Rose of Hope

by Mairi Norris

  He handed over the leather sword belt. Fallard buckled it on over the hauberk, then wrapped the scarlet girdle with William’s crest around the belt.

  Ere sheathing his great sword, Fallard brought it to Ysane. His pride in the weapon, a blade bequeathed to him by a favored uncle, was strong. He showed her the silvered cross-guard inlaid with obsidian gemstones. Black leather worn smooth from long use covered the grip, butting up against the silvered pommel.

  “See you this.” His gauntleted finger followed the elegant tracery of letters forged deep into the thickness of the blade’s length. “‘F A L L A R D’. ’Twas gifted to me at my accolade by Rollant, my father’s elder brother.”

  Once she admired his weapon to his satisfaction, Fallard slipped it into the protective fleece inside the black wooden scabbard. Roul held the black and silver conical helm as Fallard reached for his dark-shafted lance. He slung his shield, of a teardrop shape with a painted ebon and silver starburst design, damaged by the dents and slashes of battle and nigh as tall as himself, over his shoulder.

  “Go out to the yard, boy, and give the saddlebags a last check. Make sure you have forgotten naught,” he said to Roul, who grinned again and skipped away to do his bidding.

  He faced Ysane, who caught her breath. He noted the gleam of approving wonder in her eyes and could avoid not a strut as he sauntered toward her, the tinkle of his spurs accompanying the low thud of his boots against the floor. Hah! ’Twas a good thing to know his little rose thought him a fine figure of a man. He would carry her admiring expression with him into battle, and ’twould give him the courage of a dozen knights.

  “How long will you be gone?”

  ’Twas the age-old question of those whose role was to stay behind and wait.

  “’Twill depend on how quickly we find the parties of the stewards, or those who attacked the first group.” He refrained from stating his belief they were Saxon rebels, or that he suspected Ruald had escaped. “No more than two or three days, methinks. But within that time, I may return with some of the stewards.” He took her arm. “Walk with me.”

  Together they descended to the courtyard, where Ysane joined the other women already gathered on the steps. The tunnel between the gates was overflowing with people, carts and animals. The villagers and the ceorls from the farms were beginning to stream inside the walls, getting underfoot of the mounted men, who yelled at them to watch out lest they be trampled by restless hooves.

  Fallard stared in disbelief at the chaos, then started to laugh. “What a ridiculous sight.”

  He caught Ysane in his arms, careful not to hold her too tightly lest the rough metal of his hauberk press through her syrce and cause her hurt. He kissed her once again, heedless of all who saw.

  “Take care,” he whispered.

  He strode down the steps, drew himself up onto Tonnerre’s back and donned the helmet Roul handed him. Guiding the great destrier to the head of the mounted patrols, he yelled loudly enough to gain the attention of all. “If you wish not to be trampled, move out of the way.”

  Those on foot scrambled to obey, mothers grabbing children and fathers hauling on supplies, and within moments, the pavement was clear. Fallard raised his arm. “We ride! Good fortune to us all.”

  He set Tonnerre to a slow trot with an imperceptible movement of his legs. As he crossed the bridge and turned west, he noted Ysane’s arrival on the wall above through his peripheral vision. As he urged Tonnerre into an easy gallop, he looked not behind, but knew the beautiful green eyes of his rose rested upon him. He drew back his shoulders and held his head high, his spine as straight as his lance.

  ***

  Ysane tightened her cloak about her shoulders and watched the empty road long after the patrol was swallowed within the trees. An ancient thoroughfare it was, built by the Romans, and still serviceable after the countless twelvemonths since they had passed away. Master builders, those Romans had been, but hardly more so than the Normans. They, too, were grand builders, and like the great conquerors ere them, they built in stone, to last the ages.

  Normans! Conquerors and enemies of her people. Some would expect her to hate and fear them, and fight them to the death. Some would advise she flee marriage to the one who claimed her, while others would whisper she seduce him, and when he slept from the exhaustion of their play, slip a knife into his heart.

  But not all of his kind were brutes or cruel masters. Fallard was honorable and just, and even his men were respectful of her people.

  She thought of the sight he made in full armor. A thrill, part fear and part admiration, had swept through her as she took him in from mail-coifed head to black leather boots and gilded spurs. By the saints! He was terrifying, but he was also magnificent. He mounted the massive Tonnerre as easily as if he wore no mail and the horse, no more than a pony.

  ’Twas no wonder the fierce warriors were so feared. Even Domnall, the greatest fighter she had ever known, had met his match with Fallard on the practice field.

  She waited on the wall, looking west, until the sun sank low enough to throw its bright rays beneath the cloud layer, forcing her to shade her eyes. The air grew too cool for comfort even in her warm cloak.

  “Ysane?”

  She turned. Roana stood there, her lovely face troubled. Ysane held out her arms and her cousin came into them. They clasped each other closely, finding comfort in the embrace of deep friendship underscored by the close family tie. Ysane understood Roana’s unspoken need. Trifine was gone too, leading one of the patrols. So newly had they come to care for the men so recently thrust into their lives, that neither knew how to feel the emotions roiling within. After a time, arm-in-arm, they went down to sup in the hall, where lights blazed and warmth beckoned. They were the mistresses of Wulfsinraed, and guests awaited them.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Ysane looked out over the courtyard the next morn, trying to decide where she wished to go. Almost ere she finished dressing, Ethelmar had arrived at her bower to firmly evict her, giving orders for the chamber to receive a thorough scrubbing, from wooden floors to raftered ceiling.

  Her dish-thegn had everyone in the place cleaning. Even Tenney the hoarder was involved, temporarily called from his records. He was in the hall, helping to take down the tapestries. Ysane had no need to enter the kitchen to hear the same lively diligence being pursued there. The voices of Alyce and Alewyn, the bubbly, skinny twin sisters who were her cooks, carried clearly into the hall as they directed the kitchen slaves in scouring everything that could be scrubbed.

  The frenetic industry had her hunting a refuge, since no one would allow her to help, for Fallard had left word she was to rest. She could not mind the order. Her dreams the night before had been unsettling, and she had awakened tired and dispirited. Her head ached.

  Even her sitting room was no haven. The chamber was crowded with servants mending bedding while the ladies bent over their embroidery. The room had taken on the aspect of a cage, overflowing with chattering, fluttering birds.

  So she fled outside, only to discover ’twas no better than within. In the cottages of the burh craftsmen that adjoined the wall west of the gates, the activity was hectic. From the stables to the carpenter’s stall, no one, except mayhap the smithy, seemed exempt. The day was certainly made for such work. ’Twas warm and sunny with a clear turquoise sky, the color so deep ’twas easy to imagine it as an upside down lake, rippling over her head between the horizons.

  She stopped beside Jehan, who stood at the foot of the steps. He directed the squires, among them the methodical Fauques and lighthearted Roul, in their task of shoveling dung from the courtyard. With the unplanned influx of families from outside, plus their livestock, the pavement of cobbled stone had become mired in manure and mud. The boys shoveled it into buckets, carried it to the river and dumped it into the swift-moving waters. They returned with buckets full of clean water to sluice the stones.

  Despite the ache that buffeted her head, she chuckled. Roul laughed, chatt
ered non-stop and teased the other boys, regarding the chore a game, but he splashed more of the odiferous mess upon himself than in the buckets. Like it or nay, his destiny this eve was a thorough dunking in a clean bath. Fauques merely cast forbearing glances at his friend’s antics and carried out his task with painstaking care. So very different they were, yet, each balanced the other.

  She turned to Jehan. “Has every soul in the burh had been taken by the fever of cleaning? When the men return, they will not recognize this place.”

  She was not entirely jesting.

  Jehan chuckled. “Ethelmar and I decided ’twould be better if no one had too much time to think.”

  With a grin and a wink, his brown eyes laughing, he strode off toward the stable.

  Well. That explained the madness.

  Following the curve of the tower, Ysane was drawn to the activity in the center of the practice field. Harold must have every off-duty warrior involved in training. The clash and clang of mock battle mingled with the grunts of hard-hitting, sweating men.

  The grounds surrounding the field were crowded with makeshift shelters. Ieldramodor had once told her that long ago, ere the village moved outside the walls, those grounds had been cobblestoned lanes lined with workshops, storehouses, an alehouse and bake house, with snug cottages clustered among them. She wished she could have seen it back then, filled as ’twould have been with life and movement, with laughter, shouts and mothers calling to their offspring. Mayhap, it might have looked a little as it did now.

  She turned in the opposite direction. Skirting the courtyard and the busy squires, she passed beneath the high arch that supported the crosswalk overhead only to discover the orchard too, was chock full of humanity. Everywhere, people laughed, argued and chatted. Women cooked over open fires while small children ran and played, enjoying the unexpected holiday. Animals of every description barked, clucked, brayed, mooed or bleated. Her headache spiked.

  She ran back to the hall. Weaving adroitly through the army of workers, she slipped into the southwest anteroom and worked her way around servants whitewashing the walls to reach the door to the garden. She shoved it open and fled through. Leaning against it, she sighed in relief, face upraised to the sunlight, and impatiently pushed an errant braid of her hair beneath her headrail. The high walls that enclosed the garden blocked the sight, and at least some of the noise, of the chaos without.

  At once, she relaxed as the peace washed over her. She loved her garden, even in winter when except for the scattered beds of winter pansies and Christ Mass roses flanked by boxwood hedges, stem and branch lay barren. ’Twas her sanctuary, and even more so than her sitting room. She knew every bush and flower by name, talked to them and knew all the little quirks of their growth.

  She had hidden her passion from Renouf, pretending to loathe the work. Had he known, he would have forbidden her access. He had strutted about, preening like a peacock whenever guests had raved over the garden’s beauty as if he, and he alone, were responsible.

  The design of the layout with its crushed shell pathways, benches, shade trees and flowerbeds was entirely her creation. Soon, the weather would permit her to be on her knees, pruning her roses—she loved the white ones best—and working fallen leaves and other detritus into the soil in preparation for planting.

  As she moved along the paths, she noted where winter weeds needed pulling and caked mud must be scrubbed from the sundial. The small pond that centered the garden would need the winter scum cleared. Ignoring the ache in her temples, she sought to note and mentally catalogue aught amiss. Thus, when a spot of dull red caught her attention in a place where no color should be, nigh the base of one of the walls, she halted her meandering steps. Bending to investigate, she felt herself blanch with shock as she pulled the small object from where it lay half buried beneath the soil.

  Ere she could take guard, bloody images of Angelet’s death, juxtaposed against her infant daughter’s beautiful green eyes and happy coos, slammed into her with the force of a blow. A low moan escaped her lips. She stared in disbelief at the cladersticca lying on her palm. Domnall had carved the rattle ere her daughter’s birth, filling it with small stones and painting it with lovely runic designs. The short time it had spent buried in earth had already dulled the bright colors.

  But what mystery is this? How did the toy come to be here, in the garden? Oh, Angelet!

  Still so nigh the surface of her heart, the grief, fierce and searing, overwhelmed her. She collapsed as a flower torn by its roots, sobbing without control. The anguish of twelvemonths, inflamed by the events of recent days buffeted her, rending her soul. She wept so violently breathing became difficult and she gasped for air, while tears to rival a rainstorm scorched her cheeks.

  Her father’s death, the absence of Cynric, the murder of her precious babe, the arrival of the Normans and all the terror, rage, and misery of the three interminable twelvemonths with Renouf, now rose to suffocate her. Encompassed with sorrow, she was but dimly aware of the arms that surrounded her and pulled her face from the cold ground, cradling her in the warmth of a tender embrace.

  “Ysane, my dear, oh my sweet, dear cousin, please weep not so. You will make yourself ill again.” Roana’s usually clear voice was husky as she clasped Ysane’s head to her bosom, rocked her like a child and murmured words of solace, as if seeking some way, any way, to allay the terrible grief. “’Tis all right, my dear, ’twill be all right.”

  She removed Ysane’s headrail and stroked her hair.

  Slowly, the tempest subsided. Ysane peered through blurred vision into her kinswoman’s caring face.

  “Oh Roana, what a treasure you are,” she whispered as her cousin swiped at her tears with a linen cloth. “You have ever been a tower of strength, dear friend, even since we were children. How can I ever repay you?”

  Roana helped her sit up, handing her the cloth to blow her nose. She shook her head. “My dear, who considers repayment when no debt has been accrued? Are we not sisters in our hearts? If we succor not each other in time of need, then who will? Come now. Try to stand. The ground is cold, and I would not have you become ill.”

  “How did you know I had need of you?”

  They rose and Roana helped Ysane brush dirt and dry leaves from her clothing. “I was in the window embrasure overlooking the garden. I saw you fall. Lewena is there, as well. Will you not reassure her?”

  Ysane looked up. Lewena watched from the window above. Ysane found the strength to smile, instead of lapsing back into tears at the compassion filling her friend’s eyes. Lewena inclined her head in return and turned back to the sitting room.

  “Shall we walk?” Roana moved ahead of Ysane on the path. “Methinks the roses will be especially beautiful this year, with all the moisture we had over the winter months.”

  Ysane, still gripping the tiny rattle, slipped it into a fold of her cyrtel. She had to fight to control the tremor that still shook her voice. “Aye, ’tis likely. They’ve done so well the past few seasons, the white, in particular.” She slanted a glance at her cousin. Roana sought to distract her with mention of her roses. Any other time, the ploy would have worked. Mayhap, it still might. She sniffed and swept out her hand to indicate the dormant bed they passed. “Never have I seen the white ones grow so large, so very full. Ieldramodor’s suggestion to rub crushed garlic on the leaves and stems worked wonders for killing those pesky blackflies that invaded last summer.”

  “How large will your lavender plots be this year?”

  A rather soggy giggle bubbled to Ysane’s lips, surprising her. Roana loved the pale purple tint and sweet scent of the tiny blossoms, and enjoyed infusing her bath water with lavender oil. But lavender had so many other uses, from cooking and apothecary needs to freshening floor rushes and deterring moths from feasting on wool. Ysane never seemed to grow enough to use purely for toiletry purposes, so for Roana’s use, she asked Domnall to buy it from the monks at Bedhalh Abbey west of Fallewydde. They grew fields of it.

&
nbsp; “Hmmm....” She drew out her response as if ‘twere not a question to which she had already given thought. “I suppose I must increase their size by no small amount, since I have a greedy cousin who constantly pesters me for lavender oil, and it does seem of especial importance now, since that same lady has a man to impress with how sweet she smells.”

  Roana laughed and hugged her. “You are too good to me, Ysane. I swear I will give all my rose oil to you, since I am not the only lady who has a special nose she wants to tickle. Think you I have seen not Fallard lean close to you and sniff your hair when he thought no one looked? The man seeks most diligently to show it not, but he grows as besotted with you as Trifine is with me!”

  Heat suffused Ysane’s cheeks. “Roana! Now you are being silly. Fallard wants me, I admit, but besotted? ’Tis not possible. Why, we but met a few days ago. That is hardly enough time to become enamored.”

  “Oh, indeed…and how long was it, think you, before I fell in love with Trifine? My dear, I needed but one look at that beautiful man, heard only the barest of words from his gentle lips, and knew him the mate of my soul. ’Tis oh-so-sweet to my heart he so quickly felt the same. If so harmonious a bonding may overtake the two of us with such instancy, why then can it not with Fallard, and aye, even with you, as well?

  “Think you I have seen not how his eyes stray constantly to you, and he hovers when you are nigh? You forget I was there when he carried you from the wall after the battle, and how he fought for your life when you lay dying from the fever. Why, ’twas but only a day hence I saw him knock one of the guards to the ground and threaten to expel him from the burh for carelessly insulting you. No man behaves in such a way if he cares little or naught for a woman.”

  Ysane ceased her rambling to stare into her cousin’s golden-brown eyes. Wonder filled her at Roana’s words. “Roana, think you truly…?”