Rose of Hope by Mairi Norris Page B

pegs. He stepped to meet Randel, his hand outstretched. He wished not to fight again this day. Indeed, he wished not to fight this man at all. ’Twas his thought, did Thegn Randel’s trust be won, he would become an ally.
    Randel clasped Fallard’s wrist, his grip firm, his regard steady. “My lord D’Auvrecher, as you have clearly been told, I am Randel of Randel Hall.” Turning his head to indicate the trim woman by his side, he said, “I would have you meet my wife, the Lady Lewena.”
    “Well met, lady,” Fallard said, bowing. Randel’s wife was tall, and very beautiful, as dark as her lord was fair, and of an age nigh to that of Fallard and her lord. It pleased Fallard to see caution and curiosity, but no fear in her eyes. Aye. These two might indeed become worthy friends.
    “I would offer repast to you and your lady, Thegn Randel, do you wish it.”
    “My thanks, but nay. We broke our fast ere leaving camp this morn. But I would covet a cup of something warm, as would my wife.”
    Fallard caught the eye of Ethelmar, who nodded and hurried through a wide door into the kitchen.
    Leading the way to the cozy seating in the space between the blazing fire pits, Fallard waited for the lady to be made comfortable before seating himself. Roul appeared with the servants to bring warm mulled wine in a silver carafe, the scent of which warmed the bones by smell alone.
    The various knights and hearth companions seated themselves at the mead-tables, still set to await the feast that would never come. Randel’s men placed themselves facing their lord and lady. The pewter tankards before them were quickly filled with ale. They spoke not, but seemed glad enough to wrap their hands around the heat emanating from the metal.
    Randel shifted in his chair, removed his riding gloves and accepted the chased silver chalice a serving maid offered. As did his men, he encircled its welcome warmth with his hands. He gulped half its contents, releasing a little sigh of relish, ere turning to Fallard.
    His apprehension well hidden, he said, “I find myself at a disadvantage, my Lord D’Auvrecher. We received a message from Sir Ruald but three days past. My wife and I journeyed to Wulfsinraed expecting to offer condolences to Lady Ysane and Sir Ruald on the death of Thegn Sebfeld. Instead, we find Norman knights holding court in their place. You will understand our…hesitation when we arrived.”
    Roul passed a fragrant chalice to Fallard and stationed himself at his left elbow. Fallard stretched his legs toward the warmth of the fire, noting as he did so the chalice in his hand was solid silver, not plate. The astonishing wealth of Wulfsinraed was evident at every turn.
    He made Randel wait as he savored the wine, then said, “Much has changed here since that message was sent. Tell me, what word received you concerning the death of Thegn Sebfeld?”
    He wanted to give naught away, to allow Randel to yield information, though ’twas clear from the Lady Lewena’s presence Ruald’s message offered little of the true story.
    “Only that Thegn Sebfeld had received unfortunate injuries resulting in his death,” Randel said. “The message requested we attend Sir Ruald, who declared himself the new lord, but also asked we arrive not until the morrow. Howbeit, we made excellent time, better than expected. When last eve the weather turned foul I decided, for my wife’s sake, to continue on to the hall. Under the circumstances, ’twas my thought Ruald would find no fault with an appearance somewhat earlier than requested.” He paused to take a swallow of the wine. “If I may presume to ask, my lord D’Auvrecher, what has happened to Sir Ruald, and where is the Lady Ysane? I pray no harm has befallen them?”
    Though his soft words were a question, there was no mistaking the challenge in his tone. Fallard met and held his scrutiny, but said naught. The silence deepened.
    “Please, my lord, how fares the Lady Ysane?” For the first