Rose of Hope Read Online Free PDF Page B

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. Fallard 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,