The Norman's Bride

by TERRI BRISBIN

  “Royce. Last night, you told me you were called Royce.” She frowned as she spoke and he realized that all was well. Had his panic shown? He pushed his hair from his face and nodded. He must move away and focus the attention back on her.

  “Shall we try a few more names? Mayhap one will trigger a memory?”

  “I do not think so. Avryl has been doing the same thing each time I wake.”

  “Really?” She nodded slightly, pain still clear on her face. “Would you simply like to pick a name you’d care to be called until we find out who you are?”

  “Isabel sounded nice when Avryl mentioned it.”

  “Well, then, Isabel is it.” He smiled and let the name settle in his mind. “Isabelle.” He repeated the way he used to say his mother’s name.

  “You speak French?” she asked.

  He cleared his throat and nodded. No use denying he spoke the language of the court. Many did, not just the nobles who existed within its hierarchy. He gave away nothing by admitting the truth. Then she shocked him by speaking to him in that language.

  “Have you always lived here?” she asked in flawless French. Then she blinked several times, surprised at the words she’d spoken. “I speak French?” she asked in English once more.

  “Apparently.” He turned the conversation back to her instead. “Do you remember traveling there or speaking it?”

  She—nay, Isabel now—closed her eyes and sat quietly. Myriad emotions crossed her face, none staying for more than an instant. She shook her head. “No.”

  William felt the disappointment as she uttered that single word. Surely, when her injuries healed, her memory would return. Surely.

  “Do not dwell on that. For now, rest and regain your strength.” He stood and prepared the cottage for the night. She said nothing as he moved from spot to spot, placing his sword and sharpening stone on the floor next to his sleeping place and wrapping a rope around the knob on the door.

  “Would you like to sit or should I help you lie back down?”

  “I would stay up for now. Will it disturb your rest?” she asked.

  “Nay. Sit as long as you’d like. I have to work on my sword, so I won’t go to sleep right away.”

  He sat down and gathered his tools closer. Wrapping the well-oiled cloth around the blade of his sword, he wiped it clean. Then he picked up the stone and began to smooth away any roughness caused in the day’s practice. Over and over, he slid the stone down the length of the sword in even strokes, putting a fine edge onto the steel of the weapon.

  The movements tended to soothe her as she watched the motion of his hand and the sword in the shadows thrown off by the hearth’s low flames and allowed her thoughts to roam more freely. She had many questions she wanted to ask him but feared interrupting his work. He had already done so much for her and the last thing she wanted was to annoy him.

  “I am not tired,” she whispered across the room. Her black hair fell over her shoulders as she shook her head.

  Royce looked over at her and nodded, his movements never slowing or altering. “You have slept much in these last weeks. I am certain that some restlessness must be expected as you heal.”

  Restlessness? Was that what she felt? Although she knew he would not hurt her, a measure of absolute panic ran through her. How could she not know her own name? Could someone survive in this state, never coming back to themselves? The shiver of fear ran deep and threatened her hard-fought-for control.

  “Are you cold?” he asked, putting his weapon aside and beginning to stand. “Let me build the fire up.”

  She raised her hand to stop him. It took all her strength to move it, but she was pleased to know her body was coming back under her power.

  “I am not cold. And I do not want to disturb your work.” Her movement was not without a price to her for it caused the pain to flow and ebb through her. She waited and took another breath. “I am fine.”

  “Not fine, but not cold is more like it,” Royce said, settling down on his pallet. “I suspect you will not be fine for some time more.”

  He inspected the blade and checked its sharpness with his thumb. He moved the stone over one side and then the other, repeating the action and checking every few minutes. The silence in the room was not uncomfortable and she watched the muscles in his arms ripple as he worked.

  “Will you tell me of this place?” She, Isabel as she would call herself now, had many questions to ask.

  “This land belongs to Lord Orrick. His family has been here for decades and descends from the Norse invaders who took control of this land many years ago.”

  “We are near the coast?”

  “Silloth is a small holding on the south end of the Firth of Solway. How did you know?” His hands never slowed as he spoke.

  “I did not know,” she answered. “It was more of a feeling of the air around me being different.”

  “So you come not from the coast but from inland?”

  “I…do…not…know.” The terror welled from its place deep inside her. It was building stronger and soon would be unmanageable. Not knowing, not recognizing, not being someone. It was too much.

  In an instant he was at her side. Royce sat carefully next to her and brushed the hair from her face. Although her panic was strong, she did not fear him at all. He lifted a cup to her lips and she sipped a small amount. It was ale.

  “Shh… Do not fear, Isabelle. No one can harm you now.” He whispered the words, but she sensed the promise of them through her whole being. Tears gathered in her eyes and she felt weak. Too weak and too weary. But the most haunting questions still remained. She would ask just one more before surrendering to the exhaustion.

  “Why? Why would you do this for a stranger?”

  He looked at her and lifted a corner of the sheet to wipe her tears. A sad smile crossed his face and it made her want to cry even more.

  “You remind me of someone who needed the help of strangers and received it.” His words were poignant with some emotion. Her own chest tightened in response to the haunted tone of his voice.

  “Your appearance here reminded me that we cannot always avoid what the Almighty throws at us.”

  He turned away from her and as he stared into the fire she could see his profile, a profile that did not hide the pain he suffered. He left her side and moved back to where his sword lay. Silently he sat and returned to sharpening, the stone gliding on the edge of the metal until she thought he would speak no more. A crackling block of peat drew her attention for a moment, and then he did speak.

  “Your survival reminds me that sometimes we must force ourselves to live even when we would like to die. That is why I took you in.”

  Chapter Four

  Two more weeks passed until Wenda finally pronounced her out of danger of dying. Isabel still slept more hours than she’d like to, but her body had decided on its own that rest was more important than discovering her identity. Since she spent most of the hours of the day awake and struggling to function on her own, she could not keep awake when Royce returned to his cottage. Wenda assured her that this was the way of healing, but it was pure frustration for her.

  Wenda and Avryl shared women’s talk with her; she felt as though she knew everyone in Lord Orrick’s keep and village without ever having met them. Wenda promised her a trip into the village once her leg mended more and Isabel looked forward to that with great anticipation. For now though, little steps such as sitting up without support were the mainstay of her days.

  And although she hesitated to sound ungrateful, she wanted more and she wanted it quickly. She wanted her self back. Isabel looked out the small window in one wall and noticed the darkening sky. Royce would return soon and she would be awake this time.

  She watched as Avryl finished her tasks and prepared to leave. ’Twas obvious with each passing day that the girl was giving up hope of having a relationship with Royce. Avryl tarried no longer than necessary when the end of the day approached.

  Soon she was gone a
nd Isabel listened for the sound of Royce’s approach. The scurrying of Royce’s dog as he greeted his master brought a smile to her face. Although she could not see out into the clearing from her place on the pallet, she could hear the noises of man and dog frolicking. Isabel wondered if Royce smiled while throwing the stick back and forth.

  His gruff voice came closer until his shadow fell against the half-opened door. He shushed the dog at the doorway and peered into the cottage. If he was surprised to see her awake and sitting up, he did not show it. He nodded, pushed the door open all the way and placed his sword and sack on the floor next to it.

  “Are you well?”

  “Better.”

  “’Tis a good thing, considering,” he said, his voice so low that it sounded like a whisper to her.

  “Just so. I am making progress. At least Wenda seemed pleased with me.”

  “She is a kind soul who is generally pleased with everyone. Even me.”

  Isabel looked at him and saw a twinkle in his eyes. “And why would you be a trial to her?” She knew so little of him, even her probing questions were deflected easily.

  “Knocking on her door in the middle of the night. Dragging her across the village and into the woods to what she knew not…”

  Isabel felt the heat in her cheeks and lifted her hands to touch them. He was teasing her for the first time.

  “I must be getting well or you would not abuse me so.”

  The corners of his mouth rose ever so slightly, but it was close enough to a smile for her liking. Although a rough-looking man with his long black hair and beard, his manners and movements were more refined than his appearance. Due to her loss of memory, he was a mystery to her, but she suspected that he gave little away about himself to others, as well.

  Avryl was a perfect example of that. After days of trying to get closer to him, through caring for Isabel and working in the cottage, the girl had given up her efforts at a match. Wenda’s gossip had hinted that there were other women before Avryl and some who would try after her to gain this man’s attentions.

  He crossed to the hearth and lifted the pot’s lid to smell its contents. Isabel watched as his experience at living alone became obvious—he filled a bowl with stew, poured a mug of ale from the jug on the table and found a small loaf of bread sent by Avryl’s mother. Sitting on the bench, he arranged his bowl, cup and spoon and was about to begin when he caught sight of her watching him.

  “Are you hungry still?” he asked, beginning to rise from his place. “There is plenty in the pot.”

  “Nay. Eat while ’tis hot.” She shook her head and smiled. Her face did not hurt now when she smiled or grimaced. The skin felt very tight where the stitches had been placed, but at least there was no more of the burning sensation when her skin moved against them.

  Royce sat back down and began to eat. “So, tell me of your progress.”

  “I am awake.” He probably had no sense of how much strength it took to stay awake each day. “And I have been sitting up for a few hours.”

  “No mean feat,” he said. “Wenda tells me the stitches will come out in a day or two.”

  “Aye. And then a bath.” She knew her desire for a bath was frivolous, but after weeks of being wiped clean, she craved the comfort of submersing herself in hot water until she was clean.

  “You must be improving if that is all you think about.” He lifted another spoonful of stew to his mouth and stopped. “Do you like baths?”

  “I do,” she answered without thinking about her words. “A steaming bath with rose-scented soaps…” Her words drifted off as the feeling of soaking in such a bath overwhelmed her. The quiet soon gained her attention and pulled her from her reverie. Royce stared at her with a frightening intensity.

  “I have suspected that you are not a serf or villein. If you remember the luxuries of bathing with rose-scented soap, you must be wealthy enough to afford them or belong to someone who is.”

  “I…”

  She could say no more. She did remember baths. She remembered that her favorite scent was that of roses. She could almost smell her perfume now, the one she saved and wore only on special occasions. Her maid would…

  He watched the confusion and memories cross her face. There was obviously a slight crack in the darkness of her past. Her mannerisms, even though she was not aware of them, had aroused his suspicions that she was noble-born and raised and now these fleeting memories seemed to confirm it.

  He recognized the distress in her expressions and did not pursue the subject. She was trying so desperately to remember her life that she was fighting the memories, grasping instead of waiting for them to flow freely. William could not imagine the terror within her, but he knew he did not want to cause more of it. He paused, eating more of the stew and watched her for signs that the panic was abating. When she was breathing more evenly, he attempted to draw her attention back.

  “After a bath, what is your next goal?”

  “Next?”

  Her thoughts were still confused. He nodded. “Any good battle plan must have a series of goals. Smaller steps taken toward the greater one. Recovery is your larger goal. A bath is your first smaller one. What do you want after that?”

  William watched as she began to think on his words. He smiled to himself, pleased that she was the type of person who was accustomed to organizing her thoughts and plans. Another sign of nobility? Someone who oversaw a keep would need to be organized in their manner. A chatelaine would need to supervise many people and tasks. Was that her past?

  “In truth, there are several skirmishes I must win before I can attain that bath,” Isabel answered, looking him full in the face. “The stitches must be healed completely, the day must be warm and I must fit into the washtub that Wenda can bring out here.”

  The laugh that burst forth from him was a surprise. He could not remember the last time he had found someone’s humor so pleasing. And she did have a sense of humor. He finished the last of his food and stood before answering her.

  “Ah, commander, but you have no control over those encounters. How will you win?”

  “As Wenda has mentioned on several occasions, I have no patience,” she said. “My first battle must be to, as Wenda says, bide my time.”

  “As one who suffers from that same flaw, I know how difficult it is.”

  “You are impatient? And how do you win over this in your own self?”

  “I bide my time.”

  She laughed and the sound rushed over him. He had lived alone for so long now that simply talking with another person was a chore. But he enjoyed this brief conversation, with its insight into the personality of his guest.

  Isabel was intelligent, stubborn and had a sense of humor. She had the manners and speech of a noblewoman. And she had no memory of her life or her people. Her presence struck fear in the part of him that had worked so long to detach himself from those around him, the part that knew he had not suffered enough for the evil acts he had committed against the innocent, the part of him that must remain dead for the rest of his life.

  She was dangerous to his well-ordered life and he would be wise to tread with care and not reveal much to her during this brief time they shared. He was tempted to laugh once more when she proceeded to pry into his life anyway.

  “How long have you lived here?”

  Not answering her would be the best way to keep his own life, but how could he avoid such direct questions? Deflect, distract and avoid. Tactics of fighting that could be applied to anything in life.

  “You must be getting tired? Can I get anything for you before sleep?”

  She opened her mouth to say something, but no words came out. Her eyes narrowed and he knew that she understood what he was doing. She gave him a smile that did not quite reach her eyes.

  “I have need of nothing else.”

  William nodded and rose from his seat to clean up his meal. As he did so, Isabel began shifting her position. A silent grimace on her face was a constant indic
ation that the discomfort was still strong. He waited for her to request help from him. Moments passed like days as she turned her body, slid down from the wall and lay back onto the pallet. He’d held his breath as he watched her, just waiting on a word from her, but the word was never spoken. Her own breathing was labored when she finally ceased moving and closed her eyes.

  “Isabel, I would have helped you had you but asked.” He stood over her as he spoke. “I am surprised you could move that much.”

  “As I said, Royce, I will have a bath and there are things I must do in order to have it.”

  “And this was one of them?” He secured his door, walked to his pallet and emptied his sack to retrieve the implements he needed to work on his sword. Sitting down, he placed the sword across his lap and began to smooth its surface. She did not answer. Peering over at her, he noticed the uneven rising and falling of her chest.

  “Every moment is one of them,” she said with great effort.

  Memories of his first days after his battle with Christian Dumont and his almost-fatal neck wound filled his mind. Once he had passed the point when his survival was not in question, he’d struggled with the choice to survive or to live. The reverend mother at the convent where he recovered assured him on a daily basis that God had kept him alive for some purpose.

  Once he knew his sister was safe and that the earl had pledged his support for her, William had not cared enough about himself at all. He’d left Greystone and everyone he knew and walked off into the wilderness. At that time, he cared not if he lived or died, if it was night or day, warm or cold. He would go for days without eating because nothing mattered to him.

  It wasn’t until later, when he’d survived an attack by outlaws in a forest in Scotland, that he had even tried to think about why he had been allowed to live. The earl could have cut his throat with a flick of the blade, but chose to injure and not kill. He was alive for a reason, one he could not discern and still sought.

  William stared across the room at Isabel. Was she the reason he had been saved from death? Was saving her life his purpose? Would it atone for the sins of his past?