Rose of Hope (57 page)

Fallard pointed to the lowering skies and kept riding. A few unhappy murmurs from the men behind floated to his ears. The squire’s faces fell. He ignored them, and the displeasure that replaced the greed in the patriarch’s narrowed gaze. The column continued to wind its way through the throngs of people, passing a large inn and an even larger alehouse, the only permanent structures at the Crossroads apart from the bridge.

Suddenly, Roana caught Ysane’s arm and pointed to their right. “Ysane, look you! ’Tis the bookseller. He is come!”

Beyond the alehouse, wedged between a fat tent of yellow and green stripes filled with all manner of cookware, and a peddler’s wagon loaded with household notions of every description, was the small, nondescript booth of the bookseller.

“Heard you, Fallard? The bookseller, he is here!”

His gaze followed the line of her finger, but he looked her in the eyes and shook his head.

Her expression lost all animation, and she faced forward. The elderly book merchant saw her, called her name and waved in glad recognition.

Fallard watched her take herself in hand, force a smile and return the man’s greeting, then she tightened her reins and dropped behind with Roana until he rode alone. He hated the disappointment in her face, but his plans did not include stopping at the faire this night.

***

Somewhere, deep inside her soul, Ysane felt something shrivel that had begun to grow again after Renouf bludgeoned it into oblivion. She stared at Fallard’s back, uncompromisingly straight. Had he already forgotten his promise to her, made only that morn? Knew he not that by the time they returned from London, the faire would be over? Silently chiding herself for allowing it to matter, she lifted her chin and reminded herself she was the lady of Wulfsinraed, and no longer a child. Life was filled with disappointments and small sorrows. One learned to accept them and go on. Besides, she had chosen to trust her husband. If he refused to stop, he had good reason. But she could help not the hurt wrought by his betrayal of his promise.

A light touch on her hand brought her head around. Roana smiled at her, compassion in her look.

“It matters not,” she mouthed. But as she glanced back at the others, she saw even Domnall had a glum cast to his features. She was not alone in her disappointment.

Thunder rumbled overhead as the hot, hungry, and now rather drooping and disconsolate company followed the western road into the trees on the other side of the faire field. Slowly, the atmosphere grew more charged and a strong wind began to blow. The treetops swayed back and forth, but even beneath the trees, the breeze was forceful enough to buffet them with small twigs, leaves and grit kicked up from the road. To their left, the low, sluggishly running surface of the river bounced in tiny wavelets and splashes.

She sighed and lifted her face. “How refreshing is the cool.”

“Aye, but I fear we will soon be soaked,” Roana said with a laugh. “The abbey is nigh but mayhap, not close enough.”

The lurid, brilliant flare of one lightning flash after another was followed by a cacophony of thunder that rumbled and roared as if all the hounds of hell were baying above them. Some of the horses, already nervous and skittish, pranced away from the blowing debris around their feet, and men’s hands tightened on the reins.

Abruptly, Fallard slowed Tonnerre and moved close to Freyja. “Stay close, Ysane. Freyja is not so well trained as Tonnerre. I would have you nigh should the animal take fright.”

Her heart lightened at the concern in his voice. She smiled. Behind her she heard Trifine murmuring to Roana and knew the silver knight also looked out for his lady.

The fresh scent of the coming rain moved on the cooling air, dissipating the pungent odor of dust and sweat-soaked men and horses. The oppressive atmosphere lightened. The storm front was passing, and with it came the first tiny pellets of scattered rain. It seemed as if the now crisp breeze was spitting moisture in their faces. It began to grow dark.

“Keep up!” Fallard threw the words at her and once again set Tonnerre to a ground-eating canter. “I wish to reach our destination ere the heaviest showers begin.”

***

Minutes passed as they sped along. As the first fat raindrops of the storm dropped among them, creating tiny craters in the dust of the road, they came upon another clearing to their right. Set well back from the road, the network of buildings and gardens that heralded the Benedictine community of Bedhalh Abbey lay sprawled behind a wall of brick. The pointed spire of the chapel rose so high it seemed to pierce the dark, lowering clouds. A duty postulant swung open the double gates. The horses surged forward, sensing the end of the day’s journey, and the column swept through the into the abbey yard.

Fallard reined in at the doors to the refectory as a well-fed monk in the black robe of his order stepped out to greet him.

“Well met, my lord, well met,” he cried. “Well come you are here, and in time for sup. Come inside, ere the rain drenches you. The stables are there.” He pointed to his left toward a sizable building. “’Tis dry and cool and the hay is fresh.”

“My thanks,” Fallard said.

The monk hurried back inside.

“Domnall! See to the horses. Roul, you and Fauques go with him.”

He slung his saddlebags over his shoulder and helped Ysane dismount. She grimaced as stiff muscles protested.

He passed into the refectory and Ysane followed, Lynnet right behind her. Aelthid came next, then Leda, flanked by her guards. Trifine brought up the rear. The huge dining room was clean and cool, with large windows regularly spaced in the thick walls. On sunny days, ’twould be a bright, cheerful space, but with the rain now cascading as if the heavens meant to reverse the drought in but hours, ’twas merely gloomy.

Another monk came forward. Short and slender, his face was wreathed in smiles.

“Good eve, my lord. I am Brother Paul, and ’tis my joy to attend your party. You will wish to wash, I am sure. Please follow me.” He threaded through rows of wooden tables crowded with travelers and passed through an arched doorway into a vestibule. A long, narrow hall, unadorned except for a few sputtering torches, stretched in front of him. Identical corridors opened to the left and right. In each, plain doors lined either side. He waved his hand in an encompassing gesture. “I will guide the women to their cells. If the men will wait here, I will shortly return.”

“Nay.” Fallard said. He pointed to Leda’s guards. “I and these two accompany us.”

“But my lord, no men but our own may go into the women’s dormitory.”

No one moved. Fallard stared the man down. Brother Paul huffed. Turning to his right, he started down the passage. Fallard glanced at Trifine and nodded, then gesturing to the women and Leda’s guards, followed the monk. Brother Paul stopped before a door nigh the end of the hall, gesturing to Roana and Ysane to enter.

He opened the door across from it and with hands out, palms up, indicated to the other three women they should go inside. Fallard intervened, raising his arm to bar Leda from following the maids.

“The slave will sleep in her own cell.”

“But my lord….”

“The slave is my prisoner. I take her to the king. I will increase my donation to the abbey do you see she has a separate cell. Do these doors lock?”

“Nay! My lord, this is a house of God. Locks serve no purpose here.”

“Then my guards will stay.”

“Guards? Guards, you say?” Brother Paul drew himself up. “Nay, my lord! As I said, no men may remain in this section of the dormitories. ’Tis for the women, alone.”

Fallard reached into his sash and pulled out a leather bag. He tossed it up and down in his hand. It clinked softly with the sound of many coins. “Then have one of your own, a trustworthy man, assigned to the task.”

The monk licked his lips as he stared at the bag. “I am not a greedy man for myself, you understand, my lord,” he finally said, his eyes rising to Fallard’s face. He shrugged. “But our order has many needs. I will do what I can. Yet, your request is uncommon and the abbey is nigh full this night. I must learn if a single cell is available, and speak with the abbot. Mayhap, exceptions may be made when ’tis needful.”

Fallard dropped the bag of coins into his hand. The monk bobbed his head and trotted back down the hall.

Fallard stepped to the door where Ysane stood, waiting. He bussed her lips. “Are you well, my rose?”

Eyes twinkling, she smiled. “Aye,
my lord
.”

He arched a brow, but the corners of his eyes crinkled. “Come to the refectory when you are ready.”

Laying hold of Leda’s wrist, he returned to the vestibule where waited Trifine.

Brother Paul re-appeared. The energetic little monk led them through a maze of halls and workrooms. He stopped to indicate a small cell, barely more than a closet. “The Abbot has agreed. I will arrange for our Brother Milrath to serve as guard for the night. He is most reliable.”

Fallard glanced at Leda. She glared back. “The slave is a beautiful female,” he said, “and knows well how to use her charms. She may seek to tempt your man in order to escape.”

Leda narrowed her eyes and hissed. She tried to pull away from his grip. He ignored her.

Brother Paul beamed. “Have no fear, my lord. I chose Milrath because he is large and strong, but he suffered an…injury, as a small boy. Should the female attempt such tricks, he will find it no difficulty to resist.”

Fallard searched the monk’s face and nodded. “Well and good.”

He hustled Leda into the tiny space. Inside was naught but a narrow cot with a pallet and a miniscule table upon which lay a pewter washbowl and water-filled pitcher. There were no windows. “My men will insure a meal is brought to the woman. Understand this. None are to speak to her, and once my men have turned her guard to Brother Milrath, this door is not to be opened without my sanction.”

The monk bowed, palms together.

“As you say, my lord, it shall be done. Do you follow me, I will take you to your cells in the men’s dormitory.”

“My First and I will bunk in the stables with our men. We require a room only to wash.”

Brother Paul blinked. “Very well.”

They left the two guards to watch Leda’s door until Milrath’s arrival.

The monk took them to a separate room off the refectory furnished only with a table and several large washbowls. “There is fresh water in the pitchers,” he said.

He bowed again and left them, muttering something about ‘
lords
’ and ‘
difficult
’ beneath his breath.

Trifine snorted and went to stand at the single, small window. He leaned a shoulder against the wall and looked out upon an extensive herb and vegetable garden being pounded by the rain. “What are you up to, Fallard?”

“Before you retire, see to it Brother Milrath is given a cup of his favorite mild beverage in thanks for his nightly watch.”

An unholy grin curved over Trifine’s lips. “I take it the drink will have an extra ingredient added?”

They removed their mail and stripped, dropping their clothing to the floor. Fallard wiped the dust and sweat from his body ere ducking his head into a bowl to rinse his hair. He dumped the filthy water into the slop basin. He tipped the contents of a pitcher over his head and stood with eyes closed, enjoying the liquid skimming in cool refreshment over his skin. He threw back his head and like a great beast, shook the water from his hair.

When he answered Trifine’s query, his tone was sardonic. “What think you?”

A long, low chuckle rumbled from his First.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

“Think you she will take the bait?” Trifine was a dark shadow resting at ease against a stable post some yards away.

“I doubt it not.” Fallard took a bite from the apple he held. The time was long past the mid-watch. The constant play of lightning coruscating through the sky repeatedly illumined a landscape made bleak by the stark white brilliance. He watched in silence as another bolt streaked horizontally across the skies, the flash outlining the form that appeared on top of the abbey wall.

“Ho! Our little bird flies.”

The rain, flung hard in every direction in wind-driven torrents, buffeted the figure and for a moment, he feared she would fall. Darkness swallowed her.

A rapid succession of further bolts gave glimpses of her pell-mell flight toward Fallewydde. She slipped in a mud puddle and went down, but immediately rose, shook her hands, and kept going.

He took another bite from the apple. The sweet juice ran down his chin. He rubbed it off and wiped his hand on his braies. Without taking his eyes off the place where the woman raced into the night, he stretched out his arm to offer the rest of the fruit to Tonnerre, whose massive head hung over the wall beside him. For all his size, the stallion’s acceptance of the gift was dainty as that of any mare.

A whisper of sound alerted him that Trifine drew nigh. “She is gone, then?”

“Aye, running like a hare toward the Crossroads. Resourceful woman that she is, she will seek aid there, ’tis certain. She will find Ruald and return with him to Wulfsinraed. We will be waiting.”

“’Tis quite a risk you take, Fallard. She loves the man. She will confirm our intent to move on to London, but she may also tell him of her confession, or at least that you know somewhat of his plans.”

“Nay. Set at ease your thoughts. She may care for him, aye, but she loves her own skin more. He would kill her without a qualm if she told him aught of what she has done, and well she knows it. She cannot speak of her knowledge without revealing her own role, so whatever tale she spins, ’twill be to her own advantage, and thus also to ours.” He paused, and then said, “Ruald never knew of my original strategy to take Wulfsinraed, and knows not now his scheme is the same. Nor will he learn until ’tis too late.”

“’Twas a good strategy, that one, almost as fine as the new one we chose. ’Twould have worked.”

“Aye. ’Tis too bad it will now fail.”

“Aye, too bad. When do we leave?”