Rose of Hope

by Mairi Norris

  What has he done? Oh, I feared this. Why does no one protest? Where are my defenders? Must I again be forced against my will? ’Tis truth, he has turned them all against me. As before, ’twill be again.

  “Be seated, Ysane.” The hand that had lifted her to her feet now urged her to sit. She had no will to object. She sat.

  As if by magic her own blue goblet, filled with cool mead, appeared before her face. “Drink this.”

  She drank. The sweet beverage nigh choked her.

  “Drink more,” the dark knight said. “I have no wish to see you swoon.”

  She rounded on him. Her blood pounded in her ears and she seemed to see him as if from far away. “Did I faint, ’twould be your fault. You forbade my women to speak about aught to me. Faith! You should have warned me.” She set down her goblet before her trembling hand dropped it. Her voice rose. “I should have said you nay the moment you spoke. Thought you I would agree to this without a word, as a child offered a treat? I do not wish to marry again. I will not wed you!”

  “Lower your voice.” His dark eyes roamed her heaving bosom before rising to her face. “Had I told you, would you have come to sup?”

  “Nay! I would have locked myself in my chamber and starved first.”

  “I knew this. ’Tis why I forbade you should be told. Had you disobeyed I would have come for you, and broken down the door if needful, and brought you to sup over my shoulder. I wished to spare you that…and aye, Ysane, we will wed.”

  “Ysane, please.” Roana’s tone was placatory, but her eyes were concerned. “Be not afraid. ’Tis a good thing. He will care well for you, and you will be safe with him, as I,” and she turned to offer a sweet smile to the silver-haired knight, “will be safe and happy with Trifine.”

  Ysane could not answer. Her thoughts were a jumble. In but one short declaration for which she was woefully unprepared, her life was once again wrenched from her hands and taken by another. She closed her eyes. She knew not whether to weep or scream.

  “My lady?”

  Ysane turned to find Gertruda, the youngest of the kitchen maids, standing behind her, face beaming. The girl removed the empty trencher to replace it with a clean plate upon which rested a goodly-sized chunk of ripe yellow cheese and two huff pies filled with spiced, honeyed blackberries. ’Twas Ysane’s favorite sweet, but she feared she would spew it forth did she try to eat. Roul offered her more mead. She bit her lower lip to stop its cowardly trembling and shook her head.

  “Cook made the pies especially for you, lady,” Gertruda said, her head bobbing in encouragement. “’Tis to celebrate your betrothal and return to health.”

  Did all but I know of this farce?

  The maid turned away, but not before she surreptitiously stuck out her tongue at Roul, who drew himself up and plastered a haughty expression upon his face.

  Ysane watched Gertruda’s display in disbelief. The girl had come to Wulfsinraed after Renouf had become thegn. He bought her from a peddler, ostensibly to protect her from the man’s beatings. But Gertruda was very young, pure, and exceedingly comely and ’twas not long ere Renouf had taken her, unwilling, to his bed. Once tired of her charms, he had made her available to his men. Ysane had never known the girl to smile, much less willingly initiate converse with a male, not even with one so untried as the young Roul.

  Renouf’s men had been of a kind with their master. Life among them had been a misery for the servants and slaves, with their crude suggestions and wandering hands. The men had used them shamefully, forcing them into dark corners against their will. She had tried to protect them, but Renouf had approved not her interference. She bore the scars that proved his displeasure. Like a stone dropped in a well, she felt the ripples of a deep, profound shudder. Her eyes swept the hall. The dark knight’s men kept their hands to themselves. If they made unseemly advances, naught in the girls’ responses bespoke of it. Ysane’s rage at the dark knight’s presumption dissipated as rapidly as the mists of the morn at the touch of the sun’s first heat.

  “’Tis a refreshing change, is it not?” Roana remarked on what Ysane had but now noticed. “I no longer fear leaving my chamber.”

  Nodding mutely, Ysane stared in wonder at the man beside her. He in turn studied the emotions that must be clearly visible on her face, for she was felt too dazed to hide them.

  “Methinks mayhap, Captain, the lady realizes you are not quite the brute you pretend to be,” said Trifine, whose arm was now loosely draped over Roana’s shoulders. His hand caressed her shoulder. He smiled at Ysane with the lazy merriment she was beginning to associate with him. His words triggered another fiery blush, for she was guilty of thinking the dark knight a cad, if not a brute.

  “Does she think I am no Renouf, Trifine, she would be correct,” Fallard replied. “She should also be grateful,” he added, as his gaze collided with her own. “I abuse not the helpless, Ysane, nor do I allow it of my men.”

  “Renouf’s men, they…hurt…my women.” The words were barely breathed. “I was helpless to intervene. I could protect them not. I was their mistress. They looked to me, but my efforts were of no avail.” To her dismay, tears sprang, unbidden. She bent her head to focus on her hands, tight clasped in her lap. “Even Roana and I feared them.”

  “My lady, I am aware. So long as I remain lord here, you and your women, even your lowliest slaves, are safe, and need have no fear. No one will touch them unless ’tis the woman’s choice, else the man will answer to me, and they know the consequence.”

  Gratitude for her women’s sake rose in a great wave to engulf Ysane. More tears blurred her vision and she turned away with a sound of distress.

  Oh mercy! I must weep not before this man. Why do I go on so? It must be the last dregs of weakness from the fever that affects me so this night.

  Abruptly, she was so weary all she wanted was to race to her bower to hide, but she dared not.

  “Your care for your women is no shame,” the knight said. “Indeed, ’tis most honorable. Here now. You are weary, not yet recovered from your ordeal. I would have you return to your bower to rest. I will come to speak with you ere I retire.”

  Ysane kept her face lowered as she rose, unwilling to risk further kindness from him lest she altogether lose her composure. “I believe rest would be beneficial, my lord.”

  She winced at how small her voice sounded, husky with unshed tears.

  “Take with you your pie.” His voice was gentle. “Even if you eat it not now, mayhap you will desire it later. At the least, you must show cook you appreciate her kind gesture.”

  “Of course.”

  Roana rose as well. “I will go with her.”

  “As will I,” Lady Lewena echoed.

  ***

  As the three women crossed the hall toward the tower stairs, Fallard saw the slave Lynnet hurriedly rise from her table and follow her mistress.

  Silence descended as the four men left alone stared at one other.

  “Well,” Trifine said. “Methinks the spark does seem to have vanished from the eve.”

  His usually insouciant tones carried a distinct touch of dismay.

  “Indeed it has,” Thegn Randel agreed.

  Even Roul looked downcast.

  From his place at the table, Domnall snorted into his tankard, then raised his voice in a call for more ale.

  ***

  Several hours later Fallard, weary to his bones, mounted the first winding treads of the lord’s tower. He nigh leapt back down when a dark figure stepped from behind the upward curve of the wall to block his way.

  The sharp, succinct oath that exploded from his lips was the only indication of his irritation when he recognized the shape before him as that of a woman shrouded in a hooded cloak. “Foolish girl! Know you how close you came to being skewered upon my sword?”

  He slammed the half-drawn weapon back into its scabbard.

  A low, breathy laugh answered him as the woman swayed closer. His nostrils were assailed with a cloying scent
of violets. “Nay, my lord, I knew you would stay your hand in time.”

  “Who are you? Speak!” Fallard’s senses remained heightened. He considered women of little threat to a trained knight, but as he had once learned to his cost in his younger, less disciplined days, not no threat at all. He bore a reminder upon his back of that youthful miscalculation.

  Stepping into the moonlight that flooded through the window embrasure beside her, the girl pulled back the hood of the cloak she wore. Moonbeams captured the dark red highlights in her short cap of hair even as the flickering rushlight from the iron wall sconces lit strands of shining gold. Had the interwoven play of gold and silver light been upon Ysane, he would have been enchanted, but not with this one, for he knew her now—Leda, the slave who had shared the bed of Ruald the rebel.

  He was taller than she even standing a step below her. He wondered at her game as she spread her fingers upon his chest. Her right hand, hidden within her cloak, moved with seeming stealth. His response was swift as he snared the arm and brought the hand to light. He trusted her not, and thought her foolish enough to try to stab him here, on the dark reaches of the stairs.

  She gasped at his roughness, then laughed again. Her voice was low and seductive, promising delights unimagined. “For shame, my lord. I had not thought you a man who would lift a bruising hand against a woman.”

  “You are harmed not, Leda. Step aside and be on your way.”

  “You know my name. I am pleased. But nay, my lord. I know ’tis your intent to seek out the Lady Ysane, but she sleeps, and left word she wishes to be not disturbed. Since she has chosen to deny you her bed this night, mayhap you would seek your pleasure with one who knows far better than she how to bring to you the ecstasy you must crave, lusty dragon that you are.”

  So saying she dropped her cloak. Fallard stepped hastily away, barely remembering in time he was on a stairwell. Anger coursed, for her game was now known, and ’twas more ancient than any other ever played, for beneath the cloak she was nude. She leaned toward him again, the slide of her hair against her cheek deliberately enticing. The overly sweet smell of violets touched him again. He wondered how a slave came by the expensive scent. Mayhap, Ruald had favored it.

  His narrowed gaze swept over her in the pallid light. Lushly made, she was, and beautiful, and no doubt, to another man desirable for sport, but Fallard felt little stirring in either mind or flesh. This woman, for all her allure, held no appeal, though he could deny not that ere he had seen Ysane, Leda would have been a temptation he might not have spurned. Nor was she the only woman within the hall to offer him her charms. But he had discovered, at first to his chagrin, that no woman could stir his passions as did his little white rose. Until Ysane was in his arms, he would seek no other, nor did he wish for another.

  Briefly, he wondered at Leda’s purpose. Did she seek to displace Ysane, with hopes of becoming the new lady of Wulfsinraed, or did she simply seek to gain new place for herself in the household such as she had held before? Or mayhap, there was a more sinister edge to her game, for he forgot not there remained an undiscovered link, as he believed, between Ruald and the rebel forces. Was Leda that link within the hall, as he had supposed before, and in possible collusion with Cynric, the master carver, without?

  He had set a man to watch her, but naught had come of the observation. She was reported as sullen and lazy, and considered herself hard put upon at being forced to return to slave’s work after her favor with Ruald. But she had done naught to further raise his suspicions—until now.

  Bending to gather up her cloak, Fallard wrapped it round the figure before him.

  “I would have you seek your pleasures elsewhere, Leda.”

  She pouted. “But my lord, ’tis you I crave, and no other can offer what I can give.”

  With a gesture appropriate to a harlot, she reached to lay hand where he disdained she should touch, forcing him to move down yet another step and slap her palm away. “Nay! Find another to warm your bed, for ’twill never be I.”

  He lifted her and set her aside with a brusque movement, and strode up the steps beyond her, then surprised her by glancing back. For the space of a moment, rage transformed her lovely face into wrathful lines and her amber eyes glittered with hate. But the spasm passed so swiftly Fallard could but wonder had he truly seen it.

  He approached the door to Ysane’s bower unsettled from his encounter with Leda and paused. He needed his temper fully under control, for he knew not what response he might expect from his lady when he made known the full extent of her new, and very unwanted, status. He knocked, expecting Ysane to call for his entrance. Instead, the door opened but wide enough for him to see that Lynnet stood there, finger to her lips. The maid pulled the door open further and pointed to the bed, where Ysane lay curled, asleep. So. Leda had lied not about that.

  “She waited long for you, my thegn,” Lynnet whispered. “But she grew sleepy and said she would lie down. Methinks she thought to bestir herself ere you came. Shall I wake her?”

  “Nay. I will rouse her. Did she ask not to be disturbed?”

  “Nay, my thegn.” Lynnet’s voice held surprise. “She expected you.”

  “All is right, then. Go downstairs and wait. I will inform you when to return to help her prepare for sleeping.”

  The girl bobbed a curtsey and slipped out the door, pulling it to behind her. The latch gave a quiet snick as it closed.

  Fallard walked to the bed and stood looking at the lady he would wed. Curled into a ball like a rumpled kitten, she remained fully dressed, the coverlet bunched in her arms, one end stretched across her feet. Light from the open brazier illumined her sleep-flushed face and drew shadows of molten gold from her hair, which had been released from its tight braids. The soft tresses had slipped over her shoulder to drape across her like a fleece. Her brows were pulled together in a tiny frown. He wondered if she dreamed.

  Her lips were slightly parted. He bent nigh her face, inhaling the enchanting scent of rose. Then he straightened, and ’twas all he could do to laugh not aloud. His little rose—so delicate, so dainty, so-very-much-the-lady—was snoring, the sound faint, but unmistakable. At that moment, he would have given every silver penny of his new wealth to slide onto the bed beside her and make her his own in every way.

  Instead, he shook her gently. “My lady, awaken.”

  He shook her again when she responded not. He was about to put a bit more effort into it when her eyes, blurry with sleep, popped open. She stared at him, her gaze empty of awareness yet dark with fear. She jerked back, loosing a sharp, pained cry, then tried to lunge past him, but the coverlet caught her up and she fell, instead, into his arms. She fought him like a woman crazed, and Fallard was hard put to defend himself without hurting her.

  “Ysane!” He tried to hold her still but she seemed crazed. “Ysane, hear me!”

  He wrapped the coverlet about her and cuddled her close against his chest, smothering the wild flaying of her limbs. Abruptly, she went still, her frantic breathing muffled against the fabric of his tunic. She shuddered and went limp.

  A few hectic heartbeats passed, and he heard her say, her voice almost normal, “’Tis all right. You may release me now.”

  He gave her about two inches of space, watchful of her mood. In her struggles, her hair had fallen forward. The tangled mass veiled her face. Fallard pushed the tousled strands behind her ears, where it fell in chaotic waves to her waist. He slid one hand beneath her chin and lifted her face. Her eyes had lost the wild glitter, but now shone with wary tension.

  “In future,” he said, “I must remember never to wake you unless I wear full mail.”

  The veriest ghost of a smile touched the corners of her mouth, and lightened her tense features at his teasing. She tried to pull away, but he would release her not.

  “I wish to know what that was about,” he said.

  Within her cocoon, Ysane gave a little shrug and answered in one word. “Renouf.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN


  This time, when Ysane pulled away, he let her go. She moved without her usual grace as she straightened her clothing, and tried without success to restore some semblance of order to her hair. Abandoning the task as impossible without a comb, she walked to a small table and poured herself a cup of water from a carafe, downing the cool liquid with avid thirst. The open window embrasure beckoned. She went to stand in front of it, closing her eyes to the blackness without, though she was aware less of the clean, simple darkness of night than of the shadow of bleak horror that still haunted her soul. The nightmare had been of Angelet’s last moments, and was not the first she had endured. Nor would it be the last.

  Her back to the dark knight, she said, “What shall I tell you, my lord, of my life of shame with Renouf? Where shall I begin?” She gave a laugh filled with poignant diffidence. “The man was a beast who drank pleasure from inflicting pain on others, as a thirsty man would guzzle ale for his parched throat. I have seen him derive a satisfaction from their torment that at times came nigh to spiritual rapture. At such moments, I believed he could no more live without the suffering he inflicted than a babe without its mother’s milk.”

  She faced him, the movement slow and stiff as if it pained her. “Can you understand when I tell you he thrived on the agony of those he tortured, that when a soul he tormented finally died from the agony, he would exist for days in a sort of ecstasy? My people lived in hopeless terror of him, though I suppose I must be honest and state he ever tortured but one of the burhfolc. The others who died in that terrible room in the pits were outlaws. Even then, they should have been strangled or hung in the legal manner, not…butchered.”

  She shuddered again, the tremor jolting her entire body.

  “And what of you, my lady?”

  Both his voice and expression were blank, and gratitude buoyed her. Had he shown pity, she could have borne it not.

  “Of me, my lord? What then? Shall I speak of the beatings, when he used both fists and feet? Of his care to scar not my face, because he enjoyed that other men desired my beauty, when only he could have me? Shall I list for you the bruises, the broken bones, the lashes upon my bare back, or the times I was smashed so hard against the wall my women believed I would never wake?