Rose of Hope (21 page)

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.

“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…?”

“Aye, I do. But what of you, Ysane? My lord D’Auvrecher is a mighty warrior and a wise leader, but he is a man less open with his affections than Trifine. Yet, that means not he is incapable of both powerful and gentle feeling. Are you able, my dear, to let go of the evil of Renouf and grasp hold of the tenderness Fallard offers? Will you ever trust him as he deserves?”

“I know not. Oh, everything is happening so quickly—too quickly. ’Tis so short a time, really, since he came to my sitting room, and we first conversed. The man has turned all my thoughts on their head!

“He is Norman, Roana. He has taken for himself all my father meant should be mine. I should hate and fear him for those things. Yet, I hate him not, and am astounded to discover at no time have I truly feared him. I seem to…to
know
he would never hurt me, at least not with purpose, as Renouf loved to do. I have seen how my people respond to him. ’Tis as if a brisk, clean wind has swept through the hall, blowing away the bitter evil and leaving behind a fresh, new day.”

She blew a sharp exhalation, and shook her head. “I admit at first I felt no small measure of betrayal at how easily he swayed the loyalty of those I thought should be true to me, even you and Domnall. I was hurt at how easily he gathered the affection of the whole burh in his hands.” Her eyebrows puckered in chagrin. “Quite put out, I fear.”

Roana’s laughter rang through the garden. “And I fear that confession is no surprise to anyone, my dear. When you came to sup that eve, you were so filled with indignation and fury ’tis a wonder the tapestries took not fire as you walked past. Yet, as you say, Fallard did little more than remind you of your role as the lady of the hall. Renouf would have…well, we both know what Renouf would have done.”

“But I would never have behaved so with Renouf, and that is my whole point. I understood from the beginning, without knowing how, that Fallard would hurt me not.” She lifted her head and looked toward the wall, where the sentries strolled and called to each other. Her eyes followed a kestrel as it hovered, almost motionless, upon the airs, seeking movement far below that might reveal its next meal. For a moment, her thoughts were very far away.

“There is one other thing I would ask,” Roana said, “and if you choose, you may remind me ’tis no concern of mine, and I will ask no more.”

Her voice trailed away and a curious blush colored her fair skin.

“Well?”

“Ysane, has he kissed you, yet? Oh, I mean, not little pecks on the cheek or a simple meeting of the lips, but
really
kissed you, with passion as a man who hungers for a woman and desires to make love with her?”

Memories of the passionate embraces she had shared with Fallard rose to send the same color rioting over her own face that had but moments before suffused Roana’s countenance.

Her cousin saw the telltale confirmation, and she laughed again in sheer delight. “Forgive me, kinswoman, if I have been indelicate, but ’tis obvious he has. Did you enjoy it?”

“Roana!”

“Oh, go not all prim and prudish now. You must tell me. Did you kiss him back? Did his embrace make you want to melt right into his skin? Did you thrill at his slightest touch? Did his kiss fill your soul with joy and pleasure, and leave you yearning for more? I freely admit Trifine’s kisses are like fire, setting me aflame, yet they bear such sweetness I sometimes fear I will swoon. I wait with anticipation to discover where further they might lead. Did you experience no such wonderful feelings when Fallard kissed you?”

“I, well, I….”

“You did! I knew it.

“Oh, very well, aye. I felt much the same as you describe. ’Twas most astonishing. I never thought such a feeling would be mine. A simple glance from his eyes, so fierce, so proud, and I can deny him naught. Had you asked me that question but a seven-day ago, would I ever associate pleasure with a man’s touch, I believe I might have laughed in bitterness, or else been so humiliated I would have run away. Forgive me, dear friend, but even you know not the depths of my husband’s corruption, or his debasements. Had I ever dared to think beyond his cruelty, even then I would have guessed not what goodness might be found in the caress of a man’s hand. I verily believed I would want naught but to live free of any man, but of that, I am no longer certain.”

Her shoulders lifted in a little shrug. “How that may be, I know not. The shame of my life with Renouf can be not wiped out so easily or so quickly…or can it? How is it possible I thrill to the touch of Fallard’s lips upon mine, his arms holding me so tightly, when but days past the very thought of such an intimacy caused a sickness of horror in my belly, and shuddering fear to weaken my soul? What powerful magic has my lord used against me? What enchantment has he wrapped round my heart? Roana, how can this be?”

“What power of magic, you ask? What spell has he woven? Oh, Ysane, my kinswoman and dearest friend, ’tis no strange enchantment. Yet, all at the same, ’tis the greatest wonder of all. ’Tis the magic of love, and the power of hope.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

From her chair at table that eve, Ysane studied her guests and her people as they sat at sup. The hall fairly gleamed from the day’s endeavors, and seemed much brighter with even’s last light shining through pristine window glazing and reflecting off newly whitewashed walls. The pleasing glow would not last long. Already the smoke from the torches, candles and the fire pits roiled toward the ceiling and into the shadows created by the flickering flames. High-spirited conversation, and spirits of a different sort flowed freely, needing from her but a word for the first, or a glance to a servant for the second to keep both circulating.

Four more parties of stewards from fiefs to the south and west, and Verdonport Hall from the coast, were escorted in after the nooning, though none by Fallard. They relaxed at their meal, relieved to have arrived safely after hearing of the earlier attack. Like the others, these were a mix of Saxon thegns and Norman barons, though now the Norman stewards sadly outnumbered her people. King William was steadily replacing the Saxon leadership throughout the land. Few were left in any position of power and of those, all were sworn to him from before Santlache. Still, she feared, soon none would be left at all.

Ysane held herself aloof as she reflected on the morn’s encounter with her kinswoman, whose words gave her much upon which to think. Awakening ere dawn, restless and unsettled as sheep catching the howl of wolves drifting down the wind, she had felt as if the very ground itself shifted beneath her feet, ready to open and swallow her. But the bout of weeping in the garden had plumbed inner depths, providing a catharsis. After, she felt a sense of renewal, of restoration, as if she had been given back not only her life, but even her very soul. Grief was not allayed, for her daughter’s brutal death was too nigh to set aside. But for the first time in too long, she had hope for the future, and a life to anticipate that might, if carefully nurtured, be very good. If only she could talk to Cynric again, her heart might yet survive.