The Marriage Bed (The Medieval Knights Series) (37 page)

Isabel gasped and turned her head from the sight, fighting the sudden upthrust of nausea that roiled within her. "Richard, nay!" she cried, her voice a moan of horror.

Her voice, coming to him, piercing through his animal rage, checked his hand. He heard the pain in her cry and knew in that instant that if he did not stop his torment of Nicholas, 'twould be Isabel he tortured and not the man who stood bleeding in front of him. His revenge against Nicholas stood as nothing against his need to protect Isabel.

Without hesitation, he slammed his sword into Nicholas's other eye, piercing the brain. Nicholas, his reason gone, stood for a moment, just an instant, and in that instant Richard said, "Isabel is mine." With that, Nicholas, who had cast his eyes upon a prize he could not touch, fell to the ground with the heavy thud of man and mail and blood.

Turning, Richard looked at her, kneeling in the mud by a boy gone white and silent with pain and blood loss. Her eyes were as dark as the earth, her hair the color of sodden bark, her skin the flawless white of cloud; she watched him and he saw her fear. She was as still as Edmund and as silent, her eyes glistening with the same overriding terror as when he had delivered her from Adam's touch. The violence of battle assaulted her; she could not bear the sight of death. Warm skin and soothing words would ease her.

"'Tis done, Isabel," he said, hurrying to her. "All is well."

She watched him come, her eyes wide. He enveloped her in his arms, slipping his hands beneath her cloak... and felt her nudity. Pulling back from her, his hands holding firmly the edges of the cloak, he frowned and said, "It appears I must beat you, after all." Soothing words they were not, but why was she wet and naked?

Isabel snuggled within his arms and said with a trembling smile, "Did I not say I could disrobe as well as you?" She pressed her face against his chest, her nose cold and wet. He held her to him, giving her his warmth and the proof of his life.

“The boy?" he asked, looking down at his squire.

"Shot through," she said, pulling away from him, remembering her duty
as
Lady of Dornei. "We must get Edmund home and dry and warm. He wants better care than a cold, wet field and the remains of my shift."

That answered as to her nudity and he could not fault her; her duty had been clear, but he thanked God for Rowland's cloak.

She need not have spoken; Rowland had lifted Edmund into his arms and was carrying him to William, who sat upon his horse. Gently he laid the boy in William's arms and, as one, they rode softly for Dornei. No time was spent in straightening the sopping mess of her bliaut; Edmund could not wait for a woman to do her toilette in the rain. Her gown was draped over Rowland's mount, as wet and muddy as her long-abandoned cloak surely was.

"The archer?" Richard asked as they rode.

"Dispatched," Rowland said. "'Twas only the two of them. They did not expect much opposition, it appears."

'Twas said playfully, and Richard took his meaning. "They did not expect a monk to much hinder them in their plans."

"I expect, had they faced a monk, their expectations would have been met. 'Twas their misfortune that they chose to stand against Richard of the Swift Sword," William said.

"As to that," Isabel interrupted, "how did you unhorse Nicholas?"

Richard smiled and shrugged. "I have learned by hard experience that Isabel of Dornei does not relish the realities of combat. Let it be said only that I did unhorse him."

"But—"

"You did not doubt me, did you, Isabel?" he asked, looking askance at her through the gloom of rain and dusk. "You trusted in my ability to best a knight whose fighting style I well understood and whose cause was so wicked?"

What answer could she give? Could she admit that she had thought her husband incapable of armed combat? Could she give public voice to her belief that Richard would pray away his foes? Nay, she could not, not when her own fears so shamed her. How could she have doubted Richard?

"Doubt you?" she said lightly. "I have been warned against doubting you, Richard, and most recently. I believe you capable of anything."

"A belief well founded in fact, Lady." he said.

"How far until we reach Dornei?" William asked. "The boy starts to feel his wound."

"Moments now," Richard answered. "There, the torch is seen through the trees. The plain is before us."

"Do not hurry, Lord William," Isabel instructed. "Better slowly and carefully, his bleeding stilled, than to hurry to escape the rain."

"Ulrich," William called. The squire and Elsbeth, on William's authority, had kept well back during Richard's battle. Once all was safe, Ulrich had been allowed to return. He had taken his charge most seriously; Elsbeth he had guarded with his life. "Ride on and tell Dornei of our coming. Do not abandon your lady in your race to serve."

"Never, my lord," he answered, only slightly affronted. "Shall I return?"

"Nay, stay and have water heated, the fires stoked," William said. "Your pardon," he said, nodding to Richard. "I did not mean to overstep my place."

"You have not," Richard said. "Your instruction is sound. The boy must be warmed, the cauterizing iron prepared. How does he fare?"

"He trembles," William said. "I fear a fever."

"Nay," Isabel said, drawing her horse near. "It is only the cold and the shock, I think. 'Tis too soon for fever. Ride on, Ulrich, and take Elsbeth with you. Elsbeth, you know what must be done. I will stay with Edmund."

"I have no fever," Edmund protested. "I do not like being carried like a babe. I can ride."

"What you like does not pertain," Richard said. "Lie still and learn the merits of submission."

"I see no merit in being carried," Edmund mumbled.

Richard smiled. "The merits of submission are not easily nor pleasantly learned. That is the first lesson."

They left the wood track and were on the plain. Dornei rose black against the stormy sky, the glow of firelight warm and welcome in a sky wet and cold. Isabel clutched Rowland's cloak about her nakedness. How was she to enter Dornei thus attired? She felt as naked as she was; surely someone would note her lack of aught but cloak, and that cloak not her own.

"Richard," she whispered on a hiss of sound. "Richard!"

Richard turned to her, his face white in the darkness that now enveloped them completely; only Dornei glowed in all that dark night. A moment he paused and then he smiled. She could see it, full and bright; he could not deny that he was laughing at her.

He did not even try.

“Cold, Isabel?" he laughed.

"'Tis naught to laugh at! What will be thought to see me thus?" The talk had run so wild when Adam had trapped her in the barbican; what would be surmised when it was seen that she rode through the night unclothed?

"What care you what people think? You were never of a mind for that."

"I am Lady of Dornei. I must have a care—"

"Nay, Isabel, you are Richard's woman, and Richard finds you very pleasing in your borrowed cloak. Hold up your head, as is your natural way," he chuckled, "and ride into your holding with all the dignity of your place."

"There is little dignity in a sodden cloak," she mumbled.

"Isabel," he said seriously, "you have all the dignity you shall ever require in your very nature. Head high, my wife. You do good service. Edmund's need is sharp, and there is not time for you to dress."

‘Twas true. Would she imperil Edmund for the sake of her pride? 'Twas not a question worth the time in asking.

The gates of Dornei were open; Ulrich had done his work. She kept her eyes on William, who led them in, and pulled her cloak tight with a clenched fist. All was quiet; no eyes pried to see beneath her cloak. Through the barbican they passed and into the inner bailey. Ulrich waited at the base of the stair tower, Gilbert at his side. The men on the curtain wall kept their eyes to the invisible horizon.

Ulrich had, indeed, done his work.

"My thanks, Ulrich. You have indeed held my reputation in your hands and have guarded it well," she said when she had dismounted. "You are a most efficient, most honorable squire."

“Thank you. Lady," he smiled, ducking his head against her compliment. "Elsbeth has prepared the room she shares with Aelis to cosset Edmund."

Edmund moaned. Isabel was not entirely certain his distress was physical in nature.

Gilbert took the lad and carried him up; Isabel swiftly followed. Richard and his guests remained in the hall, leaving her to her duty. The cauterizing iron awaited.

* * *

The men stood by the massive fire in the hall, drinking their ale in silent companionship. The light played against their skin, shadows of yellow and red that displayed the curve of cheek and the line of jaw but left their eyes in shadows of black. The strong smell of wood smoke was especially fragrant after an afternoon in the rain of a cold spring. Their clothing steamed, droplets falling to the rush-covered floor to be quickly absorbed. They were well content.

"She seemed to have some skill with wounds," Rowland remarked placidly, facing the fire.

"She is most skilled," Richard said. "In all of Malton, she was unequalled in her talent. Edmund will recover," he said.

"How bad was it?" William asked.

"Bad," Rowland said. "The wound was straight, but just above the hip. A wound like that can quickly turn foul."

"Isabel has seen worse," Richard said.

"As have I," Rowland said. "She let him bleed out. He will be weak."

"He could be lame," William said, keeping his face to the fire. "Or worse."

Richard said nothing. Edmund was a bright lad, quick to learn and eager to excel; he deserved a kinder end than disfigurement. Isabel would do all she could, and Richard had great trust in her ability, yet there was something more which could be done.

"The chapel awaits." he said to his friends. "The Lord awaits our prayers on Edmund's behalf."

* * *

She found him there, kneeling in silent prayer, his warrior comrades by his side. Where else to look for Richard but at the altar of God?

He turned at her approach, read her look, and shrugged. Where else, indeed?

"How is he?" he asked.

"Well," she answered, watching him rise to his feet. "The wound is closed and dry. Tomorrow will tell us more, but he can move his legs, and so that fear is past."

Richard smiled his thanks to God and to his wife.

Had ever such a man knelt before God? His eyes were the blue-black of stormy dusk, his hands heavy with veins and torn with open wounds, the gifts of his knight's training, like Christ's had been upon His cross, signs of His gift of love. As Richard's hands were. He fought for her, always and only for her, for Dornei and for the legacy of her womb; it was all she had dreamed, yet it eclipsed all she had imagined love to be. He gave and gave and gave again, relinquishing whatever dream he had for his life. All for Isabel.

"Does he sleep?" William asked.

Isabel forced her eyes from her husband's face and answered, "Sleep? Nay. I think he would retreat into the silence and solitude of sleep if he had his way, but Aelis and Elsbeth and even Ulrich hover so close about him that he cannot escape. He has made his name among them and must stay awake to hear their praise. They insist."

"You left him to that?" Richard said. "How, when you know that he—"

"He insisted." She smiled. "How often will he be so o'erwashed by praise? Nay, let him have his time. It comes too rarely in this life that we hear such praise."

The men smiled and nodded, and as a body they left the chapel, Father Langfrid with them. The hall was full when they did enter it, full and loud and bright with firelight. It was well that she had changed into a bliaut of palest blue with black embroidery trailing like a vine along the bell of her sleeve. It was good to be warm and so well covered after being wet and cold for so long.

"I would see Edmund," Richard said softly to her, his hand upon her arm. "Enjoy the fire," he directed William and Rowland. "We will return anon and would listen to your tales of walking the Way of the Cross."

"As you will," William replied with a smile which was echoed fully on Rowland's face. "We will await your return."

When Richard and his wife had flown halfway across the hall, William said in an aside to Rowland, "Think you he will return before the Morrow Mass?"

"With Edmund's wounding, we have lost the chance to test our wager against Aelis. Should another wager be struck, I would lay that we will not see Richard until Sext."

"So late? He has impressed you with his stamina," William said thoughtfully, stroking his chin.

"Nay, it is his... willingness to pleasure his wife which has impressed me." Rowland grinned.

"Ah." William nodded. "I cannot argue it. But I would lay that he will be among us for Terce. He is a man of monkish habits, a prayerful man."

"A married man, first and last," Rowland argued.

“The same wager as before?"

"Done," Rowland agreed.

And both men smiled, certain of one thing. They would not be telling tales of battle to Richard anytime soon.

* * *

Isabel found herself ushered across the hall, her steps hardly able to keep pace with her husband's. "He will not fly off; we need not hurry," she said.

"Does not Isabel always hurry? I but keep pace with you," Richard argued with a grin.

They were up the darkened stair tower, Isabel's breathing labored and sharp to her own ears, and into the chamber that sheltered Edmund. It was as she had said; he was well attended by Elsbeth and Aelis, even Ulrich doing his part.

"I did nothing, I tell you," Edmund protested. "Except to find my way into the path of an arrow."

"You performed your service to your lord," Ulrich stated with staunch authority. "It is the highest honor, and you did not fail."

"He did not have benefit of his shield," Edmund grumbled.

"He did not require it," Richard inserted.

All turned to him upon the words, the girls dropping into graceful curtseys and Ulrich bowing from the waist.

"My Lord Richard," Edmund said, his cheeks flushed in excitement, fever, or embarrassment. "I did not attend you as I should—"