Rose of Hope (35 page)

She spread slices of smoked ham with boiled, spiced eggs upon trenchers. Rich oat bread, blackberry jam, soft yellow cheese and sweet honey-nut cakes followed. Dried peaches and a carafe of mulled wine completed the repast. They ate without speaking.

Some time later, Fallard offered her a bite of cheese. “I have tasted finer foods, and more excellently prepared at William’s court, yet none were so delightful as this.”

“Methinks ’tis the company, more than the food.” She slathered jam on a slice of bread and offered it to him. When he bent to take a bite, she feigned shoving it into his face and he jerked away, eyes widening, then chuckled at the jest.

He poured more wine into their tankards and lifted his high, offering a toast. “To Alewyn, Alyce, and the good cooks of the world! May their….”

He hesitated, thinking, and Ysane jumped in. “May their sauces never burn.”

“Aye, and may their meat never spoil.”

“And their knives be always be sharp.”

“And most of all, may their garlic never reek!”

She laughed, the sound ringing across the glade, and then wondered at the secret little smile Fallard flashed at her. “What? Why do you smile in that way?”

His expression was guileless. “Whatever do you mean, little rose? I but enjoy our foolishness.”

“Nay, ’tis more. Tell me!”

He leaned to lick jam from the corner of her mouth, then stole a fast kiss from her lips. “’Tis but that I made you laugh.”

“You….” Her heart lurched.

Why would my laughter matter to him? Does he begin to care for me, even but a little?

With breathtaking suddenness, the first bright shards of golden sunlight pierced the shadows and dazzled her shade-accustomed eyes as the sun sailed high, nearing zenith. Yet, it seemed less bright than the glow of joy in her heart. She watched Fallard, enjoying his surprise as the rays cascaded through the small open space above them, turning the laughing waters of the falls and the dancing ripples on the pond into a glittering fountain, and filling the spray with shimmering, dancing rainbows.

Now ’twas seen the water in the pool was hip deep and crystal clear. Pebbles littered the white sand at the bottom. Among the green of the surrounding ferns small, white flowers gleamed like patches of leftover snow. Warmth flooded the copse with the light. A single dragonfly darted over the pond, hung suspended for a heartbeat, then swooped to light on the less ruffled surface nigh the water’s edge.

“‘Magic’, indeed,” Fallard breathed, his voice bemused. His midnight gaze fell upon her. “’Tis not to be wondered you believe the fairie folk linger here.” He cocked his head. “Does not the thought of magical beings frighten you?”

“After Renouf? Nay. Fairies are good folk, despite what some believe.” She gestured around them. “Once, long ago, a wolf came. ’Twas summer, and hot, and of a certain the water drew it. ’Twas very young, and a male. I sat upon the rock and it loped into the glade. It came to the pool and stopped on the other side, its yellow gaze upon me. I moved not. Methinks mayhap, I even breathed not, though my heart pounded so hard with mingled fear and excitement the beast must surely have heard. It seemed to decide I was neither meat nor threat, for it advanced to the water’s edge. It drank its fill, though it never took its eyes from me, not for a moment. It lifted its head, water dripping from its jaws, and then with one leap, ’twas gone.

“There have been other visitors through the twelvemonths. I learned if I sat quietly, and very still, betimes animals would come. Squirrels, hares, birds, badgers and deer, and small, timid things like moles and dormice. Once even a fox, but the wolf was the best.”

***

Fallard’s eyelids were heavy. Lulled by wine, the warmth of the sun and the quiet, and caught up in the sweet music of Ysane’s voice that rivaled in beauty the hypnotic song of the falls, he relaxed, half asleep. He started, returning to full wakefulness when she ceased to speak.

She watched him, the light in her eyes both wary and hopeful. “This is the closest I have seen you to drunkenness.”

He knew what she asked, though ’twas said in a round about manner. He hastened to reassure her.

Clapping his hand upon his heart, he rolled his eyes to the heavens and sighed. “Ah, your bright eyes see too much, little rose. You have discerned my greatest shame, the disgrace and disrepute I bring upon myself, and my family. Most ignoble of rogues am I, and for which I live in continual remorse. Aye, even among my men, I am a source for jest. Oh, the indignity! Yet, though I be always stricken by contrition, ’tis truth I can help myself not. I know not how I have lived for so long with such guilt at my deplorable behavior.”

He glanced at her, seeking appreciation of his playacting. Truthfully, he thought his performance better than some scops.

She eyed him, clearly perplexed.

He groaned and slapped his hand over his eyes. “How kind she is, my white rose! She pretends to notice not my fault. She is generous, but must face the truth, for she is to be my wife, and must learn to bear the disgrace that is mine.” He peeked through his fingers and tried not to grin at the comical befuddlement on her face. “’Tis a sorry secret indeed, my rose, but should you ask, my men will tell you of it quickly enough, even as they laugh themselves ill.

“Though it pains me to speak of it—for I fear you may decide ’tis too much to ask that you should marry such a disreputable knight—’tis only fair you should know. Even a mild overindulgence of spirits sends this knight to the kingdom of slumber. Ah, but ’tis a source of much hilarity with my men, that I can hold not my drink. Why, I am ashamed to admit that once, after one of King William’s famous banquets, Trifine likened me to a kitten, drunk on its mother’s milk, yet I consumed a bare three tankards of ale. He perforce had to use his elbow to keep me from falling asleep and sliding beneath the table in dishonor. Therefore, though ’tis a disgrace I can hardly bear, moderation in drink has become for me a common practice.”

’Twas the lengthiest speech he had indulged in for longer than he remembered, and certainly the most ridiculous, but he cared not, for by this time, Ysane had her hand over her mouth, her gaze alive with mirth. Gladness, gratitude, and no little relief brimmed in her eyes, for his words assured her she need never fear him should he become sotted.

“’Tis an amusing picture I hold in my mind, Fallard, that of you curled up tight as a kitten on a pallet, sleeping off an excess of spirits.”

“See you! Even you, my dearly betrothed, find my unhappy secret amusing!”

Again, her laughter peeled through the woods. “Oh! ’Tis most lovely to my mind, sir knight, that the man I will wed in so short a time is one with whom I might laugh and…and be with like a child, betimes. I find I am much in favor of our union. ’Tis my thought we will share a good life together.”

“’Tis my thought, as well, Ysane. From the first moment I saw you, ’twas my intent and my determination.”

“When first you saw me?”

“Aye. ’Twas the moment I named you my rose. Your syrce was the same green as the stem of a rose, and with it you wore a cyrtel and veil as white as their petals. ’Twas told to me your eyes were the color of the moss in the forest and your hair the hue of the finest flax. A comparison with the flower was inevitable, but indeed, I am not the first. Others name you thus.”

Her eyes flew wide. “Truly?”

“Aye, ‘truly’! Young Alderan the swineherd, for one, has been overheard waxing poetic on the similarities between you and the flowers of your garden, though ’tis not meet for a serf to speak thus of his mistress. But ’twould seem so many speak of you thus, ’twould be necessary to whip half the population of the burh for the same offense. Surely, you have heard the songs of Wurth, your scop, though mayhap, comparisons with flowers are to be expected of a poet. But for Varin, my knight, of whom I would
never
have expected it, and Domnall and Father Gregory and….”

“Hush! Oh, stop!” She blushed with the depth of a crimson bloom. “I believe you not! You laugh at me.”

“But I do not,” he insisted, while he did smile at her blushes.

“Surely not Father Gregory.”

“Aye, the good priest. He spoke personally of you thus. He said, ‘the Lady Ysane is a special woman. She is the rose of Wulfsinraed’.”

She hid her face in her hands, but he could see she was pleased.

He pulled her hands away and kissed each flaming cheek. “Why should they not speak thusly? They care for you, lady. They are blind not to your goodness and beauty, even if you are. They speak only from their hearts, and their words are meant as praise they consider your due. Who am I to disagree with so many? That day when first I looked upon you, you seemed so very young, and so beautiful. How could I not be drawn to you as a ship lost in fog is drawn to a beacon flashing upon the shore? You were with Roana, walking to the village. You had baskets on your arms.”

“Oh, it must have been our day to attend to the ailing and the needy. ’Tis one of our tasks as mistresses of the hall, though ’tis no true ‘duty’, but a joy. Twice each seven-day, we meet with Luilda and others of the women who can spare the time. We cook and clean, and help Luilda as we are able with her healing tasks, and bring food and other needful things. Now and anon, all that is required is companionship, so we bring our embroidery and visit. ’Tis a worthy task, and one that Renouf forbade not, for ’twould have reflected badly upon him.”

She raised her face to the sun, then cocked her head. “You know much of me, my lord, but I know little of you. Would you tell of yourself? How many summers have you? I have noted the number of knights in your personal service, so you must have wealth of your own. Have you lands, as well? What of your family, and your home? You have mentioned your mother and brothers. Are there sisters? And what of your father, does he yet live?”

He reached for another honey cake, flicking crumbs from the blanket. “’Tis but an ordinary tale, my life,” he said between bites. “I have six and twenty summers. Wealth was gifted to me by my godmother, enough to live well, but not to buy my own lands. ’Twas one reason I applied to William for the honour of Wulfsinraed, though I did not then perceive the wealth of the demesne. My father is Comte Karles de Peverel. My mother is called Eloise. My family home lies among the hills around Clécy, which is nigh Caen, a city much beloved by King William. My father distinguished himself in William’s eyes when he fought for him and King Henry in a battle nigh Caen. That battle was at Val-ès-Dunes, against a number of rogue barons who wished to unseat William from the Duchy. Father was instrumental in the declaration of a Truce of God some months later. He has continued in William’s service since that time, though now his age keeps him close to home.

“Clécy lies close to the coast of la Manche, the sea channel that separates our two lands. You would like my home, methinks, for ’tis a place of great beauty along the River Orne. Mayhap one day we will journey there.

“As for the rest, I have two sisters, both younger than I, Melisent and Odelina, and two brothers, Amery and Emeric.” Here he stopped to smile at her. “We three were born all at once, in the fall of 1052. Amery is eldest, then Emeric, and I am youngest, by some few minutes.

“Mother swore no difficulty in knowing which of us was which, even when we tried to confuse her. But when we were small, our father complained he could tell us not apart, for we all looked alike. But he spent much time in service to Duke William and was not home to learn our differences. So mother chose a simple method to aid him. In our early days, when he was home, we all wore a color that was ours, alone. Amery’s color was blue, Emeric chose green, and I, black.”

“Black! Of course! So that is the reason. Know you my hearth companions name you ‘the black
gast
’? They say you oft move among them as if a spirit, unseen and unheard. Methinks they are all in awe of you.”

He grimaced. “That is foolish. I am no spirit, and ’tis no difficult task to learn to move with stealth. Domnall is as proficient as I in the knack. Mayhap I will choose certain ones among them and teach them.” He gave a grunt of distaste. “I have no wish to be thought a ghost!

“As for the black, when we were young, we hated wearing only ‘our’ colors. ’Twas common to switch colors for a day, except mother always knew. But as we grew, she taught us ’twas an unkind jest to mislead others. We began to wear our colors at all times, though I admit, our decision was much influenced by the switch Father used to persuade us when we failed to obey her.

“Later, ’twas simpler, as first
vavasseur
—a squire, in your tongue—to Comte Isore Riviere, an honorable a man, and then as knight to King William, to continue with that single color. Now, ’tis habit. Other knights wear brighter colors. We are a gaudy bunch, when many of us are together.”

“Where are they today, your brothers and sisters?”

“Amery and his wife live in the south wing of our manor. He will one day inherit the title and the estate. Emeric gave earnest consideration to the clergy, but ere he made his final decision he became deeply enamored of the daughter of the lord of a neighboring estate. He wed her, and they now live quietly in a lesser capacity as steward to one of our family fiefs, much as does your brother-by-law at Blackbridge. My sisters are also wed. I have numerous young kin who will demand your time and attention when you meet them.”

“You are fortunate, Fallard, that your kin still live. How long since you have seen them?”

“Too long. Some three twelvemonths ago, William set me in charge of transporting prisoners of the rebellion of the barons to his holdings in Nourmaundie. Once they were secure, I was free to go home. ’Twas the first time in six twelvemonths I had been there, and ’twas a good, long visit of some seven-days.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

Fallard was staring across the pond at the antics of a pair of squirrels as he spoke of his journey home, and at first noticed not the sudden silence of his companion. ’Twas the quality of the silence that drew him. He glanced at Ysane. She had grown pale as one ill, and sat utterly unmoving. She stared at him in something akin to horror.