvrecher, the new lord. I believe I have you to thank for returning me to my flock.”

  “By restoring your service, I but did what was right. I was aware not you had returned. When did you come?”

  “But this moment. I visited in the village this morn, and arrived at the hall a short time ago. I saw you come this way, and followed.”

  Fallard gestured to the priest’s bower. “I checked your quarters. You will have needs. Bring them to Ethelmar and I will see they are supplied.” He glanced around, then continued. “I can find not the door that leads to the crypts. Show me where ’tis.”

  Father Gregory grinned. “Certainly. None who know of it have ever found the door without aid. ’Twas meant to be difficult to find, so you should feel not badly.”

  Fallard, uncomfortable with the priest’s teasing manner, replied more brusquely than was his wont. “I do not. I wish merely to know where ’tis.”

  “Of course. Forgive me.”

  He led Fallard behind the altar to stop in front of the Madonna, then pressed the tip of his index finger against an almost invisible seam in the wooden folds of cloth that covered the right upper arm. The area depressed and he tugged on the arm at the same time. The entire statue moved with a slight grating sound, bringing with it a puff of dead, damp air. Behind it yawned a dark aperture.

  The priest’s eyes danced as he looked at Fallard, the lines of his face emphasized by his smile. “I would say, ‘After you, my lord’, but neither of us has a torch. When next you come, I will have a light available and we will explore together.”

  “Mayhap. The door on the far side, ’tis also hidden?”

  “Aye. The corridor that links the chapel to the crypts runs nigh to the burh wall. ’Twas originally meant as a hiding place, a shelter for the family should the burh be overrun. ’Tis not wide, but there are recesses, alcoves where supplies may be kept, and a number of shallow sleeping niches are carved directly into the wall.” He hesitated for a moment, staring intently at Fallard, all amusement quelled. “At this end of the corridor there is an access tunnel that bisects the base of the wall. It ends in a secret door, a small postern gate. On the outside, the gate is cleverly disguised. Even one who knows where ’tis would be unable to guess its exact location merely by looking. Once one passes through the gate, one must immediately climb down a rocky abutment to the water. The river’s verge is narrow there, a mere grassy ledge not much more than a toehold, as ’tis all round the island. ’Tis not a dangerous climb or crossing at most times, but when there has been much rain in the mountains, or as now, when the snow is melting, the ford can be treacherous.

  “I count on one hand the number of those who know of the existence of the corridor and gate. Myself, Domnall of Cullanis, the Lady Ysane, her sister Gemma and Gemma’s husband, Lord du Theil. Oh, and one more, Lady Hildeth. You have met her?”

  “Not to speak to.”

  “Ah, I understand. ’Tis possible in her lucid moments she still remembers, for she once knew. Now you know.”

  “Add Trifine, my First, and Jehan, my Second to that list.”

  “As you wish, my lord. Renouf of Sebfeld knew not of it, nor his brother, Sir Ruald. ’Twas the Lady Ysane’s ruling to keep the knowledge from them.”

  “I would call that decision wise. Has the corridor ever been used for the purpose it was designed?”

  “Nay. The burh has never been overrun. The corridor does, howbeit, have a tragic history.”

  Fallard, who had been standing at the opening to the hole, staring down into the darkness and wishing for a light, turned back to the priest, his curiosity piqued.

  “Why?”

  “It seems that long ago, in the days of Marcel, the third thegn, the lord’s two young sons went missing. An extensive search was made for the children, but they were never found. ’Twas believed at the time they were abducted, though no ransom was ever demanded. The lord and his wife were devastated, for the boys were their only offspring. Some twelvemonths later, the lady gave birth to a third child, a boy, Vane, but ’tis said they never ceased grieving for the two little ones.

  “Many twelvemonths later, after the death of Marcel and his wife, Thegn Vane read of the corridor in his father’s papers and sought for it. When he made his way inside, he found the remains of his young brothers, wrapped in each other’s arms. To this day, none knows how the boys learned of the corridor or how they made their way inside, but ’twas clear once they were in, they could learn no way out.

  “No search of the corridor seems to have been made at the time of their disappearance. ’Twould seem none who knew of it thought it even possible they might have gone there. Lord Marcel had never explored it, nor spoken of it to any but his marshal, for he harbored an intense dislike for underground places and deemed it necessary only to be aware it existed.”

  Fallard stared. “I offer my gratitude for that most enlightening bit of Wulfsinraed history.”

  Father Gregory’s lips twitched, and he pushed the Madonna back into place. With a nigh indiscernible click, the door was once more locked.

  Fallard turned away. “I must return to the hall. One thing further. Tell me what you know of Cynric Master Carver.”

  “Very little, my lord. He is said to be the illegitimate son of Thegn Kenrick, but none knows, for certain. He saved the life of the Lady Ysane on two occasions that are known, and the two grew extremely close. But he has been missing these past three twelvemonths.”

  “On two occasions ‘that are known’?”

  “Aye. There may be more. She was ever a curious, adventurous child, and oft in some difficulty of her own making. Early on, the lad assumed the role of her protector, mayhap, because he knows she is truly his sister. ’Tis certain he has great love for her, and she for him.”

  “Is it possible he may be in league with the rebels, and fighting with them?”

  Father Gregory started, as if the thought had never occurred to him. “Why, I…I suppose it could be possible, my lord, but I must say I can hardly think why. Cynric dislikes Normans, but no more so than any other Saxon.” He shook his head. “Nay, ’twould be most unlikely, to my thought.”

  “Know you where he is, or have you heard aught of him since he disappeared?”

  “I know not where he is. I have heard he returned on occasion and met with Thegn Renouf, but he could have stayed not long. Nor does it seem he met with any other, or sought out my lady, which was a shame. He would have helped her against Lord Renouf, had he known what was happening.”

  “Well and good, but do you hear aught of him, aught at all, you will inform me.”

  “Certainly. My lord, about Lady Ysane…?”

  “Aye?”

  “Ere following you here, I visited the lady. She is…fragile, my lord. She has yet to fully grieve for the loss of her daughter, or to come to terms with the killing of Lord Renouf. ’Tis my understanding you intend to wed her as
soon as she is well?”

  “That is correct. Does this present a difficulty for you, Father?”

  “Nay, not at all. From our time together this morn and all I have heard, methinks you will make a good husband for our lady. ’Tis that she is a very special woman. She is the rose of Wulfsinraed. I have known her all her life, and she is both honorable and good. But she was brutalized by her former husband, her gentleness abused, and ’twould …displease me, and many others, were she to be hurt again.”

  Fallard’s eyes narrowed and his voice softened to a bare whisper. His hand moved again to the hilt of his sword. “I take not well to threats, not even from priests.”

  “Nay, not a threat but mayhap, a…suggestion.”

  “Then note I take not kindly to threats or suggestions, be they offered from friends, enemies or clergy. But I will take into account the love and concern you bear for Lady Ysane, and instead of banishing you again, I will state the lady has naught to fear from me. No more will be said on the subject. Is that understood?”

  The good priest, apparently not at all discomfited by Fallard’s less than subtle warning, looked deep into his baron’s eyes and replied with blithe serenity, “I believe we understand one another quite well, my lord. Good day.”

  He nodded and went into his bower, leaving Fallard staring after him, thinking mayhap he had found yet another who might become a loyal friend. The corners of his eyes crinkled. One could never have too many.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Late afternoon sunshine beamed, with the delicate softness of early spring, through the deep window embrasure of the sitting room above the lord’s chamber. ’Twas that languid time of year when a confused nature could not decide to awaken fully or drift back into slumber. A handful of trees had burst into flower nigh overnight, though most remained budded. Here and there, daffodils pushed up sword-like leaves. An industrious robin hopped among the drooping snowdrops, searching for early worms.