The Bride Hunt (2 page)

Somewhere in Scotland
One week later

A
nvrai did not waste his breath on curses.

Or prayers.

He had one task to perform, and his future depended upon his success. He glanced to his right, toward the heavy manacle that bound his wrist. ’Twas secured by a chain attached to a stout metal post pounded deep into the ground. His other three limbs were secured in the same way.

Somehow, he had to escape.

The air was cool, but the salt of his sweat stung the wounds that had been inflicted upon
him sometime earlier in the day. He could not remember exactly when he’d been beaten the last time, nor did he know how many days it was since he’d been taken captive by these northern barbarians.

He yanked the chains that bound him, but this action only resulted in a brutal kick in the ribs from one of his captors. Anvrai became very still in his rage. Never had he felt so impotent, so defeated.

He did not even know where he was.

Would that he had never gone to Castle Kettwyck but met with King William’s army at the River Tees instead.

Had it been days or weeks since the banquet celebrating the arrival of Lord Kettwyck’s daughters to his estate? So many of Kettwyck’s knights had been killed in the fray at the castle that it had been left to Anvrai—a visitor—to lead the pursuit of the Scots who’d taken Lady Isabel and her suitor, Sir Roger.

They had gone cautiously, but the Scottish invaders had ambushed them in a deep forest, even dropping from the trees above. Anvrai and his men had been outnumbered and overpowered.

Anvrai could not say whether any of the Norman knights had survived. He only knew he had been beaten unconscious and taken prisoner. Every muscle in his body ached, yet
he did not think any bones but one rib had been broken. Of the various injuries he’d sustained, the stab wound in his shoulder seemed to be the worst, festering and causing an intermittent fever. Anvrai had a vague recollection of being tossed into a rough-hewn wagon and chained to it alongside Roger de Neuville. Where they had taken him, and what had happened to Lady Isabel and the rest of the prisoners was unknown.

The Scots had not murdered him when they’d had their chance, which likely meant they intended to sell him to some remote chieftain who needed a strong back. Anvrai might be lacking one eye, but he was exceptional in size and strength. The Scottish raiders must have decided the trouble of capturing him would be worth the price they would get for him.

Mayhap they just wanted to display him—a trophy of their victory against the Normans.

Anvrai lifted his head and glanced ’round his surroundings, wondering if this place was their final destination or if they would move again when morning came. Between fever and chills, he’d had a disjointed kind of wakefulness since the attack on Kettwyck. He was not certain of anything that had transpired since his capture, but he had some faint recollection of a voyage by sea.

Had he dreamed it? Was he still in Britain? Mayhap they’d sailed to the Hibernian coast.

He did not know if Lady Isabel and Sir Roger were still with him. He hoped they were not. ’Twould be all Anvrai could do to get himself free of the place. He did not want to be responsible for the lady and her young knight, too.

’Twas likely Isabel de St. Marie had already been sold off. She was easily the most winsome lass Anvrai had ever seen, with hair as dark and glossy as a raven’s wing and unusual eyes of gold, ringed by black lashes. True to her kind, she had spared him but the slightest glance upon their meeting at Kettwyck, avoiding too close a look at his damaged face. ’Twas a familiar reaction from those who first met him, though Anvrai had never become accustomed to it. In any case, he could not worry about her just then.

’Twas up to each of them to survive as they might.

When it was nearly dark, one of the guards released Anvrai’s left hand so he could eat the crust of bread they tossed his way and drink from the clay cup that sat upon the ground nearby. ’Twas barely enough to keep a man of Anvrai’s stature alive.

His sore rib and the shoulder wound sent spears of pain through his chest when he
shifted position to eat and drink, but Anvrai had suffered worse pain than that. He had trained himself to ignore most discomforts, and these wounds were no exception. With one hand untied, he might be able to loosen his other bonds and free himself. But the guard was vigilant. As soon as Anvrai began to pull, the Scot stepped on his wrist and held him fast.

Anvrai refused to believe there was naught he could do. Though his usual strength was severely diminished by his injuries, his chance would come. His captors would relax their guard for an instant, and he would strike. He had no doubt he could pull the chains from the earth and free his hands. Once the metal links swung loose, the bloody Scots would have no chance against him.

Lady Isabel de St. Marie refused to cower in fear. She had not survived the past seven days only to collapse.

She and Kathryn had left the Abbey de St. Marie in Rouen and endured the rigors of travel to get to their father’s estate in Britain. They’d withstood a good many hardships to reunite with their parents, but none of their difficulties had been as harrowing as the attack on Castle Kettwyck. So many had died, and Isabel
could not force herself to think what might have happened to her sister or her parents.

Her brutal captors had fought over her. They’d grabbed her and torn her clothes, but their red-bearded leader had stopped them from doing any real damage. ’Twas not that he’d wanted her for himself. He had not accosted her in any way, beyond that which was necessary to keep her on her feet, moving interminably north. Clearly she was being saved for some other purpose.

Isabel was afraid she knew what that purpose might be.

But she was damned if she would allow some distant barbarian to rape her. One way or another, she was going to free herself from these miserable Scots and get away from there.

She had paid close attention to their route as they’d traveled, and knew in what direction Kettwyck lay. Roger was relatively unharmed since he’d had no chance to do battle at the time of their capture. They had not beaten him too badly, unlike Sir Anvrai, who was chained to the ground in the center of this animal pen.

Isabel was certain they’d broken poor Anvrai’s ribs. She knew not what other injuries he’d sustained, but his clothes were stained with his blood—and there was a terrible gash
on his head. A filthy trail of blood cut across his forehead and into his blind eye. His lips were cracked and peeling. And it seemed as if the Scots were intentionally weakening him, starving him into submission.

In spite of his sorry condition, there was no doubt their captors still feared him. While she and Roger had been tied to far corners of a wooden fence with leather bindings, they had secured Sir Anvrai with chains. His arms and legs were staked to the ground, even though he was obviously ill and without weaponry. ’Twould be a miracle if that poor knight managed to do any damage to the vicious Scots.

On the night of the attack, Isabel had thanked God that he’d come to rescue them from the Scots. She had been certain he and the Kettwyck men would defeat the despicable raiders and take her home. Her hopes had been crushed when he’d fallen.

Six others had been taken prisoner with them, and Isabel was grateful neither her sister nor her parents had been among them. Tied together with lengths of rope, they’d stumbled across rough terrain, harassed and beaten by their captors for several days until they’d reached a broad lake. ’Twas there that the captors had split up their prisoners.

Only Isabel, Roger, and Sir Anvrai had been
forced onto the boat that had carried them to this place. In an eerie silence of submission, the others had been herded away from the lake to an unknown destination.

Flocks of sheep grazed on the hillsides surrounding the village, and a few small fishing currachs lined the beach. It would have been a lovely setting had not a crowd of Scotsmen and-women left their cottages to gather and jeer at them through the wooden slats of the enclosure. When their eyes lit upon Sir Anvrai, they talked excitedly among themselves, as though they’d heard tales of the valiant fight he’d mounted against their captors.

It had been impressive. Isabel had seen naught to compare to the captive knight’s prowess in battle. Wielding a massive sword, he’d hewn so many of the marauding Scots that Isabel had lost count of them. ’Twas only when there were four against him and one of those had tangled Anvrai’s feet with a length of rope that he’d finally succumbed. He’d fallen like a mighty oak and taken two of his attackers down with him. They’d kicked and beaten him badly until their red-bearded leader had stopped them, admonishing them in their foreign tongue. ’Twas surprising they had not just killed him, but Isabel soon realized Anvrai had been spared for some reason.

As she had been. Her stomach lurched with a queasy awareness of what would soon happen to her. She knew of rape, had heard the tales of many a saintly woman who had chosen death rather than allow her virginity to be taken. Isabel did not think she had the fortitude to die for her virtue. She could not allow herself to be swept away in a swiftly flowing river. Or jump from a precipice—she was too deathly afraid of heights even to consider standing near a high ledge. And the Scots would never let her near a weapon, so she would not soon be falling upon a sword.

She was trapped, and she had no choice but to submit.

Isabel could not understand why Sir Hugh had not come after her. He commanded all her father’s knights, yet it had been Sir Anvrai leading the Kettwyck men to battle. She blinked back tears when she considered what had likely happened to her father’s retainer and closed her mind to discouraging thoughts of her parents and of her younger sister, Kathryn. Every day, she prayed they’d escaped the invaders, but knew ’twas unlikely she would ever learn their fates.

’Twas going to take a miracle to escape her captors and return to Kettwyck…that, or an exceedingly cunning plan.

A sob of despair escaped her. What did she know of strategies and plans? She’d wanted nothing more than to take her vows at the nunnery, but her father had forbidden it. He had no sons, but he made it clear he intended to gain heirs through his daughters.

He had chosen a husband for Isabel, a nobleman with a great deal of influence in King William’s court. Lord Bernard de Maubenc was a powerful and wealthy man but wholly unacceptable to Isabel. She could not bear the gruff boar of a man who was the same age and stature as her father. If she must take a husband, then he would have to be a gentle soul, a younger man who could appreciate Isabel’s tender sensibilities. After all, she’d lived in the abbey since childhood—she knew little of men and their coarse ways.

After much cajoling, her father had agreed. She would be permitted to choose her own spouse.

Yet it no longer mattered. ’Twas unlikely she and Roger would ever return to Kettwyck unless one of them concocted a successful plan for escape.

If she were safe at home, sitting before Kettwyck’s enormous hearth and regaling her family with a tale of Scottish raids and the capture of a Norman maiden, how would the story
progress? Handsome Roger would certainly be her hero, rescuing her from the terrible fate that awaited her. But when she looked toward her young knight, she knew that was an unlikely end to
this
tale. Poor Roger lay unconscious in the dirt, his wrists securely tied to a post.

A slight movement at the opposite end of the pen caught Isabel’s eye, and she saw that one of Sir Anvrai’s hands was loose. The muscles in his arm flexed, pulling at the chains that bound him, but the thick links did not yield. With a sinking heart, Isabel knew rescue was unlikely to come from that quarter, either.

She would have to see to it herself.

The Scots had brought them north, through dales and over stunted, craggy hills. If Isabel could get herself and the others away from the small village, she was certain she could find their way home. But she was merely a woman and securely tied. As dusk fell over the enclosure, she studied the leather straps that bound her wrists to the post. She’d scraped her skin raw straining against her bonds and knew that was not the way to escape.

An ominous hush came over the enclosure, and Isabel’s hands stilled as she listened to the silence. None of the villagers spoke as her red-bearded captor came into sight. Isabel rose up to her knees and watched him approach with
another man, dark-haired and intense. The two kept their eyes upon her as they walked, and their blatant scrutiny made Isabel’s skin crawl.

The second man was bearded like her captor, but older, with unkempt hair as dark as a sorcerer’s well and piercing black eyes that seemed to strip her bare. He wore woolen leggings and a fur tunic that left bare his chest, along with a goodly portion of his large, greasy belly. Bands of etched steel ringed his thick arms.

Isabel had been mistaken in thinking that Red-Beard was the chieftain. Clearly, the dark-eyed man was the head of the clan, or village. He exuded confidence, making Isabel think of a well-fed wolf in command of his pack.

The women who had stood laughing together just moments ago scattered as the two men entered the enclosure, and Isabel raised her chin and straightened her posture, bolstering herself for whatever might follow. She was, after all, the daughter of Baron Henri Louvet, and godchild of Queen Mathilda herself. She would not be cowed by mere barbarians.

The man with dark eyes grabbed her hair and yanked her head back, causing her to yelp in pain in spite of herself. Then he spoke to Red-Beard, who shook his head and responded in their strange language.

Isabel’s eyes teared with the stinging pain in her scalp, but the dark Scot held her so tightly that she could not have moved or he would have pulled her hair out at the roots. He touched her improperly, skimming his hands over her neck and shoulders. He filled his hands with her breasts and squeezed, but Isabel clenched her jaw tightly and withstood the indignity in silence. But when he slid his hands under her skirts, she kicked him away.