Rose of Hope (14 page)

Ysane stared at Roana’s downcast face while chills shivered her spine. Roana’s evasive answer was all the response she needed. The dark knight ruled her home. Thought he now to rule
her?

“So he does mean to wed me. Well, I am not the first to find myself in this position. Many a widow of an overthrown lord, if still young enough to bear children, has been taken to wife by a conquering thegn, whether the lady wished it or nay. I am no naïve child, Roana. There are many ways to force a marriage upon an unwilling participant despite that the laws of the Church forbid it.”

“Oh, Ysane. Methinks ’twill not be so bad. He is a good man, truly. At least, he will be kind.”

Lynnet found the stray hairpin and finished her hair, then reached for the headrail and affixed it into place with a braided circlet of pearls.

Ysane, struggling to control her distress, begged one last question. “Roana, is it truly his intent to force me to wed him? Please, dear friend, I must know. What plan has he for me?”

But Roana only shook her head. “I am sorry, Ysane, but he forbade us. I can say naught more, and truly, I know little more than I have already said. You must speak to him yourself. But I will tell you this, if ’twill ease your mind. I believe you need not fear him. Come now, Lady Lewena waits. We are already late.”

Unable to repress a shudder, Ysane moved to the door. Her chaotic thoughts seized on Father Gregory, the one slender thread of hope left. She could bear not the thought of another man touching her in intimacy, not even the handsome knight. Faith, but she had had enough of men and marriage to last a lifetime, and would never again choose that unhappy state. If the dark knight brought in the good father to wed them, she would find a way to let him know she was coerced. The good father would never force her to wed against her will.

Finding some comfort in the thought, and steadfastly refusing to acknowledge there were other priests who would turn a blind eye for a bribe of enough gold, she made her way downstairs. Roana and Lynnet followed. As she approached the threshold to the hall, she paused to gather harrowed thoughts and draw breath to calm shaken nerves.

A quick glance revealed that while the tables were fully occupied, no food had yet been served. But ale flowed freely, and with it, a great deal of laughter and chatter. She had heard the low roar all the way up in her bower.

It seemed whatever changes were made in her absence, her people clearly approved. She noted none of the fearful glances and subdued demeanor evident in her servants that had characterized Renouf’s lordship. Rather than fearing and hating the terrible Norman knights, her people seemed more grateful than angry or sullen. Some of the tension within her heart melted away. Mayhap, ’twas but her own fear that exaggerated the danger.

Then her gaze settled on the eating platform and her apprehension returned full force. She saw him immediately, but then, he was very hard to miss. As if he owned it, the dark knight lounged in the thegn’s elaborately carved chair at the center of the table. He laughed at some jest made by Thegn Randel, who was seated to his right. Her lips tightened. He had certainly made himself comfortable in
her
home.

Beside Randel sat his lady wife. Lewena, who spoke to a knight with a pate of silver hair seated diagonally across the table, noticed Ysane’s arrival first. She smiled in encouragement, her countenance filled with gentle assurance.  Ysane fought not to scowl. Even her dear friend appeared enamored of the towering new lord and his companions. She started forward.

Domnall, seated at the end of the table opposite where she stood, caught her movement and glanced up. His grin as he stood was so big Ysane thought ’twould split his face. Her relief and pleasure in seeing his laughing eyes was so great she nigh smiled. Domnall had bounced her on his knee as a wee babe, helped her take her first halting steps and taught her to ride. He had been a father to her in ways her own sire, so oft away while serving the needs of kings, could never have been. She loved him, and if there was any man besides Cynric left in the world she still trusted, ’twas her first marshal.

She became aware the hall had fallen quiet, and knew by a faint tingling at her nape the dark knight—and everyone else—watched her. Her own people smiled in welcome, but there were scattered among them many men whose faces she recognized not. They were
his
men, and to a man, their expressions seemed appreciative of the sight she made, but guarded. She blanked her expression, lifted her chin, straightened her shoulders and entered the room.

***

Fallard knew exactly when Ysane finally arrived. Even before the crowded hall grew still, he sensed her presence. He had been moments from going after her, for he would not allow her to disobey his command to attend the meal. He turned his head and felt his heart slam in an unaccustomed beat, while his breath caught in his throat. The woman in the doorway was truly a rose of the sweetest bloom. She caught his glance with disdainful green eyes, and then floated toward him, graceful as the sway of willow fronds, the scarlet skirts of her cyrtel swirling around her slippered feet. The folds of a syrce of deep rose pink were caught up in a golden girdle at her waist. Both the syrce and the cyrtel beneath it were embroidered at neck, hem and wrists with threads of gold. Her shoulders and flaxen hair were veiled with a sheer headrail of the same deep red as her cyrtel. She was magnificent.

As she approached the empty chair beside him, Fallard stood. Ysane stopped in front of him. Her voice pitched low so only he would hear, she said, “Sir, I would know your plans for me and my people.

Fallard’s eyes narrowed. “You are late, my lady. Sit down. We are all hungry, if you are not. We will discuss your fate at eve’s end.”

There was that in his voice to assure her discomfort if she argued. She chose, this time, to acquiesce. Conversation started up again around them.

He saw her blanch at sight of the chased pewter platter, the kind meant for sharing between a husband and wife—or lovers—instead of her own small silver plate, set between them. Fallard lips twitched. She fumed, but she would not let him see. Her gaze remained firmly on her hands, clasped in her lap.

Servants streamed from the kitchen, bearing bowls filled with sweet, dried apples from last harvest’s crop, sliced and baked with cinnamon and drizzled with cream.

“My lady, your meal.” Roul plunked a healthy serving of apples on her side of the platter.

She made no move to eat, though Fallard knew she hungered.

He bent so his whisper tickled her ear, and caught the faint scent of roses. She must have bathed in rose water. He had perforce to compel a stern note into his words, when what he wanted was to sweep her into his arms and dash up the stairs to her chamber, there to make passionate love to her the long night through.

“’Tis your choice to starve, Ysane, but your display of ill humor is childish, and casts a pall I will tolerate not at my table. You may be as angry with me as you choose, but you will keep it hidden behind a pleasant smile until we are alone.”

Her head jerked up, her eyes snapping her displeasure. “
Your
table! I beg your pardon.”

She would have said more, and he knew she thought to remind him this was
her
table,
her
home, and she would do as she pleased. But she recoiled from the quiet threat in his gaze, the words dying in her throat, for while he kept his face a study in smiling attentiveness, his let his eyes blaze with a fury hotter than her own. She paled.

“That is better,” he said, ignoring the hurt in her eyes. “Your kinswoman speaks to you. You will give her the courtesy of an answer.”

***

Ysane gaped at him, not understanding. “What say you?”

From close at hand came Roana’s soft voice, penetrating the web of anger and apprehension that enmeshed her. She turned to acknowledge her cousin. “Forgive me, Roana. You spoke to me?”

“Ysane, my dear, will you eat not? You must keep up your strength, or I fear you will again become ill.”

Ysane licked her lips, her mouth abruptly dry. Everyone at the table stared at her. Thegn Randel, on the other side of
him
—Ysane refused to even think his name—watched her with open curiosity. Beyond him, Lewena’s eyes flashed with sympathy.

“Ysane?” Her cousin’s repetition of her name snared her focus. For the first time, Ysane became aware that directly across from her sat the knight with the silver pate she had noted before, talking with Lewena. He had beautiful eyes, large and thickly lashed, their color the pale, luminescent blue of ice on the lake in winter. The expression within them was one of kind, if lively amusement.

On the bench beside him, so close they touched, sat Roana, a frown marring her lovely face. Ysane gaped at her unaware, startled beyond words to see her kinswoman’s hand wrapped around the knight’s arm. Roana leaned towards him in intimate mien as if—as if he were a lover. Her demeanor of the past few days abruptly made sense. Roana was in love with the Norman stranger.

How can this be? She cannot love him! She has known him but days.

But ’twas Domnall who surprised her most. His expression of disapproval cast hurt like a dart into her heart. She had been a child the last time she had seen that look in his eyes. Heat flooded to the roots of her hair. She felt betrayed, yet, was aware that never in all her adult life had she indulged in such unseemly behavior.

Mercy! Has the whole world become deranged while I was ill? I feel as if I drown.

“Will you have ale?” The dark knight watched her as he handed her his own tankard.

“I dislike ale.” She had her own beautifully gilded goblet of blue Byzantine glass from which she drank wine or mead, never ale. Still, she took the cup he offered and swallowed in an effort to cool her burning face. A curse on the man! Even Renouf’s rough crudity had never caused her to lose her self-possession, and that, in front of guests.

Fighting for control, she blinked to clear away tears and school her features into a semblance of serenity. She forced a smile to her lips.

“Roana, I am fine. Be not concerned. See? I eat.” She shoved bites of apple into her mouth and smiled all around, silently willing everyone to return their attention to their own meals. She had barely begun ere Roul ladled the next course, baked chicken with cabbage and leeks, onto the platter.

The knight’s deep voice whispered nigh her ear. “That was well done.”

She choked, but he dug into his share of the food and returned to conversation with Thegn Randel.

The chatter around her continued as small cauldrons of the meal’s heavy course, steaming beef stew thick with winter vegetables, were set down at regular intervals along the center of the tables. Individual bread trenchers, piping hot, were set before each person to hold the stew. Crocks full of creamy yellow butter and honey appeared, and tankards were refilled.

She was still eating a slice of succulent chicken breast ere it occurred to her that at no time during her confrontations with the dark knight did the old terror consume her. She had always feared Renouf. His tempers were paralyzing in their savagery. All cowered when his rage rent the air. The first and only time she had spoken to him in anger, before she knew to hold her tongue, he had backhanded her across the chamber. She had awakened to find Lynnet weeping by her side, her handmaiden sobbing her fear Ysane would never rise again.

The dark knight beside her had been furious with her. He had power to kill her with one blow, and there was naught to stay his actions but his own will. Yet, not once had he raised a hand, nor even his voice in threat of violence. The worst he offered was a wrathful glare.

From its sheath within her girdle, she withdrew her personal eating knife, a short-bladed hadseax with an ivory handle inlaid with gold and emeralds.

“That is a beautiful blade.” The dark knight caressed the handle, his fingertips caressing
hers
in the process.

She jerked away, ignoring the amused brow he raised. “’Twas a gift from Father to celebrate my six and tenth summer. I treasure it. I was forced to hide it from Renouf, to use instead a knife with no value to my heart, for he would have taken it. It pleases me to use it again.”

Strange that I have no fear this man will take it from me.

“You loved your father?”

“Aye.” An odd look, almost of introspection, crossed his face before he picked up a spoon to eat his stew.

“Why asked you that of me, that I loved my father?”

“I knew him.”

Ysane nigh stopped breathing. She waited for explanation, but he ate without further comment. “Sir, you cannot leave it at that. How did you know my father?”

His look was sardonic. “I
cannot
leave it?”

She subsided, setting the revelation aside to explore later—and she
would
return to it. As she stabbed her blade with more force than necessary into a bite of savory beef, she noticed Roana and the silver-haired knight smiling into each other’s eyes. A rosy blush adorned her cousin’s cheeks, while in her honey gold eyes shone a soft adoration. For his part, the knight’s demeanor toward Roana was one of tender affection and attentiveness.

They will marry!

The realization was stunning.

“Ysane, my dear,” said Roana, noticing her scrutiny. “I wish you to meet Trifine. He is the knight whose arrows saved you.”

“His skill saved us all,” Domnall said, leveling his gaze on Ysane. “I, for one, admit to a certain relief, and aye, gratitude.” He grinned and raised his tankard to Trifine. “’Tis much better to be alive than dead, I say, despite the aches in my old bones.”

From the depths of fevered memory came a blurred image of the oddly familiar movement Ysane had spotted in the clearing ere her executioner staggered away with a feathered shaft in his shoulder.

“’Twas you?” It came out but a whisper.

Trifine grinned, rose and offered a brief bow before reseating himself. “’Twas my pleasure, lady.”