The Bride Hunt (18 page)

“Please accept these items, Lady Isabel…And come to Dunfermline, to the tower, where you shall enjoy the king’s hospitality.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” said Anvrai. “As soon as Lady Isabel is able to travel, I will take her to Dunfermline. For now, we will remain
here, if Ingeld can accommodate us another night or two.”

“Of course—”

Roger pushed past the guards and came into the room. “But there is no reason why
I
cannot go with you, Your Majesty. We needn’t all remain here. ’Tis too crowded.”

In spite of the strange clothes he wore, Roger still managed to look handsome, and the queen succumbed to his boyish charm when he smiled and made a courtly bow.

Isabel could barely believe she’d once been susceptible to his airs, too. She slid her hand into Anvrai’s. He squeezed it once, then went to the door and stood near Tillie when Queen Margaret approached Isabel’s bedside and placed her hand upon her shoulder. “I am truly sorry for this mishap, Lady Isabel. I fear my guards are too nervous about my safety. I will send my physician to see to you presently, but please come to me as soon as you are able.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty, I will.”

“In the meantime, I’ll steal young Roger away from you and leave you in Sir Anvrai’s capable hands.”

Roger followed the queen and closed the door behind him. He said naught to Isabel—not farewell, not even the basic courtesy of inquiring about her wound. There was silence in
the chamber when they’d gone, and Isabel felt only relief at their departure.

Holding Belle, Tillie came to her then. “What can I do to help you, my lady?” she asked. “Your leg…Is it—”

“Painful? Aye. But I must get up. Where is the privy?”

A
nvrai felt helpless. It was as bad—or even worse—than when he was chained in the Scottish enclosure and could do naught. Isabel was in pain. Every grimace, every muffled moan cut him to the depths of his soul. He should have protected her.

He opened the trunk that had been carried in by the queen’s men and found a trove of women’s clothing.

“Let me see,” Isabel said. ’Twas clear that every movement she made hurt her wound, but her curiosity won out over the pain.

“’Tis new clothes for you.” He lifted a dark red kirtle for her to see, then a linen underkirtle, followed by a delicate linen chemise. Woolen
hose and garters followed, and a pair of stylish shoes. There were more clothes in the trunk, presumably for Tillie. At the bottom were two oversized tunics, along with braies and chausses meant for him.

Anvrai looked up at Isabel and saw the glint of tears in her eyes. He frowned. “What’s amiss? Aren’t these—”

“I need a bath. I cannot wear such finery in this state.” She sniffled and tried to hold back her tears, but they streamed down her face, in spite of her efforts to contain them.

“Aye, Isabel, we all do,” he said, puzzled by her sadness. “But are these not suitable replacements for the rags you wear?”

She nodded and lay back, closing her eyes to sleep. Anvrai left the bedchamber and went into the next room where Tillie sat quietly, nursing Belle. “There are clothes for you in the trunk brought by the queen,” he told her as he went through the door and walked outside.

The inability to help Isabel grated upon him. The priest’s store of medicines was poor indeed, and besides the sharp needle and silk thread he’d used to sew Isabel’s wound, there was little else of use.

Fortunately, ’twas not long before another entourage appeared, bringing the king’s physician, another Saxon. Desmond was a
wizened old man in black robes and a long, gray beard, and looked like a personage from one of Isabel’s tales. He came with three guards, along with two Norman noblemen, and one lady.

They approached the church and dismounted, with one of the noblemen assisting the richly dressed lady. They looked at him with interest and none of the revulsion that usually met him. He wondered if it was because the worst of his scars were concealed under the patch.

“Sir Anvrai!”

The elder of the two noblemen approached, extending his hand openly. “I am Robert de Montaigu, and this is Lady Symonne de Montbray.” Anvrai bowed over Lady Symonne’s hand and was introduced next to Honfroi de Vesli.

“Where is the injured lady?” the physician inquired, clearly impatient with the niceties. He carried a large satchel of tawny leather, the strap of which he’d slung over one shoulder.

“By all means,” said Lord Honfroi with a flourish, “we should see to the wounded one.”

“You are Normans,” Anvrai said. He crossed his arms over his chest and barred their passage into the priest’s quarters. No one
would enter until he understood the reason for their presence. “How do you come to be at Dunfermline?”

The lady came forward. “Sir Anvrai, there are many more of us in King Malcolm’s stronghold. We have come for one reason or another—”

“Mostly because we have been disaffected by King William. Here we await his renewed approval,” said Honfroi.

“Or a change in policy that will allow for our return to our estates,” Robert added.

“We intend no harm, Sir Anvrai,” said Lady Symonne. “Only to welcome you and Lady Isabel to our small enclave here.”

The Scottish guards remained impassive, and since Anvrai could detect no dissimulation in the Normans’ speech, he stood aside and allowed them to enter.

He led the physician to the bedchamber, where Isabel lay with her eyes closed. Desmond went into the room and placed his bag upon the chair beside the bed. Anvrai touched Isabel’s hand. “My lady…”

He was careful to show no undue familiarity with Isabel, to provide no tales for these courtiers to carry back with them.

Isabel opened her eyes and smiled, but her
features crumpled with pain when she moved. “The physician is here to look at you,” Anvrai said. Desmond folded the blanket away from her leg, and Anvrai turned to push the Norman onlookers out of the room, closing the door behind them. He did not appreciate their prying eyes.

The healer unwrapped the cloth Anvrai had used to bind Isabel’s leg. “Hand me a lamp,” he said.

Anvrai brought the lamp from the table and gave it to the man, who held it close in order to examine the wound.

Isabel cried out when he prodded it, and Anvrai took her hand in his. She turned her head to press her face against their clasped hands. In spite of his resolve to show no particular devotion to her, Anvrai threaded his fingers through her hair and caressed the back of her head as she strained to keep still.

“The stitches will hold nicely, I think,” said Desmond, seemingly oblivious to the bond that surged between Anvrai and Isabel. “How far did the arrow penetrate? Did it lodge in the bone?”

Isabel shuddered.

“I don’t think so,” Anvrai replied.

“Well, you would have known it,” said Desmond. He took out several small crocks and
two pouches and set them upon the table. He poured powder from one of the pouches onto Isabel’s wound. “Have you any warm water?”

“Aye. I’ll get it.”

“Bring clean cloths.”

Isabel released Anvrai’s hand, and he went into the anteroom, where Tillie had made herself scarce, standing quietly in a corner with Belle’s face at her shoulder. She was clearly uncomfortable among the Norman nobles, so Anvrai asked her to fetch him some clean bandages while he removed a large pot of water from the fireplace. He brought Tillie into the bedchamber with him.

Anvrai followed Desmond’s instructions, adding some cool water to the hot, then took a thick cloth, soaked it, and placed it upon Isabel’s leg where the doctor already spread a dark salve.

“I’ll leave these medicines with you,” he said, and he held up each one to Anvrai, describing its contents, and how to use them. “Healing of this sort is a delicate process. ’Twould be best if you returned to the tower with me. The queen has made a chamber ready for you.”

“No!” Isabel implored. “I…’Tis restful here, and I’d rather…not travel until my leg has healed.”

Desmond nodded. “There is something to be said for tranquillity.” He poured some water into a mug and added a small measure of powder to it from one of the crocks. “Drink this. ’Twill help you to rest.” He turned to Anvrai. “If there is any difficulty, the queen requires that you send for me. Please do not hesitate.”

He started for the door, but turned before opening it. “Those who came with me…They will wish to meet you before we return to the tower.”

Isabel glanced at Anvrai. He would have preferred to send them away and let Isabel rest, but he sensed it was important to maintain friendly relations with the Normans in the queen’s court. “They are Normans,” he said to her, “visitors to King Malcolm’s domain.”

Isabel nodded as though she understood his reasoning without even hearing it.

Desmond opened the door and beckoned to the Normans, who came in without hesitation, with Lady Symonne first. She went directly to Isabel’s bed and took her hand. “You poor thing,” she said. “What an ordeal you’ve endured!”

“I thank you, uh…”

The lady introduced herself and her companions, and they talked quietly with Isabel of their mutual acquaintances in England and France and their difficulties with King William.
Isabel tired rapidly, and just as Anvrai was about to ask the visitors to depart, Lady Symonne voiced her intention to do just that. “We will take our leave of you, Lady Isabel. But only for now. As soon as you are well, you must join us at Dunfermline. ’Tis quite civilized.”

Isabel drifted into a sound sleep when the Normans departed, and Anvrai, too, left her bedchamber. Tillie came out with him and laid Belle upon the mattress. Then she began to tidy the room, sweeping the dust from the floor.

“I’m going hunting,” he said, too restless to remain indoors and idle. “I’ll be back soon.”

He gathered what he needed from the back of the old cart they’d dragged from Tillie’s cottage and headed into the forest. Isabel’s encounter with the highborn Normans had solidified his resolve to keep his distance from her. Once her leg was healed and they went to Dunfermline Tower, she would have the company of Roger and the rest of the noble Normans who had gathered there.

With Queen Margaret’s assistance, she would be able to return to her family and go through with her plans for marriage. Soon she would have no need of him.

Anvrai took to the eastward path toward Dunfermline and wondered if the queen knew her husband was about to join battle against
King William’s forces. He followed the path until it turned into a road, then hiked into the forest and continued on, intent upon approaching the tower unnoticed.

’Twas not long before he could smell the sea. Though he was no expert on waterfowl, he knew the large birds circling overhead were seabirds. When he reached a cliff that rose well over the water, he walked near the edge until he saw King Malcolm’s hall.

From a distance, it appeared to rise directly from the rock, high above the sea, and the forest surrounded it on all the other sides. ’Twas practically unapproachable, except by one narrow road leading to a stout gate that guarded the entire compound.

Anvrai retraced his steps and returned to the area surrounding the church, setting snares, whiling the afternoon away. When he returned, he washed himself at the church’s well, then drew up a bucket of water and carried it inside. The priest’s quarters were immaculate. It looked as if Tillie had washed and scrubbed every surface. “Have you seen a bathing tub?” he asked her.

“No. But the priest would surely have one. Outside?”

Anvrai looked ’round the outer walls of the church and discovered a sizable cupboard lean
ing against the east wall. Inside were three shelves that contained several tools, and at the bottom was a washtub large enough to use for bathing.

He carried the tub inside and set it in the bedchamber near the fire as Isabel continued to sleep. He spent the next hour carrying water, heating it to boiling, then adding it to the tub.

“I found soap,” Tillie whispered, handing him a thick, unscented cake.

He took the last pot of hot water to the bedchamber and poured it into the tub.

“Anvrai?” Isabel wakened gradually. Her earlier sadness was still on her face, and she tightened her lips together. Her eyes were sleepy, but clear.

Anvrai tested the water. “Your bath, my lady.”

She caught sight of the tub of steaming water and her eyes glinted with tears. Anvrai crossed to her bedside, crouching down beside her. “I thought this would make you happy. Why do you weep?”

Isabel lifted a hand to his face and touched him, softly running her thumb from his nose to his cheek. “It
does
make me happy. Will you help me?”

He’d intended to have Tillie do it, but Anvrai could not refuse her request. He nodded and
closed the door to the other room, where Tillie had lain down with her bairn to rest. He turned back to Isabel and saw her trying awkwardly to remove her chemise.

He swallowed and turned away. He had to brace himself for the sight of her, for the feel of her body in his arms when he carried her to the tub.

Casually lighting the candles, Anvrai told himself he could do this. Their sojourn was nearly over. When Isabel’s wound was healed, Queen Margaret would see that they were suitably equipped to travel to English lands.

He turned abruptly when he heard Isabel attempting to leave the bed. She made a small sound of distress and would have fallen had Anvrai not moved quickly to catch her. She dropped the blanket as well as the poultice on her leg as he lifted her into his arms, and he carried her to the tub, painfully conscious of her nakedness.

He would get her into the tub and leave.

With care, he lowered her into the water. She closed her eyes and sighed, leaning her head back against the edge of the tub. Anvrai had never seen such a sensual display, and could not keep himself from drinking in the sight of her in spite of his intention to depart.

His body clenched tight with arousal, but he
stepped away, turning from the sight of her breasts peeking out from the clear water, and the long, smooth length of her legs, bent at the knee, fully exposed for him to see. Not even the black stitches that marred her thigh could detract from her loveliness.

“’Tis heaven, even without soap,” she said. And Anvrai’s wits returned sufficiently to remember the cake he’d put on the mantel.

She ducked her head under the water, fully immersing herself as he went for the soap. When she emerged, he handed it to her and would have left, but she waylaid him once again. “Anvrai, I need help.”

The warm water soothed the relentless pain in Isabel’s leg but did naught to ease her disappointment that Anvrai was so anxious to leave her. He looked like a dangerous rogue with the patch covering his damaged eye, intimidating in size but hardly unpleasant to look upon.

She took a deep, quivering breath and leaned forward, pulling her hair over her shoulder. “Wash my back?”

He flashed a quick look to the door but filled his lungs with air, then knelt beside the tub, took the soap from her, and lathered his hands. Gently, he rubbed her shoulder, then ran his soap-slicked hands down her back. He re
peated the motion, and though she’d moved her arms forward, he carefully avoided contact with the sides of her breasts, treating her as though she were some fragile treasure.

But she was not fragile. The pain in her thigh had subsided to a dull ache ever since the physician had treated the wound.

He dropped his hands into the water to rinse them, and Isabel feared he would leave. “Will you help me with my hair?”

“Isabel, I—”

“I don’t think I c-can do it alone.” She picked up the soap and started to work it into her hair. His voice sounded strange, and Isabel realized he was not unaffected, as she’d thought. She turned her body slightly, in order to face him, and raised her hands to her hair.