Rose of Hope (26 page)

Mayhap, my rose is right. It might be wiser to wait till the wound is re-bandaged.

Sweat trickled from his forehead as he leaned back in the chair.

Later, he had notion of how long, a frantic shriek snapped his head up. It took a moment to focus. His rose stood at the door, staring at him. She whirled, the motion making his head swim even worse, and screeched, “Luilda! Ethelmar!”

Ethelmar must have already been nigh up the stairs from her earlier calls, for he popped into the room like a hare startled from a bramble. Luilda, puffing at the exertion, came not far behind.

How very strange. Ysane seemed to grow smaller as she gave orders to the elderly steward. “Ethelmar, get Domnall and Trifine, and hurry. Oh, and bring Varin. We will need his strength.”

Varin? Why do they need the Viking?

From a long, long way away, Fallard watched the little under-steward dash out the door as quickly as his elderly legs would carry him. Then the bedchamber politely bowed, turned itself upside down and snuffed out all the torches.

***

Trifine, being the closest of the three men when Ethelmar ran from the hall shouting for them, arrived in the bower only minutes later, Roul and Fauques nigh tripping over his heels. He found Luilda trying to unwrap the bandage from around Fallard’s thigh while Ysane attempted to lift his head and shoulders from where he had fallen, unconscious, over the arm of the chair.

Ysane glared at him when he caught her shoulders and gently shoved her aside. “Let me help, my lady. I was aware not he was this badly hurt.”

“’Tis not the wound, sir knight, but the blood loss,” Luilda said. She swiped at the nasty cut. “’Tis extensive. The wound should have been seen to straightway he arrived at the hall, and he should have stayed off his feet afterwards.” Her round face was troubled when she looked up at them from where she knelt beside the chair. “’Tis not good. His strength will be sapped. ’Twill make it harder for him to fight off any fever that might take him.”

Domnall charged into the chamber, demanding an explanation, Varin close behind. Trifine moved out of the way. The first marshal took one look and a soft oath escaped his lips. Towering behind, Varin echoed the sentiment. A puffing Ethelmar came to a trembling halt inside the door.

“He must be undressed and moved to the bed,” Luilda said. “’Twill be easier to treat him there.”

Getting the weighty hauberk off took considerable effort. Roul, his freckled skin more ashen than that of his captain, tried to help but only got in the way. Varin, with gentle patience, lifted the lad and set him by the door, running his massive palm over his hair while he whispered something in his ear. The stricken look eased on Roul’s face and he nodded. Varin hefted Fallard bodily from the chair while Trifine and Domnall wrestled the mail up above his hips. Then they had to sit him back down to peel it over his head.

As Ysane had known, Varin’s great strength served them well. Fallard was no lightweight, but when they got him to his feet, Varin elbowed the others aside, lifted him with ease and transferred him to the soft mattress. Fallard groaned in insensible pain during the effort. By the time he was settled, Ysane’s lower lip was bruised from the pressure of her teeth.

The men got him undressed to his breechcloth, then pulled the linen bedcovering to his waist while leaving the injured thigh exposed. Luilda cleaned, stitched and covered the wound with a medicinal poultice while he remained unaware, then replaced the blood-soaked bandage.

Ysane spent that time with a warm, damp rag, cleaning away the sweat and dirt from the icy skin of his face and upper body. He never moved.

Faith, but surely this is but a minor wound. ’Tis not possible he might…nay! I will not even think the word.

As she worked, she noted the numerous scars, most of them insignificant, that marked the portion of his arms and torso she could see. But one that formed a long, thin, white line that ran from below his right ear and down across his throat and chest appeared the most serious. Had it been but a little deeper, ’twould have severed his jugular. Another marred his left shoulder, a ghastly cicatrix that could only have been rendered by a blow from a battleaxe. The fearful scar was jagged, and remained red and puckered, as if it had happened recently. At first sight of it, Ysane’s stomach went queasy at thought of the appalling pain it must have inflicted. Now she understood why he unconsciously favored the shoulder, and betimes held his right hand against it while stretching his left arm back as far as it would go. The scars around the wound must tighten the muscles.

“There.” Luilda stood and began to mix herbs into a small tankard of ale. “’Tis all I can do, my lady. Should he awaken and begin to thrash around, bid me come. If he wakens and seems lucid, bid him drink this.” She handed the potion to Ysane, who sniffed it and made a face. “’Twill ease his pain and help him sleep. The rest of you, begone. He must rest.”

She shooed them out and followed them with one final glance at Fallard.

Ysane found herself alone with him, ensconced in the chair Domnall had moved over by the bed. Only the torches in the wall sconces and a handful of candles remained lit and the room was cozy and warm. Time passed.

She knew Luilda had returned to her care of the rest of the wounded, who lay secluded now behind hanging linens in the corner of the hall. The men had returned to the wall. Meantime, sup was in full progress for those not on watch. The rich smell of roasted meat wafted up the stairs to drift into the open door. Ysane listened to the echo of many voices, more subdued than usual.

But in her heart, the world outside the bedchamber might slip away, never to return, and she would care not. All that mattered was Fallard, and that he continue to breathe. She watched him, her gaze never leaving his face. He remained insensible beneath warm furs, his skin ashen beneath the bronzing of the sun. The sight of his big, powerful body, laid so low by a minor wound, left her feeling decidedly off balance. ’Twas a state to which the man seemed perpetually capable of reducing her, and that without even trying.

How can he have come to mean so much to me, and in so short a time? It seems not possible.

A quiet knock heralded Father Gregory.

She smiled at her old friend, finding much pleasure in his appearance as he crossed to stare down at the sleeping knight. The elderly priest looked wearier than she had ever seen him, but then, he was no longer young, and he had been unusually busy since his return to his duties. He had officiated over many burials and two baptisms, one of which resulted from a birth that had come earlier than its proper time. Both babes and their mothers did well enough, though the early child, if it survived, would require extra care for some while. More difficult for him had been the necessity of comforting the grieving families of those who had died, and offering continual encouragement to all in the face of rising fear.

He kept his voice low. “Luilda tells me the wound is not serious, but that blood loss might make his recovery more difficult.”

“Aye. ’Tis an ugly sight, with much bruising, but if he becomes not fevered he should soon be back on his feet.”

He peered at her. “You have not yet eaten.”

She frowned, hardly comprehending. She had given little thought to food since she had broken her fast ere nooning. “I hunger not, Father.”

“Mayhap, but you know well enough, my daughter, that is no fit excuse. I will see that a meal is brought. Besides, I
am
hungry. I will take my sup with you, if you mind not.”

“You have no need to ask.” At least he had not urged her to leave Fallard’s side. She had already refused that suggestion.

He returned more quickly than she expected. Setting a stool nigh her chair, he then pulled a small chest between them. He gathered up two candles and placed them on the chest. With a care that bespoke stiff joints, he sat.

The crackle of the flames in the brazier and the rumble of talk in the hall were the only sounds. Lost in her thoughts, she traced with her eyes the thick lashes unmoving against Fallard’s well-defined cheekbones, and the firm chin that lost none of its determined aggression even in sleep. The dark knight had saved her life with his timely, if unforeseen appearance. He had then proceeded to turn her world upside down and shake it with the force of his masculine charm. Even lying unconscious, he presented a threat to her peace of mind as overwhelming as the floods that betimes raged on the river.

Mayhap, Roana was right, and the best course for her to follow now was to turn her back on the past and work for the best possible future. With Fallard, that future might well be more satisfying than she could ever have hoped.

A maid appeared at the door with their meal, and Ysane looked away from Fallard to find Father Gregory watching her. Heat washed her cheeks. How much of her thoughts had shown on her face? Judging from the speculation in his eloquent eyes, a great deal, but the smile he proffered put her at ease.

The comfortable silence continued while they satisfied rumbling stomachs with smoked pheasant, bacon stew flavored with walnuts and winter greens, and a warm, round loaf of crusty bread with butter and sweet wine cakes.

Ysane ate with an appetite far heartier than she had expected, Father Gregory nodding in approval when she finished almost everything on her trencher.

“He is a fine man, Ysane,” the priest said, nodding toward Fallard as he laid aside his eating hadseax and leaned away from the chest. “I like him. Even more importantly, I trust him. Norman he may be, but he lives by a code of honor exceeding that of many Englishmen I could name. I am pleased such a man desires you to wife. He will treat you well, and protect you with his life.”

Ysane reached for her goblet of mead, savoring its fruity, honeyed sweetness.

“Ysane.”

She looked up to an expression so serious her heart seemed to skip a beat. Her gaze shot away. She did not wish to discuss the subject of which he was about to speak.

“It has been too long since you have been to confession.”

“You know why, Father.” She would not look at him.

“Aye. But I am here now, and there is time.”

Ysane fought to control the tremble in her voice. “I know what you want Father, but I am not ready. Mayhap, I will never be. I know how you view the taking of life, but Renouf deserved what I did. I truly believe if…if I had taken not his life, he would have killed not only Angelet but me, as well. I could not let him walk away free after what he did to my daughter. If presented again, right this moment, with the same decision, even knowing there would be none to rescue me from execution, I would make the same choice with no hesitation.

“Renouf was warped and vicious, a pox that blighted all he touched, and all who came within his reach. ’Twas but a matter of time ere someone destroyed him, put an end to his cruelty and depravity. It so happened I…that I was that one. I can ask not for forgiveness for an action for which I have no remorse.”

“I believe I can understand that, my daughter, yet still you must come to terms with having committed murder. The penalty for your husband’s crime was not yours to exact.”

“Then whose, Father? Ruald? Cynric? One of the burhfolc? You know as well as I had he lived, he would have paid not. My daughter and I would both be dead and Renouf would live still to ensnare more innocents in his foul webs. I would know, how could my action be considered more of a crime than his? Why must I be the one held to blame? Does the Church see my life, simply because I am a woman, of so little value I should meekly allow my husband to destroy it, while making no effort to defend myself? Nay! If ’tis so, I accept it not. Besides, what I did will keep countless other innocents safe. Where is the sin in that?”

“’Tis not the act of self-defense you must confess, Ysane, and speak to me not of a husband’s rights, or your own, for under Norman law, you have few. You know that, none better. But I speak now of the fact you took vengeance from the hand of God and executed it with your own. That was not your right, not against any man. That is where your blame falls.” He leaned forward, his gaze intent. “Your sin was against both God and your husband, and your reasons make no difference.

“You are fortunate beyond your reckoning, my daughter, that King William sits on the throne and mitigating circumstances will insure he will bring no charges against you for the murder of Renouf of Sebfeld, one of his appointed nobles. Neither does anyone here hold you to blame. Despite that, God still awaits your repentance, for no man can lay aside your crime against Him.”

The silence stretched. Ysane stared into the shadows where the light from the candles reached not, seeing within them the horror of that night, still so fresh in her thoughts. She turned her gaze back to the waiting man beside her.

“You were not there, Father. You saw not what was done. You can know not. ’Twas as if a fever took me, and my hands acted without the guidance of my mind.” She shook her head as if in denial. “I was willing to pay the penalty for my crime. I fought not, nor did I seek escape or to defend myself when Ruald held his illegal trial and passed the sentence he had no right to give. I accepted the judgment. I faced my punishment.

“Does not the fact I was given reprieve, unlooked for, indicate God, if not man, holds me unaccountable? If death for my crime was His intent, why then do I still live? Nay. I am sorry, Father, but I can do not as you ask. I regret not what I did, and I will play not the hypocrite and say I do. Besides, who is to say? Mayhap, ’twas the Almighty who chose to use me as His instrument to inflict
His
punishment,
His
revenge upon Renouf.”

Father Gregory sighed. “Mayhap, you are right, but ’tis you for whom I am concerned, Ysane. Yours is a kind and gentle soul for whom the act of murder can bring only suffering. The knowledge of what you have done may eat at your soul in bitterness and eventually, I fear, in regret. I wish to spare you that. I fear you will know not peace until you rid yourself of the hate and anger that fill your heart, and seek God’s forgiveness. But He is patient, child, and He will wait, as will I. Should the time come that you need me, I will be here. But now, I must go. There are others who have need of my services.”