Rose of Hope

GLOSSARY

A guide to the Old English, **Old Norman and ***Old Norse words used in this story.

Angelcynn—England

burh—walled, fortified community or walled fortress

burhfolc or burhmann—the peasant class belonging to a burh

búrlands—land occupied by peasants, including ceorls [freemen]

burnstów—a bathing chamber

Cantware Burh—Canterbury, Kent

ceorl—a freeman, and member of the peasant class who owned and worked his own land, but owed a percentage of his crops/earnings to the nobleman who protected him

Ceteham—Chatham, Kent [as named in the Domesday Book]

cifesboren—Saxon oath

Cilterne—Chiltern Hills

cladersticca—a baby rattle

Cymry—Wales

cyrtel—female undergarment, loose, floor and wrist length

deorling—an endearment; dear one; darling

dish-thegn—a steward/under-steward to a lord; one in charge of running a noble household and administering slaves/servants

Eastseaxe—Essex

eorl—the approximate of the title ‘earl’ in later years

gástes—ghosts or spirits of the dead

hadseax—a short knife, usu. around seven to nine inches long; used as an eating knife or as a hand weapon by men-at-arms; among the nobility, often artfully crafted of steel, silver and gems; noblemen generally kept the blade in a boot sheath, while noblewomen carried it in a sheath attached to their girdle, along with the keys to the household

hearth companion—Old English: ‘gesitha’; a nobleman’s household troops, loyal to him for life; hearth companions were men-at-arms, but often performed many other tasks for the nobleman, including certain household duties, and that of policing his burh and búrlands in times of peace; a nobleman might hire men-at-arms or soliders on a temporary basis who were not hearth companions; king’s thegns were hearth companions to the royal household

hylsung—a Saxon drum with a deep reverberation; none today know its size, shape or how it was played

ieldramodor—grandmother

king’s thegn—the highest level of thegn, holding office in the royal household; in authority, subject only to the king himself; holds his land directly from the king or, may inherit them

langseax—a long knife or short sword, usu. around twenty to twenty-four inches long

léasere—Saxon oath

nefa—grandson

nefene—granddaughter

Santlache—Senlac Ridge, two leagues [six miles] outside of Hastings, England, the site where William the Conqueror defeated the English King Harold Godwineson on October 14, 1066

scop—minstral

Sea of Germania—North Sea

seax—general term for a single-edged Saxon blade

syrce—female over-garment, knee and elbow length, voluminous, gathered at the waist and secured by a girdle or rope

thegn—a high ranking member of the landed aristocracy, usu. wealthy; a nobleman or lord; (thegns were of the title of eorl or higher); after the Conquest, this title was phased out, to be replaced by ‘baron’; by the time of this story, only a few Saxon thegns still held title, and these were of families who had supported William the Conqueror’s claim to the English throne

Walha—Welshmen (who named themselves Brythoniaid, Brythons/Britons)

Wulfsingas—people of Wulfsin [imaginary family]; the wealthy, noble Wulfsingas family traces its origins back more than 150 years, to the days of King Æthelstan, the Glorious (AD 924-939)

"…ingas"—suffix meaning people of

Wulfsinraed—home of Ysane Wulfsingas (meaning wisdom of Wulfsin)

*seven-day—a week

*twelvemonth—a year

**Dex Aie—God aid us (Old Norman); Norman battle cry heard at the great battle of Hastings in 1066

**eschecs—the game of chess

**Nourmaundie—Normandy, France (Old Norman)

**Sanguelac—Blood Lake (Old Norman); the name given to Senlac Ridge after the great battle

***björr—(Old Norse); a strong Viking liquor

As a guide to the Old English and Old Norman words used in this story, please see the glossary at the front of the book.

CHAPTER ONE

Waltham Forest, Northeast Eastseaxe, a few leagues west of the Sea of Germania, Angelcynn [a remote corner of the kingdom]

Wulfsinraed Burh

1078 - The Month of Digging, Raking and Sowing - Early Spring

In the shadowed hour before dawn, Ysane Wulfsingas waited for execution upon the parapet atop the wall surrounding her home. Fire blistered along her veins, though she shivered with icy tremors. Her cyrtel clung to her, the undergarment’s damp folds sticking to her chilled skin. ’Twas an irritant worse than the abrasions of her bindings. She shuffled from one foot to the other to ease the cramps that stabbed her lower limbs. ’Twas painful to stand after three days chained to the wall in the holding pit.

Fog drifted among the dark trees in the middle distance. It swirled above the winter grasses and around the knees of the ceorls, eerily silent, who gathered in the clearing across from her to observe the final moments of her life. Below her feet, the dark, cold waters in the river channel rushed swift and deep on their ceaseless journey to the sea.

How placidly the river flowed in summer—sweet memory!—with the verdant green of lily pads clustered here and there along the banks. But this day, in the burgeoning spring, its banks nigh overflowed with runoff from early rains and melting snows. Soft mists of powdery gray rose above the rapid current. Filled with debris, it rushed and gurgled merrily along, as if in mockery of her demise.

Fool. Inanimate things cannot mock.

She shuddered. The thought of her body, caught up in that roiling flood, nigh sent her to her knees. Her foot slipped to one side as she sought to maintain her balance.

Her executioner, his grip bruising, snatched her upper arm. A hearth companion of her husband, he hovered so close she could brush the hardened leather of his jerkin with her fingers. He raised his short, single-edged hadseax in his other hand, the gesture one of menace. Here now, lady, ’tis too late to try to run. Naught can stop justice from taking its course.

She made no answer. There was no need. Justice had already been served where ’twas due, and by her own hand. She watched for the movement from Sir Ruald that would signal the moment her life would cease. By his decree, her death was not to be mourned. This was her punishment, for she had murdered her husband.

The sun was nigh to rising. Thick clouds hung low, the air bitter and moisture-laden. First light was shadowy, drear and gray, like her heart.

Fear should rule the haze of my thoughts, for death wins me at last. But that endless flow, a numb and dark unknown, yawns as a sweet release. Ah, how hushed is the morn, almost as if creation itself awaits the end.

She inhaled, to savor the salt tang of the sea that drifted in faint counterpoint to the more earthy scent of the river. Her gaze roamed one last time over the land of her birth, to the slight incline that touched the toes of the distant chalk ridges of the Cilterne and the indentations of small meadows that opened, unlooked for, in the vastness of the forest. A little hiccup of sorrow escaped her lips. Never again would she see the sunlight turn the woods to emerald and bring to vivid life the meadows overrun with wildflowers of varied hues. She wanted to weep, but the heartache ran too deep.

She glanced toward the village that straddled the river downstream. One last, lone man jogged through the village gate and up the road to join the spectators waiting for the sunrise. Among them, her hearth companions stood fettered. Her soul cried at their bleeding, battered forms. For their loyalty, they also were sentenced to die this day, tossed into the violent flood to be smashed by debris until the black water stole the breath of life from their lungs.

Oh, I cannot bear it! They deserve this not.

Her eyelids drifted shut. Images, hard and fleeting chased across their shadowed landscape.

Cynric, why have you abandoned me to meet my fate alone? I mourn your loss. Walk you still in this mortal plain, or have you too, been deprived of life? Angelet, what evil fortune decreed your doom? How I miss you.

Oh, that monstrous night. Has it truly been but three days since life crashed round me in ragged shards, ripping bloody strips from my soul? ’Tis as if I have lived a lifetime of pain. Would those last moments before Renouf’s assault could be relived, how differently would I have behaved. Yet, what is done, cannot be undone. At least in death there is peace.

She opened her eyes to meet the glee in Leda’s expression. The slave, at least rejoiced.

Domnall, held by two burly hearth companions at river’s edge, met her gaze. Even bound as he was, they feared his strength. He regarded her through eyes dark with a plea for forgiveness. She found the strength to smile. ’Twas all she could give to ease his remorse, for he was not to blame for this fiasco. His jaw tightened and his bloodied lips pursed, but he nodded.

At the back of the crowd, a motion caught her notice. Her brows furrowed as she sought to make sense of what she saw, for the movements were furtive, and hauntingly familiar. But the mists swirled and the movement was lost.

Ruald stepped forward, garbed in full mail as if for battle.

The great fool! He postures a stance before the gathered ceorls as imperious as a king.

In the growing light, his eyes glittered. His mouth curved in triumph.

A breeze heralded the sun’s rebirth. It soughed through the trees, stirred the ends of her hair and teased the hem of her cyrtel, its caress a final, precious sensation of farewell. Its fingers shifted the fog. A single beam of light broke through the clouds. With it came the signal. ’Twas time. Ruald’s fisted hand lifted high, held for a space of three stuttering heartbeats, and sliced downward to his side.

She stiffened as her executioner stepped close behind her.

I am about to die. Now. How will it feel? Will it hurt? How long before the blackness comes? I thought myself beyond fear, but I am afraid. I am so afraid. Oh, please, let it be quick!

She gritted her teeth.

Ruald will break me not!

The soldier grasped a hank of hair at the base of her skull and yanked, exposing her throat. She yelped at the sting and felt herself quiver, as would ale in a moving cask. Through her peripheral vision, she saw the blade of his hadseax lift, its razor-honed edge catching the light. A shaft of pure terror hitched her breath in her throat and she started to pant. She felt suffocated.

I cannot breathe! I cannot breathe!

Desperate to hold at bay the fear, to behold with her last sight a thing of beauty, she riveted her vision on a lone seagull as it winged through the brightening blue expanse overhead, its mournful cry piercing the hush and echoing the grief in her heart.

CHAPTER TWO

Three days earlier, the middle of the night

"She did what?"

Captain Fallard D’Auvrecher barely remembered to moderate his query to a growled whisper. He and his men sheltered in the bottom of a ravine in the forest, a league north of Wulfsinraed burh, the island fortress they planned to attack, but in the clear, quiet night, sound would carry. Their presence must remain secret for a short while longer.

’Tis truth, Captain. The messenger was insistent. The news was all the villagers spoke of this day. ’Tis said the lady murdered her husband, Thegn Sebfeld. Now his brother, Sir Ruald has cast her into a holding pit and ordered her execution for dawn, three days hence. Her loyal hearth companions die with her. Sir Ruald announces himself the new lord.

This is a tale of much intrigue, Captain. Methinks it may change our plans, said Trifine, his First.

Fallard agreed. He risks much with this action. Tell the rest. Why did the Lady Ysane do this thing?

’Tis said Sir Renouf killed her babe in a sotted rage, before her eyes. She slew him then, with his own sword.

Fallard detected in the messenger’s tone both admiration at her audacity, and shock that a mere woman dared raise her hand in violence against her husband. He concurred with the admiration, for he had first hand knowledge of the lady’s character. Known for her gentleness and goodness, only the greatest of provocations would drive her to murder.

Across from him Jehan, his Second, snorted his disgust. The man is a greater fool than his brother does he think to hold Wulfsinraed for himself and escape censure.

Does he accomplish his intent, Trifine said, William will offer more than censure. Most like, his insolence will cost his head.

Fallard’s brow puckered. I cannot allow the lady to be executed. I have plans for her, an objective supported by the king. We must hope she succumbs not to the injurious conditions in the pit before Sir Ruald can follow through with his plan.

Though preserving her life was of no great import to their primary task, Fallard wanted the Lady Ysane to live, for he wished to take her to wife. When he had first arrived in the area with his troops some nine days earlier, he had spied on the burh with Trifine. During their surveillance, the lady came forth from the hall, a basket on her arm, to walk to the village with her cousin, Lady Roana. The reports of her beauty and grace were not exaggerated. Dainty and petite as elven-kin, she wore a cyrtel of white linen, and overtop it, a voluminous syrce of green velvet gathered, in the Saxon manner, by a corded belt at her waist. A white headrail with a gold circlet framed her face and encompassed her upper torso in its soft folds. She reminded him of the white roses in his mother’s garden, heady and refined. His body had responded predictably to idle thoughts of her in his bed, but he curbed the distraction of misplaced lust. He had waited all his warrior’s life to wed such a woman. He could wait a few days longer to slake his desire.

The headrail hid her hair from his prying eyes, but Trifine, who possessed a rare talent for ferreting out information both useful and obscure, informed him ’twas waist-length, soft as a hare’s belly fur and much the same flaxen color of said fur. Fallard had no wish to learn how his First gained this information.

Scudding clouds played hide and seek with the moon then fled to the west, flooding the ravine with light.

Captain?

Fallard started at Trifine’s quiet hail. Preoccupation had not been a personal shortcoming until the day he had laid eyes on the Lady Ysane. He masked his disgruntlement. We will speak of this later. We need more information, but will continue the discussion of strategy with what we know, and adjust it as needful.

Mirth, underlain by his customary blasé mien, sparked in Trifine’s voice. Think you, you will have need of my special skill?

The corners of Fallard’s eyes crinkled in answering amusement. Mayhap, you should tighten your bowstring, in case.

Knights disdained to use a bow, a mere footsoldier’s weapon. But his First was a longbow archer of unsurpassed skill, a true artist who learned from his father, who was taught by the wild Walha of Cymry. He had never been bested in any competition, a fact that startled, and betimes angered, his competitors. It amused him others scorned him for his expertise. In Trifine’s view of the world, mastery of any weapon was a worthy goal for a knight. Fallard had reason to appreciate Trifine’s ability, and over the twelvemonths of their association, it had become something of a jest between them. But if this new information they had received was accurate, Fallard might well need his First’s exceptional prowess at dawn in three days.

I had thought not to enjoy this task, Trifine mused, but daily it grows of greater interest. But a pox on Ruald for his delay of our attack. I had thought to be in the arms of the fair Roana by the morrow’s eve.

This time Fallard’s amusement reached his lips. His First had emitted a long, low whistle beneath his breath and declared himself in love, on first sight, with Lady Ysane’s beautiful cousin.

Know you, she will not have you, Jehan said.

Low chuckles from the men around them accompanied the comment.

Trifine’s silver hair glinted in the moonlight as he angled his head. So say you, my friend. But I say ’twill be with her as it is with me. ’Tis said she is a widow, and thus have her desires been fired. She has learned of pleasure, and will wish for a man’s intimate embrace. I will have her, willing, within a seven-day of our victory.

We must first achieve that victory, Fallard said, before any could take up the wager. He dropped his chin onto his chest, pulled his shoulders back in a hard stretch to relieve weary muscles, then rotated the left shoulder. As you say, Trifine, this news changes more than our plan to attack on the morrow. It changes the manner, as well, for ’tis my thought we must now revert to greater stealth.

You believe Ruald will kill her if we launch a direct assault, as planned?

Aye, and her hearth companions, to prevent the possibility they may gain their freedom and fight against him. ’Tis my wish that each of those men pledge their loyalty to me. If we set them free and rescue their lady, and take the burh from Sir Ruald, who is held in dislike by ceorls and soldiers alike, mayhap those pledges will come willingly. You are our tactician, Trifine. What say you?

The muted sounds of night seemed to grow louder as Trifine mused. A nightjar called. The evening breeze soughed softly, and the men shuffled as they took the moment to resettle themselves.

Fallard absently scratched an inconveniently located itch and considered events. The king had sent him to Wulfsinraed with orders to take the burh from its wealthy lord, Baron Renouf of Sebfeld, whose family was among the members of Saxon nobility that had actively supported William’s claim to the throne in opposition to Harold Godwineson. But the foolish baron had enraged the king, and more severely than Wulfsinraed’s former lord, Eorl Kenrick Wulfsingas, whom William had banished three twelvemonths earlier for his role in the revolt led by Ralf, Eorl of East Anglia, and Roger, Eorl of Hereford. William gained proof of Kenrick’s treason through a betrayal by Renouf. William then rewarded Renouf with the barony of Wulfsinraed through marriage to the younger Wulfsingas daughter. But William’s recent discovery that the man he had placed in power at Wulfsinraed to serve him was in fact, as disloyal as Eorl Kenrick had made him determined to place a trusted Norman as lord of the burh.

With a personal force of fifteen mounted knights, and seven times that many of William’s foot soldiers, Fallard had a small army with which to carry out his sovereign’s command. His spies, posing as Saxon merchants, learned the lay of the land and the particulars he needed. ’Twas determined the fortress could be taken, and swiftly, for Renouf spent much of his time half-sotted, a state apparently aided and abetted by his brother, and his rule was more lax than was wise. No one checked those who passed through the gates into the courtyard.

Renouf’s negligent arrogance was Fallard’s good fortune. The original plan called for a number of his men to enter the burh one at a time, wearing the clothing of merchants and ceorls. At a prearranged signal, they would attack from within, securing the double gates even as the bulk of troops launched their assault from without.

Howbeit, Fallard now feared that should something go wrong, if the alarm went up before the men inside could secure the gates, the rest of the troops would be shut out. Ruald, like his brother Renouf, had a reputation for hasty, unpleasant decisions regarding the life and death of others. He would torture and kill Fallard’s men and eliminate any others who might turn against him, including the Lady of Wulfsinraed and her warriors. There would be naught Fallard could do to prevent it.

But if they waited until morn three days hence and attacked while the imminent executions captured every man’s focus, those at risk would be out in the open and much easier to defend. The factor of surprise would also be that much greater.

What is your assessment, Trifine?

Three days, Captain. We wait.

For what?

On the third morn from now, we move into place. We stop the executions. We take the burh.

I see. So easily achieved.

Aye. I’ll give you more when I know more.

I like this plan. ’Tis simple, and straightforward. I could not have thought of it myself. Fallard bothered not to hide his sarcasm.

The gleam of his First’s teeth in the moonlight displayed his appreciation for the jest. "Aye, it is simple, and simple oft succeeds best."

Fallard ordered those men not on watch to get some rest. The small group dispersed. Jehan went off to make his rounds of the guards.

Nearby, Fallard’s squire, Roul, and Fauques, squire to Trifine, lay curled in sleep.

Trifine laid out his bedroll and stretched out. Fauques dreams of glory in battle. Ah, but I envy the ease of his sleep. Fallard?

Mmmm?

You continue to hold out on me, my friend.

You still wish to know how the ripe plum of Wulfsinraed came to be dropped into my undeserving hands.

Mayhap, not so undeserving, but there were others who expected the king’s choice to fall on them.

True enough. Fallard watched as a small shadow floated overhead, blinking out starlight as it flew. A nighthawk, mayhap. You will say next you will not sleep, do I fail to explain.

A chuckle floated from the darkness. Aye, I might say that, but ’twould be not truth. I am merely curious. ’Tis not like you to keep matters so close, at least not with me. Yet, I would not trespass. Do but tell me to mind my own counsel, and I will ask not again.

’Tis no great secret. I had in my possession that which swayed William’s decision. He pillowed his head with his hands. "There is a debt of honor I owe the lady of Wulfsinraed through her father, Eorl Kenrick Wulfsingas, with whom I once spent much time. To discharge that debt, I approached our sovereign to request the right to lead this venture.

Never before have I presumed to set price upon duty. But I admit I covet the gift of becoming honorial lord to Wulfsinraed, as I covet its mistress. I considered the asking worth the risk of aggravating William’s temper. He demanded my reason. I spoke eloquently of the matter. His muffled snort was rueful. He was not pleased. He meant to offer the demesne to another, but my debt was not small and he was caught between two horns, his own personal code of knightly honor, and his expectation that his knights abide by the same code. Imagine, if you will, our liege-lord, reclined in his chair, left eyebrow cocked and unamused speculation in his glance.

Phew. Methinks mayhap, you sweated beneath that regard, Fallard.

Fallard grunted. "Aye, I squirmed upon his hook, and let him see. I know not how long he regarded me in silence, but methinks my discomforture helped to ease his ire. I have been with him since I gained my spurs at Sanguelac, and have since fought with him, side by side, in many battles. He knows the mettle of my loyalty in this time when allegiance comes with a cost. Still, it strained his composure mightily to have his options whittled to but one. Half a dozen expressions crossed his face, none of them reassuring to my eyes, and the last a scowl worthy of Grendel. But then he sighed, and consented."

Fallard felt again the swell of accomplishment. Soon the burh, its wealth, and its woman will be mine. I anticipate it with much pleasure.

Silence hung over the ravine, then Trifine wriggled, seeking a more comfortable position. And I count the hours until I have a thick, downy pallet upon which to lay my weary flesh.

His captain’s answer was a soft snore.

CHAPTER THREE

At noontide the following day Fallard, dressed in a black cloak with a cowl pulled low to shield his distinctively shaven head, entered the village with one of the spies. Gossip was rife, and while publicly, all decried the lady’s evil deed and upheld the sentence of death, the whispered conversations overheard led Fallard to believe Thegn Sebfeld had earned his fate and none were sorry for his passing. It seemed the rumors of his character were true. He had been a man both mean and malicious, and a violent drunkard. He had abused the trust of his people and his lady wife.

His companion led Fallard to the alehouse, a long, low structure built in typical Saxon style with a deeply slanted thatch roof. They entered through a painted door of faded blue hue. Smoke joined the smell of various brews to swirl around the room before drifting through the smoke-hole in the ceiling. They settled with their backs to the wall at a battered wooden table in a corner nook.

A tired serving girl with a broom in one hand stared at them in wary curiosity. We have bread, cheese, roast boar and venison stew. The stew is hot and fresh. The boar is not.

Fallard exchanged a wry glance with his companion. We will have stew and small beers.

’Twas quiet in the house, the kind of surly hush that accompanied fear and rancor. The only patrons were burh craftsmen who hurried to finish their meals. The tenor of their conversations was low-keyed and burned with suppressed ire.

A man at the table next to them, clearly the worse for drink even at the early hour, leaned forward, his rough voice barely above a whisper. By what right, I ask, does Sir Ruald hold trial for the Lady Ysane and sentence her to death? ’Tis the true crime, that. The lady is a gentle soul, and already carried a burden of sorrow before that brigand Renouf killed her sweet babe. I say, did there must be a trial, she should have been sent to the shire court. They would have meted true justice, aye, a fine of wergild mayhap, though Thegn Renouf was worth naught. Bah! ’Tis a mockery.

His face crumpled. Fallard thought he might weep, but he lifted his tankard, took several chugs and mumbled to the remaining contents.

Fallard understood his confusion. Why would Ruald risk ordering her death when as the wife of a nobleman, she should have been sent to William? The knight held no title and little authority. ’Twas a situation, he mused, when the old maxim came to mind—the weak must suffer the domination of the strong. Ruald’s warriors had overwhelmed those of the burh’s first marshal. He now had complete control. Had Fallard not been sent to deal with Renouf—and Ruald as well, did the man but know it—the king would never have known the truth of these events. ’Twas even possible William might have granted Ruald the barony.

The serving maid returned, this time without the broom, and slapped their bowls and tankards in front of them. Fallard listened to what could be heard of the conversations around him as he ate.

The burhfolc hate both the Sebfeld brothers, said the man at his side.

Fallard nodded. Aye, and ’twould seem Sir Ruald wasted no time proclaiming himself their new lord. Heard you the comments about the lady?

That he seeks vengeance against her more because she spurned his suit to wed her, than as a punishment for his brother’s death? It seems a petty action.

He is a petty man. For too long, the people have borne the contempt and vicious backlash of both men’s foul tempers. ’Tis time it stopped. He set his tankard down. We are finished here.

He dropped coin on the table, nodded to the barman and wended his way through the sullen crowd toward the door. He tensed, his hand settling on the hilt of his sword beneath the cloak, as the portal swung open to admit several of Ruald’s warriors. Conversation ceased and tension rose. Head down, cowl lowered to hide his face, he slid to the side and waited. But the soldiers were interested in naught but getting warm and drunk by the fire. They gave notice to none.

A short while later, Fallard met Trifine inside the dense cover of a copse bordering the burh. His First had more news. Captain, one of the spies has befriended a young woman, the daughter of a ceorl. The maid spoke freely. Her family has a strong dislike of the Sebfeld brothers. Even better for us, her family is in debt to the Lady Ysane for the life of one of the children. They bear her much respect and affection.

’Tis truth, she won the devotion of her people long ago, which may prove useful.

You have further thoughts to flesh out the plan?

Aye, but they are not without risk. Ruald may be a brutal leader, but there is no great love for Normans among these people. Will they accept our rule? ’Tis a question yet to be answered.

He went silent, his thoughts considering all angles, then decision made, he met Trifine’s expectant gaze. He uttered a soft snort. He and Trifine had fought together too long. His First already knew what he would say, but he said it, anyway. Order the spy to approach the girl. I wish to know if the burhfolc will refuse to take up arms against us when we launch our attack. Let it be known I offer my oath to try to save the Lady Ysane, to be a fair and careful lord, and if all goes as planned, offer respect and an honorable marriage to the lady.

And if the people can be convinced?

Then warn the village elders of what is to come and explain the role they are to play.

Exactly what I was thinking.

Fallard’s derisive grunt floated over his shoulder as he headed back to camp.

***

Back at the ravine the following eve, Fallard met with Trifine and Jehan to finalize plans. Roul brought them bread, cheese, and a skin of ale. Your mail and weapons are cleaned and oiled for the morrow, sir, and your bedroll laid out.

Well and good, Roul, but there will be little sleep for any this night. Go now. Find your own bedroll and get what rest you can.

Aye, sir. Think you there will be a great battle? Roul sounded as if he hoped for naught less than Armaggeddon.

Jehan cuffed the back of his head, knocking him to his knees. A bloodthirsty beggar you are, lad. Have you not yet learned ’tis better to avoid battle if it may be prevented? Would it please you did the river run red from our play?

Grinning, Roul clambered to his feet. "I would be pleased for a fight, sir, but mayhap, without so much blood."

Go to bed, Roul. Fallard said. ’Tis my thought your wish may be granted, but I suggest you think on the merits of peace as you seek sleep.

As the squire moved off, Jehan looked at Fallard. The elders agreed, but dare we trust their word?

Methinks much depends on their devotion to the lady, Trifine mumbled through a mouthful of bread, and their willingness to lay aside whatever hatred and distrust they may harbor toward a Norman lord. I say we chance it. Mayhap, if we show confidence in their decision, ’twill work further to our advantage.

Fallard made a face and spit. This cheese is too far past its prime. One might as well chew twigs. I agree, Trifine. ’Tis worth the risk. Jehan, what more have you heard?

The executions are expected to take no more than a short span of the morn. With the exception of a few sentries on the north wall, the people have been ordered to assemble in the clearing opposite the gates ere dawn. Not even the children are excused. ’Twould seem Sir Ruald suspects no interference. He appears confident that with all the burhfolc under the eyes of his hearth companions, there is no reason to secure the gates. I believe the surprise will be complete.

Fallard swallowed the last of his ale. I have learned ’tis unlikely Ruald is aware of the king’s knowledge of his treachery. For this reason, I expect he will issue no special security orders. The burh will be all but defenseless, but timing will be critical, especially for you, Trifine.

I know it. My bow is ready, as is my arm, but one last thought. What if the fog is too heavy? I cannot hit what I cannot see.

Fallard stared as the first star of the even blinked into view in the deepening dusk. ’Tis of no import. Ruald’s action in forcing all to witness these events speaks to a wish to intimidate, and to reinforce his authority. If needful, he will wait till the sun’s rising banishes the mist. We move at mid-watch. Silent passage. Pass the word.

***

’Tis truly a plum full ripened, and ready to be picked, Fallard murmured. He stood concealed with his men at the edge of the forest north of Wulfsinraed, watching the unfolding of the dawn. Beneath his helm, his face was stiff with pre-battle tension. The lady’s execution was to be the first, and was set for sunrise. ’Twas nigh that, now.

Captain? Roul peered up at him.

On Fallard’s other side Varin, his company blacksmith and best hand-to-hand fighter, spoke in a rumble that seemed to rise from deep beneath the earth into his chest. ’Tis naught, lad. Your captain merely clears his throat.

Fallard felt his tension ease. His sword hilt rested, solid and comforting in his hand. All was in place and his men were ready. They would not fail.

Awaiting Trifine’s unmistakable signal, he focused his gaze on the soldier, backlit by torches, stationed behind Lady Ysane. Here lay a minute element of risk. In order to sight the guard with his bow, Trifine’s sharp eyes must penetrate the misty shadows that lingered in these last moments ere the clouded sunrise. If his shot went wide or fell short, the lady’s life would be forfeit.

Fallard shook off the possibility. Trifine never missed.

Once the executioner was down, the village elders would join the ceorls in a ‘panic’ designed to create as much chaos as possible. Under cover of that confusion, the assault would begin with his archers dealing with the sentries on the wall.

At the same time, Fallard and his men would split. Most of them, led by Jehan, would attack the armed men in the clearing while Fallard led the smaller group through the tunnel between the open gates to take control of the burh. At all costs, they must prevent Ruald from reaching the courtyard and closing those gates. The corners of his eyes crinkled. If the plan proved successful, Roul would get his wish. Wulfsinraed Burh would be taken quickly, and with but a little bloodshed.

Soon, now, Varin said. Dawn was breaking even as he spoke.

Fallard flexed gauntleted fists and slid his sword from its fleece-lined sheath, the silent action repeated by a hundred arms to either side of him. Tension spiraled in a subtle escalation.

Movement at the rear of the motionless crowd in the clearing drew his attention. Hidden in clear sight among those who were gathered, Trifine threw back the edge of his cloak. In the space of little more than an eye’s blink, he raised his great bow, notched an arrow and sighted.

There came a discernible lightening of the gray skies. One bright ray of sunlight pierced the gloom. Ruald’s hand lifted and dropped.

The faint twang of Trifine’s bow sounded twice in rapid succession. Fallard’s gaze flicked back to the wall. From his position, he could not see if Trifine’s arrow reached its mark, but seconds later, the liquid splash of the soldier’s body plunging into the river was drowned by his battle cry. His men echoed the yell as they swarmed from the trees. The bloodcurdling screams of Dex Aie froze the response of Sir Ruald and his troops for those critical first seconds that gave Fallard and his men immediate advantage.

The onslaught of arrows against the handful of soldiers manning the walls wiped out that opposition. Pandemonium reigned. Wails of terror filled the air as burhfolc scattered. Warriors shouted in rage as they leapt to the defense. Agonized cries mingled with the clash of swords. Spears and axes punched through chain mail to rend the vulnerable flesh beneath. The fighting was intense, for the hearth companions were well trained, but the surprise was shockingly complete and the skirmish brief. Sir Ruald’s troops were overwhelmed. Some dropped their swords and surrendered, suing for mercy.

Fallard’s group poured through the tunnel into the courtyard, but as expected, found no one to fight except a handful of Sir Ruald’s men who broke away from the fracas outside and followed them through the gate.

Jehan’s contingent overpowered the last of the soldiers in the clearing, taking Sir Ruald prisoner even as the soles of his boots thudded on the wooden planking of the bridge.

The clamor of battle ceased as abruptly as it had begun.

Fallard’s gaze swept the courtyard, seeking hidden opponents. There were none. His men took up position at the gates.

Shortly after, Trifine was at his side, shadowed by his squire, Fauques. We have a number of wounded, but none severely, and no dead among our people. There are three and twenty dead among the burh guard. Wulfsinraed is secure, Captain.

It went well, Fallard replied, surveying the bodies littering the courtyard. The plan was sound.

Aye, Captain. The blue ice of Trifine’s eyes glittered. This was his victory as well.

Fallard clasped his First’s shoulder and squeezed. See to the clean up and check on the burhfolc. Make certain the surviving soldiers who fought us are shaved.

What of the rest?

Nay. They chose not to take weapon against us. I will not dishonor their decision with humiliation.

As Trifine moved away, Fallard removed his helm and gauntlets and handed them, with his sword to Roul. Turning, he looked up, his eyes searching for and quickly finding the diminutive figure of the Lady of Wulfsinraed. He strode toward the stone steps leading to the top of the wall. ’Twas time to claim his most precious prize.

CHAPTER FOUR

The seagull soared from Ysane’s line of sight. Her eyelids dropped. Her bound hands clenched as she waited for the cold death-kiss of the blade.

For what does he wait? Oh faith, be done with it!

A sound, as of a barely perceived whisper, sighed past her head. Her executioner released his grip on her hair with a howl. She heard his hadseax clatter against the stone of the parapet as he staggered away. Her eyes shot open and she watched his hand grasp at the arrow lodged at an odd upward angle through the flesh of his shoulder. She struggled to make sense of the sight even as a second brief pfft heralded a soft but solid thud. The guard grunted and bent forward as both hands grabbed at the shaft protruding from his midsection.

Sluggish recognition came then. That baffling, furtive movement she had seen earlier at the back of the crowd of burfolc was a man throwing aside the edge of his cloak to bend a longbow.

The entire tableau seemed to freeze as the guard stared at the blood seeping between his fingers. Then he gaped at her, the astonished knowledge of his own death clouding his brown eyes. He collapsed like a drained wineskin and toppled over the edge into the river below.

Hope burst upon her from fathomless inner depths, as brilliant light would illumine dark halls. Mayhap, she was not to die this day, though how or why that might be, she knew not. She had believed she longed for death’s final caress. Instead, came springing a surge of joy and relief that she might not feel upon her spirit that black and endless touch.

She started as the still peace of the morn exploded in noise and mayhem. Fierce cries mingled with shrieks of pain and shock. She cocked her head to gaze upon the scene, slow to comprehend the sight of warriors battling to the death. Doubt floated in her tangled thoughts.

’Tis the tumult of battle, but it cannot be real. We have seen no war since ere my birth. Nay! ’Tis truly happening. My home is attacked, yet by it I may be saved. Strange that my executioner has suffered the fate meant for me. But I must move from this place or I may follow him. Would that be not the ultimate irony?

Bound feet shuffling, she managed a half turn away from the dangerous edge, but the movement unbalanced her. Shivering uncontrollably, she swayed toward the gulf below as a man with hair like deepest shadow and shoulders broad as the hills appeared on the wall. He raced in her direction.

She beheld him as if in a dream, a tall man garbed in black from head to toe, even to the blackened chain metal of his hauberk. Naught broke the unrelieved pitch save a scarlet sash around his waist. Within its folds, she glimpsed twin gold lions passant, the insignia of the House of Normandy.

Little shocks pulsed through her frame, vying with the bedeviling shivers.

Norman! He is Norman. The enemy is come. A dark knight sprints toward me. How very odd that he…oh! I am falling!

Her knees buckled, but determined intent blazed from the knight’s eyes. He vaulted onto the parapet.

***

Fallard swept his arms around the Lady of Wulfsinraed and drew close her slight, quivering form. His jaw tightened.

Saint’s teeth! That was too close. But a moment longer and I would have lost her to the river.

He cradled her to his chest, startled at the intense heat that radiated from beneath her tattered cyrtel. He raked her features with his eyes. Dusted beneath a gaze unnaturally bright were dark smudges. A large bruise marred the left side of her face, and more ringed her slender throat. Her face was drawn and flushed.

She is afire, aye, blazing with fever. Will she understand my words?

My lady, surrender. I have won you fairly, and with honor.

He awaited her response. She blinked, a languid movement of the lids over eyes the color of the emerald moss that grew beneath the forest canopy. She inhaled, slowly, deeply, of the cool air of the freshening morn.

***

His voice was deep as the realms of the sea-gods. In that moment, in the feverish imagining that ruled her thoughts, he seemed a fantasy emerging from a vision of mists, destined to rescue her from death. Handsome as the gods, he was a lover who held her with an embrace both powerful and gentle. He appeared the epitome of all of her youthful, maidenly reveries, so ruthlessly crushed by her husband.

He was but a fancy, naught more than imagination. Could she not say what she would to a dream-warrior, and ’twould make no difference? She burned as her look met his, and whispered her answer. My lord, I surrender in truth. Do with me as you will.

His smile was triumphant and altogether male. Aye, lady, he said. That is how it will be.

***

Fallard doubted the lady knew whereof she spoke, yet the words were said. He would not allow her to recall them later.

He turned to take in the scene in the courtyard below as a misty rain, its touch soft on his face, cooled the fierce battle heat from his body. Trifine oversaw the incarceration of Ruald of Sebfeld and the surviving rebels to the upper floor of the gatehouse. They would be interrogated before transport on the morrow to London for trial. William’s footsoldiers would provide escort, while Sir Gyffard, their commander, would carry to the king any particulars pertinent to William’s battle strategies against the rebels.

Except for his men, none but a few retainers of Wulfsinraed Hall remained in the courtyard. As planned, the villagers had fled to their homes once the attack began. As he regarded each countenance staring up at him, he spoke loudly, in the Saxon dialect, that all might hear and understand. I am Fallard D’Auvrecher, Baron of Wulfsinraed! In the name of William, King of England, who has granted to me honorial rights, I claim Wulfsinraed Burh and all its fiefs and burhfolc. I grant mercy to all who foreswear to take up arms against me, and offer their oath of fealty to me and to the rightful king. Oppose me, and you will explain your reasons to William. Oppose me not and you will learn I am a fair man, and will protect and provide for you well.

He waited. A breathless silence descended. No one moved.

He set Ysane on her feet. Bracing her sagging figure upright against him with one arm about her waist, he pulled his boot dagger to slice through the bonds securing her hands and feet. He gently massaged her strained shoulders and bruised, chafed wrists. The pain of returning circulation brought forth from her a low moan.

Easy, my lady. His words reached only her. ’Twill ache for but a moment.

He returned his look to those who watched his actions. Reflected in their eyes he discerned apprehension, relief and uncertainty…all at once. He understood, but he could show no weakness, no hesitation in his intent. They must choose, and now, this very moment. His eyes narrowed as if he still peered through the visor of his helm. He hardened his voice to brisk command.

Answer me! What say you? Will you have me as lord, or must I impose upon you all a journey to King William? Before you decide, know this—you will find him not so forgiving as I.

A lone man, a nondescript elder of average height and build stepped forward. A shock of thick white hair hung below his shoulders. His pale, lined face was furrowed with the same anxiety as the rest. I am Ethelmar, my lord, dish-thegn of Wulfsinraed.

He swallowed visibly and glanced around at his companions, who bobbed their heads. He took a breath, faced Fallard, straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin. His voice was firm and carried clearly. My lord, we accept.

***

Ysane felt her dream man shift his hold, and a sudden slackness came to his grasp, though his support faltered not.

He relaxes. Ethelmar’s words must hearten him. I must remember to commend my dish-thegn.

She leaned more fully into the dark knight’s embrace, enthralled by his power and strength. He lifted her once again into his arms. She sighed.

He is Norman, my enemy, and the conqueror of my home, as his king conquered my people, yet in his arms I feel safe, as I have not felt in too long. He will rule here. I know him not, nor aught of him. If there is softness or indulgence in him, it shows not. All know that Normans are barbarians and love most to hurt and humiliate those they enslave. Yet, this one offers tolerance, and his judgments seem honorable. How can this be?

’Twas a strangely difficult thing to do—her strength seemed to have deserted her—but she raised a trembling hand toward his face. He glanced down. She laid her palm upon his cheek and stared into eyes as darkly blue as the midnight sky, and imagined she found in their depths an unexpected tenderness.

She smiled.

What a wonderfully pleasant dream this is. I hope never to wake.

The last thought that slipped through her mind ere the fever fully claimed her was regret this could be only fantasy, for strange as may be, she sensed she and her people would have been secure in this illusory enemy’s care.

CHAPTER FIVE

Fallard’s knights were busy with the tasks he had set them. A chosen few, scattered strategically about the courtyard and the wall, remained alert against renewed violence. Pride in his men swelled. Handpicked, they were the best a captain could hope for, no matter the task.

At the lady’s sweet smile and gentle hand upon his cheek, he felt an unusual hitch in the region of his heart. He ignored it. He had no time for sentiment, even his own. Still, he descended the steps with great care, for he now bore a burden beyond price and the stone was grown slick from the misty rain.

He called for a healer. Through the skill of Trifine and his own timely intervention, the lady had escaped execution, but in her fragile state, she was not out of danger. He had seen fever ravage the bodies of stout warriors until there was no strength left to fight a slow descent into death.

He reached the bottom and found himself besieged by folk from the hall.

My thegn, how is the Lady Ysane?

Is the lady ill, my lord?

Please, my thegn, let us help our lady.

Fallard tried to push through, but there were too many. His men observed the scene uneasily and pressed close, fearing treachery, for he was vulnerable with Ysane in his arms. But he discerned only concern on the faces of the retainers, though one and all they seemed unaware they hindered his efforts at progress towards the warm, dry conditions their lady required.

Here now, give way, give way! The shout came from nearby, behind and to his right. What are you thinking, then? Give the man room to move. Return to your duties, all of you. I will send word of the lady when there is aught to be known. Go on now!

The crowd around Fallard dispersed, scrambling rather as ants when a stone was dropped on their anthill. Flanked by two of his knights, a tall, solidly built man, mayhap of five and forty twelvemonths and garbed in the armor of a hearth companion, strode into his range of vision. His face showed evidence of a brutal beating and though he held himself in pride, his gait was stiff and he limped. But beneath the bruises was a body still strong and capable.

Fallard eyed his approach. Faded hair of a once fiery hue, shoulder length in the Saxon style, was streaked with silver. Several days’ growth of beard concealed his jaw. Craggy lines around his eyes and mouth bespoke of a temperament prone to joviality. He stopped in front of Fallard, hands on hips. His laughing hazel eyes twinkled with lively curiosity as he took Fallard’s measure.

Fallard returned the frank perusal, liking what he saw, instinctively recognizing the man’s honor and worth. He remembered the fettered hearth companions in the clearing, their expressions mirroring frustrated anger and honest grief. This man had been among them. During the brief fighting in the courtyard, ere he lost track of him in the melee, the big warrior had been cornered against the wall, battling two of Ruald’s men.

Offering Fallard a bow before accompanying him across the courtyard, he said, My lord D’Auvrecher, I am Sir Domnall of Cullanis, First Marshal of Wulfsinraed. Happy am I at the events of this day. He pounded Fallard’s shoulder. ’Twas a pure pleasure to see the likes of your lads as they burst from the forest. ’Twas worth every gentle bruise offered by Ruald’s men to see their faces in that moment. He threw back his head and laughed in hearty appreciation of his own jest. Aye, and had I not seen with my own eyes that archer of yours take out the guard about to slit my lady’s throat—in shadow and mist, that be, and from such a distance—I would have believed not the tale. His voice carried awed admiration. What a shot! Wurth, our scop, will write the story and ’twill be remembered for generations to come.

He stopped. One large hand settled on Fallard’s forearm as his voice lowered and the mirth fled his gaze. ’Twas a very close thing, my lord, aye, ’Twas. Me and my fine lads, we are grateful for our lives, and for that of our lady. Do you accept, I will be the first to kneel to swear my oath, and my men right behind.

That is acceptable, Sir Domnall, Fallard said, a little taken aback by his enthusiasm. I will wish to speak much with you, but now I would have you work with my men to restore order. Report to Trifine, my First. He is the archer whose aim we all admire. Domnall nodded and turned away. Oh, and Sir Domnall. A full inventory must be taken to update the king’s records, and mine, as well. I want a list of the names of every person who speaks the Norman tongue, and every one who can read or write.

Aye, I will see to it, though they number but few. You will wish to speak with Tenney, the burh hoarder and Aldfrid, our reeve. He paused. My lord, you understand I must ask, will my lady be well?

His glance touched on Ysane.

She is fevered, and weak, but my hope is high she will survive her ordeal.

Domnall saluted and walked away, apparently reassured, calling to his men to accompany him. He began to whistle a rousing ballad as he headed in Trifine’s direction.

The two who had escorted Domnall looked a question at Fallard.

Watch him, and his men for now, but otherwise leave them be to get on with their duties.

He started again for the hall, almost reaching the steps when he spotted his Second hovering. Jehan? Take five and ten men and retrieve the horses and supplies from the forest.

Aye, Captain.

’Twas now raining steadily if not hard, and Fallard bent his shoulders over Ysane as he climbed the steps leading to the oaken doors of the hall. Knights stood guard on either side of the great portals, which were carved with a pattern of roses, vines and leaping stags and painted in colors of earth and sky. Waiting at the threshold were three women and the under-steward, Ethelmar. Their eyes were locked upon their lady.

Ethelmar tore his gaze from Ysane. If you will follow, my lord, I will direct you to my lady’s bower.

They passed into what would have been, in long days past, a large, rectangular mead-hall. As they proceeded toward an open arch at the far right corner, the steward gestured towards the eldest of the three who accompanied him, a short, rotund female with thin, straggly gray hair.

This is Luilda, my lord. She is our healer, and highly skilled.

Fallard glanced curiously at Luilda. Her hair was the only thin thing about her, for she was so round she rolled when she walked like a sailor new come to land. Her full face shone as if waxed. She carried a large reed basket covered