Rose of Hope by Mairi Norris Page A

the delay and acknowledged the guard, one of Domnall’s men. “Who comes?”
    “A small party from the west, my thegn. The pennons proclaim Thegn Randel from Randel Hall.”
    Trifine was suddenly at Fallard’s elbow. “’Tis likely he knows naught of the changes made here this day, Fallard.”
    Fallard, his eyes searching for Domnall, found the first marshal already hurrying toward him.
    “Sir Domnall, what will be the likely response of this party to today’s events?”
    The three men moved as one up the steps. Fallard wanted to meet the incoming party with the advantage of high ground. He swept the wall and courtyard with a rapid glance. His men were already in place.
    Domnall took note. “You stand ready for battle, my lord. You are aware Randel Hall is one of your fiefs?”
    Fallard nodded. “Tell me, quickly, of Thegn Randel.”
    “He is a fair man. He will hear you out and most likely, approve of you despite the unfortunate fact you are Norman.”
    Fallard threw him a glance and he chuckled. “Lord Randel and Lord Kenrick were friends, though their beliefs differed greatly on English response to Norman rule. He believes naught can reverse the past and counsels acceptance of William’s rule. He held no liking and less respect for Lord Renouf and Sir Ruald, though he dared not show it, but I knew. Methinks you need worry not for swordplay.”
    “My thegn,” the guard called again. “Thegn Randel has his lady with him. He requests entrance.”
    “Admit them.”
    Fallard hid his relief at the lady’s presence. He wanted no more trouble and ’twas less likely the man would start any with his wife by his side.
    He waited, expression impassive, as the group crossed the bridge into the tunnel. But ere the first of the horses entered the courtyard, their leader—Thegn Randel, Fallard assumed—lifted his hand and the entire party came to an abrupt halt. Randel had seen Fallard and Trifine in their Norman armor flanking Domnall. Randel’s hand gripped his sword hilt, though he drew it not. His men urged their horses into a protective stance around the lady, who looked more startled than frightened.
    The rain had started up again. Droplets slid down Fallard’s forehead into his eyes. He blinked them away. Water dripping into a barrel beside the steps breached the tense silence as Fallard waited for Randel’s next move.
    The man facing him was nigh his own age, tall and lean, his coloring fair. Garbed only in light mail, he still looked every inch the capable warrior. His beard was shaved close to his skin and his hair was shoulder length. Fallard saw naught of the hatred in Randel’s eyes he had too oft encountered. Instead, those eyes rapidly assessed the situation. Fallard recognized the exact moment Randel realized his small troupe was in a dangerous pass, one from which he would be unable to fight his way clear.
    Fallard took the initiative. His voice rang out. “Well come, Thegn Randel, to Wulfsinraed. I am Fallard D’Auvrecher, the new lord. Please hasten to bring your fair lady out of this unpleasant weather and into the warm comfort of the hall.”
    Randel’s questioning look fastened on Domnall, and from the corner of his eye, Fallard saw the first marshal answer with a slight nod. Randel’s gaze returned to Fallard, then he turned in the saddle and spoke to his knights. His hand moved from his sword, but his wariness remained unabated as he slowly led the way into the courtyard.
    Young lads from the stable came running as Randel dismounted and aided his wife from her palfrey. Setting her hand on his arm, he approached the steps, his warriors grouped closely behind.
    Domnall opened the hall doors and stepped back to allow Fallard to enter, followed by Randel, his lady and his guard. Trifine and Domnall then entered with more of Fallard’s men following behind, two of whom stationed themselves either side of the doors.
    Fallard waited while servants took the couple’s mantles and hung them on