Rose of Hope (12 page)

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.

The warmth radiating through the open shutters enfolded Ysane. It felt so good, so healing, as if the blanket wrapped round her had been heated before a roaring fire. She had been so afraid, and so cold inside herself, for so long, as one already in the grave. She had almost forgotten what it was to be safe, and cozy and…
safe
. At least, Roana and Lewena assured her she was, despite
that man.
Who, merciful heavens, was real. She wished she could remember more of what she had said to him, but ’twas as all so very hazy, as if it had been only a dream.

Wiggling her bottom, she settled herself more comfortably on the thick cushion on which she curled inside the embrasure. The splayed opening had been her favorite perch for embroidering and daydreaming as a child, though it had been forbidden, given her mother had been in horror of finding one of her children in a broken heap on the ground three levels below.

She shrugged off the folds of the blanket and mounded it round her hips and legs, leaving her upper body exposed to the sun. She closed her eyes and rested her head against the wall. The light bathed her arms and lay softly upon her face and throat, its warmth seeping through her cyrtel as if seeking a way to her heart as well as her skin.

She lay basking in peace for some time, until a sprite of cool air cavorted through the window, reminding her the spring day was but a forerunner of summer. Once the sun had set, winter’s chill would return.

Her eyelids lifted and she watched with lazy fascination the dust motes dancing within the light. They sparked like the mysterious fireflies of late summer eves. She sighed, inhaling deeply and long. Summer was her favorite time of year, but she had come to believe winter would never end. It had been so bitterly cold, more so than she could ever remember. But mayhap, that was only because of the horror her life had become.

As yet, no one had spoken to her of all that had happened. Her women tended her, waited upon her, even coddled and cosseted her. But they refused to speak to her of aught except to tell her all was well, and she must rest and not worry, though she confided it troubled her more they would give her no news than if they did. The women gossiped and chattered of the everyday goings-on of the hall, but naught more.

She recalled Angelet was dead. A bout of anguished weeping had overcome her unawares one morn, and she wept until it seemed all the tears reserved for a lengthy lifetime were shed in those handful of moments. She supposed such occasions would plague her until time drew over her its merciful veil. There had been no opportunity to fully grieve the daughter who had been so brutally robbed of her tiny life. For now, both the knowledge and the pain were imprisoned, even as she herself had been, buried deep beneath the tight control she held on her soul. One day, when she was sure it would not consume her, she would allow the grief to slip fully free of its bonds. That time was not yet. Until then, her heart would remain as empty as her arms.

She knew too, Renouf was dead. She remembered killing him, recalled how that act of rage and grief had felt to her hands, and the shock to her arms and shoulders when his own sword had pierced his body. With what ease it had cleaved his hateful flesh, slipping between his ribs into his heart, as if it rejoiced in the task.

That she felt not the slightest remorse for her act of murder should have bothered her. Father Gregory would say vengeance was not hers to take, being the province of the Almighty. Her mother would have been horrified, would have told her no lady would ever take up a weapon in such a way, especially not against her own husband, no matter the provocation. Her father and Kennard would have argued ’twas their responsibility, not hers to punish Renouf for his evil deed. Only Cynric would have understood, would not have faulted her, but he, like so many she loved, was gone.

She knew Domnall and her loyal hearth companions had escaped the terrible fate Ruald had planned for them. Oft, as she lay upon her bed, their voices, including Domnall’s familiar and well-loved tones had carried audibly to her from out on the wall.

She had also recognized
his
voice. The one she had thought naught but a dream. A powerful knight he was, a dark savior. The authority of his commands had called her back from the endless void. She owed him a life-debt for that, too.

A shout from far below floated up to her window, demanding her attention. ’Twas Domnall. From her position, she could see across the western length of the island to the wood shake roof of the chapel.

Among the trees of the orchard, about halfway between chapel and hall, her first marshal approached a man all in black. Abruptly she sat forward and leaned deeper into the embrasure, striving to see the other man more clearly.

As the two met, her heart seemed to skip a beat. Her hand found her throat. ’Twas
him
, the man of her dreams. She sank against the wall, heart pounding. Vague visions of the fighting in her courtyard arose, spawning an uneasy tremor that wove its tickling way from her nape to the base of her spine. The enemy warriors had fought like mad men, easily overcoming Ruald’s hearth companions, and
this
man was their leader. A Norman knight! Until now, she had never encountered one of the fabled warriors, but he certainly fit the fierce descriptions. The enemy he was, yet, Domnall hailed him as a well-met friend. Unabashed curiosity drove her to spy.

The men spoke together and walked toward the hall, the dark knight’s swinging strides carrying him so swiftly along that Domnall, tall as he was, had perforce to hurry to keep up. The man moved with the confidence of a conqueror. Oh, that she were a robin, flittering above them in the trees, listening to their speech!

They reached the end of the orchard and started toward the courtyard, Domnall gesturing as he spoke. They were close enough now she could hear their voices, but could make out none of their words. Domnall must have been recounting an amusing tale because the dark knight abruptly threw back his head and laughed aloud. As he did so, his lifted eyes caught sight of her there in the embrasure, eagerly spying upon him.