The Bride Hunt (20 page)

The bedchamber was different. It took her a few moments to realize she was not in the priest’s quarters; nor was she alone as she’d first thought. Tillie lay upon a pallet near the bed with Belle at her side. Mother and child were both asleep.

When had she come here, and why could she not remember?

She pushed strands of damp hair away from her face and realized she’d been perspiring. Her entire body was damp with it, and uncomfortable. Every movement hurt the wound in her thigh. She remembered unending pain searing her flesh, but it was bearable now.

Yearning for a bath of the kind Anvrai had last provided, Isabel contented herself by washing with the warm water standing in a pot on the hearth. She cleaned her teeth, rinsed her mouth, and began to feel refreshed.

Against the far wall was the same trunk that had been sent to the priest’s rooms. Isabel opened it and removed the linen chemise, replacing her damp one with it.

She limped to the fire and added more wood, careful to keep from waking Tillie and the bairn, and wondered where Anvrai was. They had not spent a night apart since their escape from the Scottish village, and ’twas Isabel’s fondest wish never to be apart again.

She had only to convince him ’twas right.

She returned to the bed and lay down again, dozing until a watery daylight streamed through the narrow windows, and Belle awakened, demanding a feeding.

“Tillie, where—?”

Isabel’s question was interrupted by Roger,
who came into the room without knocking first.

“I heard your fever had broken,” he said. “Desmond says the worst is over.”

Where is Anvrai?
she wanted to ask, but she pulled the blanket to her chin and watched Roger approach. He was dressed much as he’d been at Kettwyck, his face clean-shaven and hair nicely trimmed. He was well-groomed and handsome, and she should have felt pleased to see his face. Yet she was not. She knew now that his comely visage hid a hundred faults.

As Anvrai’s fearful one hid a hundred virtues.

“The housemaids will bring you a bath,” he said. “And food soon thereafter.”

“We are at Dunfermline Tower?”

“Of course, Isabel. You were too ill to stay at the church. Anvrai had not the skill to tend you.”

“When?” she asked. “When did he bring me here?”

Roger gave her a sideways glance. “You truly don’t remember…Four days, Isabel. You’ve been feverish and delirious the better part of a week.”

Isabel trained her eyes upon the sky beyond
her window. From her bed, she could see no ground, nor trees, and she swallowed a wave of queasiness when she guessed she must be in a high tower room. ’Twas a gray day with a light rain, if she was not mistaken. And ’twould remain gray until Anvrai came to her. Had it been four days since he’d shared her bed, or more? She had vague memories of Anvrai in this room, holding her hands, touching her brow, speaking softly to her.

And the Saxon physician had come, too. He’d hurt her leg—burning the wound somehow, speaking impatiently as he held her down.

“Tillie will help me to bathe,” she said.

Roger gave a shake of his head. “Isabel, there are other, more experienced maids who—”

“I want Tillie to stay.”

Roger took the few steps to the fireplace. “You are a stubborn woman, Isabel.”

Isabel turned away. Her faults were not Roger’s concern.

The maids entered with a tub, and footmen followed, carrying steaming water into the room. Roger took himself out, and Tillie placed Belle upon the pallet where she lay upon her back, happily kicking her legs and waving her arms.

Isabel raised the hem of her chemise and began to remove the heavy bandage wrapped
’round her thigh. Tillie came to assist. “Sir Anvrai had to cut the threads that bound your wound.”

Isabel pulled off the last layer and saw the angry red wound. She shuddered.

“The old man with the beard warned Sir Anvrai that you would not survive.”

“The physician? Desmond?”

Tillie nodded. “He used many potions on you, each one worse than the last.”

“’Twill be quite a scar.” Though she did not really care. Mayhap Anvrai would see that she was not as fragile as he thought.

“Aye,” Tillie whispered, her voice choked with emotion. “But you are alive, my lady.”

Isabel pulled her close for a tight hug. Tillie clung to her, her small body shaking with emotion. Isabel would never forsake the girl whose fate was likely the same as Kathryn’s. She cleared her throat. “Test the bathwater, will you, Tillie?”

Once they were assured that the water temperature was right, Isabel peeled off her chemise and climbed into the tub. “Where is Sir Anvrai?”

Tillie shrugged her shoulders. “Likely sleeping,” she said. “He’s been here—at your side—the whole time you were insensible.”

The girl’s words reassured her, but Isabel’s
confidence waned when the entire day passed, and Anvrai did not appear. Tillie was pleasant company, working on small sewing and mending projects as she sat with Isabel, but Anvrai’s absence grated upon her.

The next day, Tillie came into Isabel’s bedchamber without Belle. She’d been given a bed in the servants’ quarters, and some of the other women helped to look after the bairn.

“My lady!” she said with excitement. “I am to help you dress!”

“I am already dressed,” Isabel replied, out of sorts.

“Your hair, then. I’ll comb it and arrange it for you. You’re to meet with the queen!”

Isabel had little enthusiasm for going to the hall, but she let Tillie fuss over her hair and gown and felt disappointed when Roger was the one who arrived to carry her down the stairs. “I can walk, Roger.”

“There are a good many steps, Isabel,” he said.

“I’ll manage, albeit slowly.”

At the abbey, she’d learned to avoid her usual dizziness at heights by hugging the stairway wall as she descended a flight of stairs. She did the same now, keeping her eyes averted from the view beyond the gallery even though she was anxious for the sight of Anvrai. Surely
he would be included in her audience with Queen Margaret. She reached the bottom of the stairs and hesitated when she did not see Anvrai in the crowded room.

“The queen awaits you,” Roger said. He guided her to the great hall, where a number of well-dressed ladies and gentlemen stood near the fire, talking quietly among themselves. When the crowd parted, Isabel saw a vacant chair placed across from the fire. Opposite it, the queen sat holding a very young child. Her gown was plain but of good quality. She wore a soft woolen shawl, pinned together at the shoulder with a striking circular brooch of etched gold and a row of dark red garnets across the center.

“Lady Isabel,” she said, smiling beatifically. “I have been praying for your recovery.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty. I am fortunate your prayers were answered.” She attempted a curtsy, but the soreness of her leg prevented it.

“Pray, be seated.” The little boy on the queen’s lap put his thumb in his mouth and leaned back against his mother’s bosom. “My son, Edward,” she said.

“A comely boy.” Gratefully, Isabel lowered herself into the chair. She felt dizzy from her long walk and wished she’d had Anvrai’s strong arm to lean upon.

At least twenty Normans hovered nearby, men and women of all ages. Queen Margaret smiled at Isabel, then spoke to all who were gathered nearby. “Come…Introduce yourselves.”

Roger seemed to be on friendly terms with everyone, and with two comely young ladies in particular. All the Normans introduced themselves and spoke to her, but she barely heard them as she wondered where Anvrai might be.

Had he left for Belmere without telling her?

Panic seized her, and she could barely concentrate on the questions asked. Roger appointed himself her spokesman and answered for her, and Isabel vowed she would find out where Anvrai was, as soon as this audience was done.

“’Tis so dull here in the weeks before All Saints Day,” Margaret said, finally. “We will honor your recovery with a celebration. Cuilén,” she called to a man who stood outside the circle of Normans, “arrange it. Tomorrow, we shall have food, music, wine. ’Twill brighten the dreary days.”

Anvrai watched from a far corner of the hall as Isabel paled and sagged in her chair. She was weary, and Roger should know enough to take her back to her chamber.

The boy hadn’t matured in all this time, after
all that had happened. Anvrai had assumed that the experiences they’d shared would cause him to grow up. Yet there stood the same Roger as the one who’d courted Isabel in her father’s garden.

Mayhap he was pleasing to Isabel again. He looked good, especially since putting some muscle upon his soft frame. And the value of his estates and his alliance with King William had not changed. He was exactly the kind of husband Lord Henri would want for his daughter.

“Sir Anvrai.”

He turned toward the voice and saw Lady Symonne approaching. Wearing a dark cape, she took his arm and covered her hair with the hood. “Come with me.”

Anvrai took a last look at Isabel and went out with Symonne. He followed her across the grounds and ended at the stable. They went inside, where grooms were sweeping and brushing down the animals. “I have something to show you,” she said, leading him to the farthest stall.

A magnificent red roan gelding stood inside. Its nostrils flared when it saw Symonne, and Anvrai reached in and rubbed its muzzle.

“He was bred for covering long distances, swiftly,” Symonne said.

“Aye. His legs are long and powerful.”

She lowered her voice. “He will carry you north, where King William’s forces will meet those of Malcolm. Deliver my message to the king and return before anyone takes note of your absence.”

Anvrai raised one brow. “I thought you had your own messenger.”

She shook her head. “My cousin is not known to William. He is as likely to be killed as he approaches the king’s army as he is to get through with my message. Those are unacceptable odds, now that I have you.”

“Who is to say
I
would not be just as readily killed?”

“Sir Anvrai, they will know you,” she said. “Even I recognized you, although your appearance is certainly not as repulsive…aye, it’s been said your scarred face is terrible.” She brushed aside her insulting words and continued. “You are far more suited to this task than Sir Ranulf.”

Anvrai ran his hand down the supple equine muscles of the horse’s neck, back, and flank while he considered Symonne’s proposition. ’Twas hell, staying there, maintaining his distance from Isabel. She was safe and her wound nearly healed. Within days, she would be well enough to travel again. Whatever happened next was not his concern.

“I’ll need a map,” he said.

A
nother day passed without Anvrai. Isabel dressed carefully for Queen Margaret’s fete, donning a kirtle of crimson with gold trim, and a bliaut of the same gold color. Tillie made intricate plaits in her hair and arranged it into a chignon at the nape of her neck. Surely when Anvrai saw her, he would not wish to avoid her any longer.

Her hopes sank when Roger came to escort her to the hall. Without Anvrai, Isabel had no heart for celebrating.

The music started as they descended the stairs, and there was much laughter and frivolity in the hall. Isabel escaped the dancing because of her injury, and sat beside the queen,
watching Normans and Scottish courtiers socialize together in the hall.

Anvrai was not indifferent to her, yet he had abandoned her, leaving her entirely to Roger. His unspoken message could not have been clearer. He’d said it often enough although Isabel had hoped—

“Doesn’t the meal meet with your satisfaction, Lady Isabel?” the queen asked. She sat upon Isabel’s right, and Roger was on her other side, though he was engaged in lively conversation with the young noblewoman seated beside him.

“I apologize, Your Majesty, I…” she replied. “My appetite must have been affected by my illness.”

Margaret nodded. “At least you find our wine tolerable.”

Isabel looked into her goblet. It had been refilled at least twice, but she could not recall tasting it. “I’m afraid I am not good company this eve,” she said.

“If you are unwell, mayhap you should retire,” said Margaret, her expression full of concern. Though she was merely a few years older than Isabel, her demeanor was almost motherly. “’Twas too soon to bring you into our society. I should have waited.”

“No, I…” She lost her train of thought when
Anvrai entered the hall with Lady Symonne. They would have taken seats at the farthest end of the dais, but Queen Margaret beckoned to them. Anvrai and the Norman woman approached, but he avoided Isabel’s gaze.

They bowed before the queen. “Your Majesty,” Anvrai said, “I beg your leave to ride to Kettwyck. I would inform Lord Henri of his daughter’s well-being and request an escort to take her home.”

He was
that
anxious to leave her. He could not even wait until she was well enough to make the journey with him.

“Hold, Sir Anvrai,” said Roger. “As Lady Isabel’s betrothed…”

“Roger, you are not my—”

“Her Majesty has already given me her permission to go to Kettwyck, then to my own family estates. Lord Henri is not the only grieving father.”

“You might go together and leave Lady Isabel here, with us,” said the queen.

“No.” Both men spoke at once.

Isabel stood, hardly able to contain her anger. To be so dismissed by both men was intolerable. Neither one would choose to remain at Dunfermline with her. Not that she cared what Roger did. She would be happy to be rid of him. But Anvrai…“I beg your leave, Your
Majesty. My thanks for the fine meal and the lively entertainment.”

She escaped the crowded room, expecting neither man to follow her. Although she took the stairs slowly, her leg ached nearly as much as her heart.

Roger was an idiot. The plan Anvrai and Symonne had concocted was in shambles, thanks to him. Riding south to England was the only legitimate reason for leaving Dunfermline, the only reason the queen would give him leave to go.

Anvrai had intended to ride away openly, ostensibly on his way to Kettwyck. When he was out of sight, he would turn north, toward Abernethy, where William’s fleet of ships was located. He could make quick work of his mission to William, then ride home to Belmere. No one at Dunfermline would know.

Not even Isabel.

“We’ll have to send Roger to King William,” Symonne said as she strolled outside beside Anvrai.

“No,” he replied. The boy would never be able to find his way to William’s army, then circle ’round Dunfermline and ride to Kettwyck. He glanced up at Isabel’s chamber window. ’Twas dark inside. He knew she’d been upset
when she’d left the queen, and it had taken all his willpower to keep from going after her.

“You have little confidence in Roger’s abilities,” said Symonne.

He turned his gaze to the ground. ’Twas not his place to give comfort to Isabel, though every pore in his body ached to do so. “We were together under difficult circumstances,” he said to Symonne. “I know him well.”

“Somehow, we must get word to William that King Malcolm’s son travels with him.”

Anvrai nodded, turning his full attention to the matter at hand. Duncan—Malcolm’s son by his first consort—would be a valuable hostage. Knowledge of the boy’s presence, along with information of Malcolm’s army, would tip the advantage to William. Many lives might be saved, both Norman and Scottish, if they could avoid heavy battle.

“Mayhap we can think of a reason for you to be away from Dunfermline for a few days.”

“Symonne, either Roger or I need to stay with Isabel. Dunfermline is enemy territory, and Isabel is Queen Mathilda’s godchild—she would be a valuable counterhostage.”

“Take her with you.”

“No.”

Symonne raised a brow at his abrupt reply.

“’Tis too dangerous,” he said.

“It might be worse for her if she stays.”

Anvrai could not take her from Dunfermline’s walls, putting her in danger again. She was better off here, even if ’twas Roger looking after her. No one was likely to abduct her; nor would she fall victim to any stray arrows.

“I will return before I am missed.”

“I would not be so certain. Queen Margaret is quite astute. ’Tis not easy to fool her.”

’Twas all becoming too complicated, but more important, too dangerous for Isabel. Anvrai knew he could not keep Isabel safe. With war at hand, they were all in peril, and Anvrai had proved himself an unlikely hero.

Isabel’s eyes haunted him. She believed he’d discarded her callously, when that was far from the truth. He wanted her, every minute of every day. Yet he was haunted, too, by the loss of those he’d loved so many years before. Far better to lose Isabel now than risk losing his heart and soul in grief later.

“Mayhap Queen Margaret will reconsider sending Roger to Kettwyck,” he said. “If she knew of Roger’s—”

“She will not change her mind, Anvrai,” said Symonne. “The queen is resolute in her decisions.”

Anvrai disliked subterfuge. If ’twas up to
him, he would ride openly to Abernethy or Stirling, wherever the king’s armies were located.

“I have a thought,” said Symonne, slipping her hand into the crook of Anvrai’s arm. “We will leave Dunfermline together. My husband has a fishing lodge on the beach not far from here. I will let it be known that we are going there for…an assignation.”

Leaving Isabel to think the worst. She would have no choice but to assume his interest in her was no different from what he felt for Symonne.

He disentangled himself from Symonne’s grasp and dragged his fingers through his hair. “There must be some other way—”

“Can you think of any other reason to disappear from Dunfermline?”

He thought. “I could feign illness and keep to my room.”

“What about the servants? And Desmond? The queen would surely command the old sorcerer to look at you. Margaret wants no vassals of King William to meet their demise at Dunfermline. With Malcolm away, Her Majesty is particularly cautious.”

They stopped at the house where Symonne lived.

“And if you disappear with me for days…What will your husband say?”

“Richard? He has little interest in me, but spends many an hour in a drunken stupor. ’Tis the story of my nights. But you, Sir Anvrai…” She stepped closer to him, until her chest met his, and looked up at him. He had only to lean down a few inches and their mouths would meet. “When you return from Abernethy, mayhap we could truly make use of the fishing lodge.”

Anvrai withdrew, uninterested in Symonne’s advances. “’Tis a tempting offer, my lady, but I…” After all he’d shared with Isabel, he would always know the hollowness of such a liaison. “You are wed.” He thought of Isabel’s reaction when she heard tales of him and Symonne and felt an uncomfortable twinge in his chest.

He changed the subject. “Can you get me a token, something that belongs to Queen Margaret?”

“For what purpose?”

“I plan to go to Malcolm, too.” He was no mere errand boy.

Symonne arched her brow.

“Find me an article belonging to the queen. Something personal…mayhap her prayer beads…’Twould give me entrance to the Scots king.”

“And then what?”

“I’ll say I was sent to tell him of King William’s superior forces: his Norman ships in the Tay, his army closing in from Stirling.”

Symonne tipped her head and looked at him in a new light. “Aye. Malcolm would be a fool to engage his army against William’s might. And he is no fool.”

“If I do this,” Anvrai said, “you must promise to see to Isabel’s safety.”

“Aye. We’ll get her away from Dunfermline as soon as she is able to ride.”

“The young maid…” Anvrai said. “Isabel will not leave without Tillie and her child.”

“’Twill make it more complicated, but I will see to that, as well.”

They made plans to meet early the next morn, and Anvrai took his leave. He returned to the tower and climbed the stairs, wishing he could explain all to Isabel, but that would only make things worse. ’Twas far better for her to think the worst of him, and break all connection with him.

Anvrai rode north. The gelding was sure-footed, following the bridle paths at a gallop. He had to trust that Symonne and her cousin would get Isabel safely away from Dunfermline before Queen Margaret learned of his mission and realized Isabel would make a useful counterhostage.

’Twas dark when he reached the king’s army, encamped just east of Stirling.

A number of field tents had been erected in a clearing, and a large canvas structure, one that looked more like a small building than a tent, stood in the center of a camp, guarded by sentries. Anvrai dismounted and led his horse toward the main tent.

“Halt!” called out one of the guards. Several men drew their swords, and Anvrai raised his hands, palms out, to show he wielded no weapon.

“Sir Anvrai!” shouted one who recognized him. “Lower your swords,” he said to the other guards.

The tent flap whipped open and Robert du Bec emerged. “Anvrai,” he said, extending his hand. “’Tis a surprise to see you here. You are far from Belmere.”

“You have no idea,” Anvrai replied. “I bring tidings for King William.”

“Come inside,” Robert said. “We will talk.”

The king sat at a table in the center of the tent, looking over his maps, but glanced up and met Robert and Anvrai with stern curiosity.

“I bring news from Dunfermline, Your Majesty.”

William was nearly as tall as Anvrai, but he carried more bulk upon his bones. His features
were hardened by his iron will and his determination to secure England as his kingdom. It had not been a simple or easy quest.

He placed a weight upon the charts to keep them open and came to his feet to face Anvrai. “
What
news, Anvrai? Speak.”

“Malcolm’s son, Duncan, rides with him to Abernethy.”

William clasped his hands behind his back. While the king paced, Anvrai told him what he knew of Malcolm’s armies and where the Scottish king planned to position them. He took out the map Symonne had given him and described the terrain and what he knew of Malcolm’s strategy.

The king sent Robert to fetch two of his commanders, and when they returned, they studied the maps in their possession and engaged in a discussion of their tactics to win Malcolm’s submission.

“Where is your armor, Anvrai?” William asked at length. “I would have you command my northern flank.”

“Sire, I have no armor. I came to be at Dunfermline only through misadventure.” He gave William a brief summary of his plight, telling him of Isabel’s abduction and her presence in King Malcolm’s tower.

“You speak of the daughter of Henri Louvet?”

“Aye, Your Majesty. The plan is for Sir Ranulf de Montbray to take her away from Dunfermline before Margaret receives word of Malcolm’s defeat.”

King William rubbed a hand over his face. “’Twould not do for any further harm to come to Lady Isabel. My queen would take it amiss.”

As would Anvrai. But he resolved to be out of it. Once he left the king, he would be free to go to Belmere…back to his barracks and the men he commanded. Back to his stark and cheerless existence.

“Roger de Neuville will guarantee Isabel’s safety, will he not?”

“Roger has already ridden to Kettwyck.”

The king frowned. “With Queen Margaret’s leave?”

Anvrai nodded. “He planned to send a Norman escort back to Dunfermline to take Lady Isabel to Kettwyck, but Lady Isabel must be far from Dunfermline before then.”

“There is much you have not told me, Anvrai.”

“Sire, naught is pertinent to the day’s issues. I only hope Lady Isabel is capable of travel before the queen learns of my actions.”

He reached into a leather pouch at his belt and removed the etched-gold and jeweled brooch Symonne had obtained for him. “With your permission, sire, I will take this brooch of
Queen Margaret’s and go to Malcolm—as if sent with a message from the queen.”

William took the brooch into his thick hands and turned it over in his palm. “You say this belongs to the Queen Margaret?”

“Aye, sire.”

He closed the jewelry into his fist and resumed pacing. “And when you gain entrance to Malcolm?”

“I plan to address him as though Queen Margaret sent me…I’ll give him a vast overestimation of your forces and beg him—on the queen’s behalf—to capitulate.”

William considered Anvrai’s proposal. “Aye. If he feels intimidated, he will be less likely to engage in battle. I would vastly prefer to negotiate peacefully with him at this juncture.” He handed the brooch back to Anvrai. “Your plan is sound. But make it believable, Anvrai. When you are finished, return to Dunfermline and collect Lady Isabel. Take her to Durham,” the king commanded. “I will treat with you there.”

“Durham, sire?” The king’s command lifted a weight from Anvrai’s shoulders when he realized he would not have to rely upon anyone else to get Isabel safely from Dunfermline. A few more days’ absence from Belmere would not be amiss.