The Bride Hunt (17 page)

“Look,” said Roger. “’Tis a path cutting eastward.”

Anvrai had not seen it the day before. Either he’d missed it during his solitary travels, or they’d come farther than he’d gone the day before.

“I’m tired of dragging this damnable cart over every rut and root in the forest. I say we take the path.”

“I agree,” Anvrai replied. “’Twill not hurt to travel in this direction for a time.”

“I can walk now, Sir Anvrai,” Tillie said. I’ll carry Belle and a satchel as well. If we all—”

“No. You are barely four days from childbed. You will continue to ride.”

Anvrai had little concern for Roger’s com
fort, but the trek over uneven ground was hard on Isabel. She made no complaints, but she had started limping in the last hour, and he had no doubt that her borrowed shoes had given her a blister.

He watched the ground for plants he might use in a poultice later, picking several as they traveled, tucking them into a corner of the cart.

’Twas near the end of the day when a light rain began to fall. Anvrai looked for a sheltered area in the woods on both sides of the path, but they suddenly came upon a small clearing where stood a church made of stone and timber. If it was deserted, ’twould make a perfect shelter for the night.

“Wait here,” Anvrai said. He drew his sword and approached the building cautiously, circling through the woods, leaving the others on the path well behind him. All at once, Isabel was at his side and a regiment of liveried knights swarmed ’round them like bees, intent upon protecting their hive.

Arrows flew, and before Anvrai could shove Isabel behind him, an arrow struck her.

“G
esu!”

“A priest stormed out of the church and called to the Scots warriors. The soldier in charge shouted, as Anvrai threw down his sword and dropped to his knees beside Isabel.

The attack stopped as suddenly as it had begun.

Speaking Latin, the priest told Anvrai to carry Isabel into the church. She was conscious, but her eyes were dull and unseeing. Her skin turned pale, and her breathing became much too rapid.

Careful not to disturb the arrow in her thigh, Anvrai lifted her up and carried her into the church just as a group of soldiers escorted a well-dressed lady out of the building.

“You are Norman,” the priest said, leading the way.

“Aye. We came seeking refuge here,” Anvrai said to the priest.

“You mean no harm to the queen?” asked the priest.

“God’s eyes, man, how could I hurt the queen?”

“You will be safe here,” the priest said, without answering Anvrai’s question.

Anvrai looked for a place to lay Isabel, but there was naught besides the cold stone floor. He went to the altar and skirted past it, toward a stout, wooden door. Isabel moaned, and Anvrai kicked open the door. He walked into the adjoining rooms, the priest’s private quarters.

He went through the first room and into the priest’s bedchamber, then placed Isabel upon the bed he found there. “Bandages,” he said, without looking away from Isabel. “Do you have anything—”

The priest shoved a wad of linen into Anvrai’s hand.

“Isabel,” Anvrai said. “I will try not to hurt you…”

He pressed the cloth to the wound to stanch the bleeding, and her cry pierced him like an arrow in his heart. “The arrow must come out,
Isabel.” He looked up at the priest. “Hold her arms.”

He positioned himself to keep her legs steady. Taking hold of the arrow, he clenched his teeth and swallowed. He’d dealt with many a wound, but none in such tender flesh.

“Isabel,” he said, wiping sweat from his brow, “brace yourself. Try not to move.”

He took hold of the shaft and prepared himself for the grisly task ahead, muttering a quiet prayer. Isabel cried out as he pulled, but the arrow did not come out.

Anvrai took a shaky breath. “I am sorry, Isabel. I’ll—”

“Again,” she whispered. “Try it again.” She squeezed her eyes tightly and took a firm grip upon the priest’s hands. Tears slid from the corners of her eyes as she waited.

If Anvrai had not loved her before, he surely did now.

He put one hand upon her thigh and, with the other, used all his might to pull the arrow out in one swift motion. Isabel made a muffled sound of distress, then fainted.

The wound bled profusely. Anvrai held the clean cloths to the gash as the priest released her hands and stepped away. He told himself ’twas better now that she was unconscious.
Mayhap he would be able to clean and sew the wound before she awakened. He did not want her to see how his hands shook.

He looked up at the priest. “I am Sir Anvrai d’Arques. This is Lady Isabel de St. Marie. Her father is one of King William’s trusted barons.”

The priest crossed himself. “What ill fortune brought you here?”

Anvrai told the man of their capture at Kettwyck and the ensuing events. “We came upon a Norman girl after our escape…She waits in a place hidden off the beaten path with Sir Roger de Neuville.”

“I am Ingeld the Tall, although…” He glanced up at Anvrai and let their difference in height speak for itself. “I am Saxon, come north with Edgar the atheling and his sisters…Ahem. Shall I stay here with the lady while you fetch the others? I fear they will not react well to a stranger’s approach.”

Anvrai did not wish to leave Isabel, but Ingeld was correct. Anvrai needed to be the one who went to Roger and Tillie.

He gazed down at Isabel, lying insensible in the priest’s modest bed. He wrapped her leg tightly to slow the bleeding, then covered her with a blanket and bent down to press a kiss upon her brow.

Reluctantly, he left the priest’s room and
quickly made his way to the place where he’d left Roger and Tillie, but they were nowhere in sight. For once, he respected Roger’s instincts. The boy had hidden himself and the girl.

“Roger!” he called. “’Tis safe.”
Now.

Roger soon emerged from the surrounding trees, with Tillie carrying Belle and following close behind him.

“Isabel has been injured,” Anvrai said. “I took her to a nearby church where the priest is watching over her.”

“What happened?” Roger demanded. “It sounded like a full battle! You led us into danger!”

’Twas not as though Anvrai was unaware of his failure to protect Isabel. Still, he had to quell the urge to lay the boy flat. “Roger, I thought you learned to curb your unruly tongue yesterday. Do you need another lesson?” He’d bruised him well for complaining that the cart was too unwieldy to pull and suggesting they leave Tillie behind. ’Twas only the fear in Tillie’s eyes that kept Anvrai from doing any more damage to the lad’s face.

He went back to the cart and pulled it toward the church, leaving Tillie and Roger to follow as they would. Drawing the cart to the back near the priest’s quarters, Anvrai gathered their belongings, along with the medicinal
leaves he’d collected throughout the day, and took them inside.

Isabel had not moved in his absence. The priest had built up the fire to warm the room, and he’d covered her with an additional woolen blanket. Anvrai heard Roger’s voice, calling to him from the church.

“I’ll go to him,” said Ingeld. “Do what you can for your lady.”

Anvrai castigated himself for taking Isabel into danger. ’Twas his fault that she lay so gravely wounded.

He had precious little to work with. He’d found a few plants during the day’s walk…herbs he’d planned to use on the blister he suspected Isabel had developed on her heel. ’Twould not be enough. There was little he could do but watch and pray that she was strong enough to recover.

He crouched beside her, and she moaned when he picked up her hand. “Isabel,” he whispered.

She raised one hand to his face and caressed it. “Is it out?”

He nodded. “You fainted.”

“I can still feel it in—”

“Isabel!” Roger came into the room and rushed to Isabel’s side. She dropped her hand
from Anvrai’s face as Roger bent over her. “You’re alive!”

“Aye, Roger.”

He lowered himself to one knee at her side. “You shouldn’t have run off the way you did. I would have protected you.” He shot a resentful glance in Anvrai’s direction.

“Tillie…Is she—”

“Right here,” Anvrai said. “Safe.”

Anvrai stepped back, giving Tillie room to get close to Isabel. “My lady…” she gasped. “Your leg!”

Isabel’s injured leg lay exposed, and the dressing became bloodier as they all stood hovering ’round her.

“She is still bleeding,” cried Tillie, visibly shaken by Isabel’s condition. “Can you help her?”

Isabel moistened her lips. “Mayhap we should allow Sir Anvrai to…”

Roger stalked away, giving Anvrai the space he needed.

“Oh, aye, my lady!” cried Tillie as she shifted out of the way. Anvrai knelt beside her and gently removed the bandage, but Isabel grabbed hold of his arm and held on tightly as he worked.

He did not mind the sharpness of her nails in
his skin. It reminded him of her feisty spirit—of the fire deep inside her that had kept her going through the night on the river and all the nights in the cave when she’d fretted over Roger. It had gotten her this far, and he prayed it would help her to survive this last insult.

“Ingeld, have you any medicines?”

“Some…You are welcome to all there is.” He opened a trunk on the far side of the room and took out a small wooden casket. This he handed to Anvrai. “I will take my leave of you now. Stay here in my chambers with my blessing and use whatever you may find.”

“My thanks to you, Ingeld,” he said, grateful for the Saxon’s unexpected generosity.

Tillie made a place to lay her sleeping child. And, as Anvrai tended Isabel, he was vaguely aware of the girl busying herself with meal preparations.

“Roger,” Anvrai said, “go out and get the mattress off the cart for Tillie and Belle before the rain comes.”

They passed the evening much as they had in Tillie’s cottage, although they had much more space. Roger went to sleep in the priest’s anteroom, lying upon a settee, while Tillie fed her bairn and settled down to sleep near Isabel.

Anvrai brought one of the priest’s chairs close to Isabel’s bedside and stayed with her
while she slept. ’Twas a deep sleep, and he worried about her as night deepened, and the firelight flickered over her pale features.

The hours passed, and she became restless as she tried to move into a comfortable position. Anvrai crouched beside the bed and took her hand. “Isabel, try to rest,” he said quietly.

She opened her eyes at the sound of his voice. At first she seemed confused, but her expression soon cleared. “I remember now.”

He put his hand upon her brow but felt no fever. She shifted again and grimaced in pain.

Would that he had been the one injured. One more scar on his marked body would not have mattered. His muscles were more dense than Isabel’s, too. The depth of the wound would not have been so significant in his own thigh.

He poured some of the priest’s ale into a mug and helped her to raise her head. “Drink.”

Isabel slid her hands ’round his as he held the cup to her lips, and she took a few sips. Anvrai encouraged her to finish the mug. A bit of drunkenness would serve her well.

She opened the laces on the tunic she wore over her chemise. “Help me, Anvrai.”

She leaned forward and started to pull off the only garment that covered her adequately. Without it, she would be practically naked.

“Isabel, rest easy.”

“’Tis uncomfortable.”

He slipped the tunic off her arms and could not help but remember the last time he’d done so. Had it only been two nights since he’d held her in his arms and made love to her?

With a whimper of pain, she slid over to make room for him to sit beside her. “I would have told this tale differently,” said Isabel.

“Aye…we would never have been taken from Kettwyck.”

“No, our abduction must be a part of it, else I would never have met you.”

She was heading down a path they could not take. ’Twas torture enough that she lay nearly naked beneath the blanket. “Have you always been a bard?” he asked, intentionally changing the direction of the conversation. He thought of their night together constantly, aware that it could not be repeated. It had been rash and irresponsible to indulge her fear that they might perish during their journey, treating that night as if it might be their last.

’Twas only because he’d wanted her, not because of any fear he felt in facing their journey home. She drank more ale and the blanket slid to her waist, exposing her bare shoulders and her breasts, visible through the chemise.

Isabel curled one hand over his knee, and Anvrai forced himself to ignore the stirring in
his groin. He pulled the blanket up to her neck, silently chastising himself for feeling such arousal while Isabel lay gravely wounded.

“I only started telling tales when I first went to the abbey with Kathryn,” said Isabel. “She is merely one year younger than I, but she missed home—our mother—so I told her the tales I’d heard as a child. Stories of St. Martin de Tours, of St. Eligius. They calmed her. And then the abbess sent the other young girls to me when they were sad.”

“They must have been dull tales,” he teased.

Isabel smiled. “Not the way I told them.”

Anvrai could well imagine the details she’d added to the staid and proper stories of the saints. When she closed her eyes, Anvrai thought she’d fallen asleep again. But she spoke again, her voice soft and tentative. “Will I ever see Kathryn again?”

“I don’t know, Isabel. I’ll do all I can to get you home to Kettwyck. And then…” He shrugged. “I can make no further promises.”

She relaxed, but did not move her hand from his knee. Her touch was sweet torture. “What is this place?”

“A church,” he replied, wishing he did not feel such a strong desire to slide into the bed with her, to press his face into her hair and hold her close.

Isabel heard voices outside. The fire had died down, and morning had already dawned. She’d slept fitfully most of the night but had managed to keep quiet so that Anvrai could rest.

Soon the voices woke him, and he stood abruptly, drawing his sword. A sharp rap at the door in the next room roused Roger and Tillie from sleep, and Isabel tried to scramble out of the bed in spite of the burning pain in her thigh. “Lie still,” Anvrai said.

“Sir Anvrai, ’tis Ingeld,” the man called.

Isabel recalled the name…’Twas the priest who’d given them sanctuary. Drawing the blanket up to her chin, she waited alone when Anvrai went into the adjoining room and opened the door.

The men exchanged a few quiet words that Isabel could not discern, but it sounded as if several people had entered the room and closed the door behind them. A moment later, Anvrai reappeared at her side with a tall Scottish warrior following close behind.

The priest came next, escorting a fair-haired young woman at his side. “Your Majesty, Lady Isabel. My lady, I bring you Margaret, Queen of Scotland.”

Isabel made another attempt to get out of the
bed, at the same time, holding the blanket decently before her. But Queen Margaret stopped her this time. “Pray, remain in your bed, Lady Isabel.”

The queen wore a gown dyed a rich blue color, trimmed with fur at the cuffs and neck, and gathered discreetly beneath her bosom over a belly quite round with child.

“Father Ingeld told us of your unfortunate injury,” she said.

Isabel gave a shrug and wished she did not look so ragged. ’Twas not fair that she should meet the Scottish queen while wearing only a tattered chemise.

“’Tis not our habit to attack unsuspecting travelers.” She turned to Anvrai. “Sheathe your sword, Sir Knight. I’ve only come to make amends.”

Anvrai placed his sword upon the bed beside Isabel, but he did not relax, and Isabel thought he might pick it up again when two more men entered the chamber, carrying a large wooden chest.