The Bride Hunt

by Margo Maguire

  Anvrai lifted the lad’s eyelids and saw that naught was amiss inside…Since his eyeballs looked all right, ’twas possible he would survive the injury to his head if he did not succumb to any other complication.

  He left Roger and dragged the boat to the water’s edge. Righting it, he went back for Roger, concentrating on the tasks at hand. This was his forte—fighting battles, dealing with the practical aspects of survival. There was no point in worrying about Roger, or Isabel’s small injuries. She was well enough to stand, able to walk, able to row, and they were going to need all their combined strength and resources if they were to survive.

  They should have put the leather skins out to dry. As it was, they lay in a sodden heap at the water’s edge. At least Anvrai still had the sword he’d taken from the guard. It could easily have been lost during the night’s storm and their mad rowing, just as they’d lost the second oar. That loss was frustrating, but in all fairness, ’twas not Isabel’s fault. The boat had slammed into the rocks and knocked it out of her hands. There was naught she could have done.

  Anvrai lowered Roger into the boat and finally turned to Isabel. “Climb in. I’ll push the boat onto the water…”

  Her nakedness struck him once again, though she seemed to have no idea how she looked in her torn chemise. Her full attention was upon Roger.

  Anvrai pulled his tunic over his head and handed it to her. “Put this on. It will keep you…warm.” And covered. She had no awareness of the stirring sight she made, tempting him to want what he could never have.

  Of course it had been too much to ask that Sir Anvrai would not notice her attire—or its lack. Isabel felt her face heat with color and her nipples tighten with embarrassment as she accepted the knight’s tunic and drew it over her head.

  She opened her mouth to thank him, but shut it quickly, hoping her shock at the sight of him did not offend him.

  She had never seen so much male flesh. Certainly no workmen or priests had ever gone unclothed at the abbey, and even if they had, there were none whose physical structure would have been as powerful as Sir Anvrai’s. ’Twas an impressive sight.

  His braies rode low upon his hips, and his abdomen rippled with dense muscles, the sight of which made Isabel’s own muscles tighten in awe.

  The hair upon his head was so light it was nearly white, yet the hair on his chest, and that which trailed beneath his braies, was darker. She wondered if his male part was as—

  No, she did not wonder. Her eyes shot up to his chest again, then to his face, which was half-covered with a beard that had grown thick and full since their captivity. Much of his scarred face was covered by it.

  Isabel looked away. The sudden warmth that surged through her body was surely due to the added heat of his tunic when she pulled it on. She rolled the sleeves up past her wrists, ignoring the blisters on her hands and the odd sensation that the chieftain’s slick blood was still upon them. “What will we do now?”

  “I’m going to push the currach into the water,” he said. “I’ll hold it while you climb in, then I’ll get in after you.”

  The boat was heavier and more cumbersome than it looked, and Isabel wondered how Sir Anvrai had managed to pull it out of the water himself when they’d landed. She knelt on the rocky ground and helped him push it, and he eventually succeeding in lowering it into the river.

  They followed the process he’d outlined, though it was a struggle to hold on to the rocky ledge long enough for Anvrai to climb into the boat. Finally, it was done, and he took his position in the center of the currach. Roger lay ahead of him, and Isabel stayed behind, unable to take her eyes from the ripple of muscles in Anvrai’s back as he rowed and the hideous gash in his shoulder.

  She could not imagine how he managed to move his arm with such a wound, yet he maneuvered the boat, keeping it out of the rough waters, close to the shore. Their journey was difficult, and Anvrai was often forced to use the oar to push them away from jutting rocks that impeded their path. He strained to keep them out of the river’s swift current, guiding them slowly downriver toward the bit of jutting land they’d seen earlier.

  Roger remained unconscious, a grave worry for Isabel.

  “Sir Anvrai, will Roger…” She swallowed. “I—I’m afraid for him. Will he—”

  “Die?”

  “Hush! What if he can hear you?”

  “If he can hear me, then he knows his condition is dire.”

  With her worst fears confirmed, Isabel gaped up at the high escarpment. Even if they could actually land the boat, Roger would not be able to travel by foot, especially not up to that high cliff. Once he regained consciousness, he would need time to recover. Then they could look for a level path that led south. ’Twas imperative to make their way clear of Scottish lands. Then they could travel east.

  But what if Roger died?

  In truth, any of them could die. The currach could be caught up in the current and dashed upon the rocks. Roger would never be able to save himself, and Isabel was a poor swimmer at best. No doubt Sir Anvrai could swim, but could he save her and himself as well?

  With one oar, he steered the boat, though Isabel did not know where he got the strength to keep them on course. She looked down at her hands. Even if she hadn’t dropped the oar, she would not be able to wield one, helping him row. Blisters, bloody and raw, covered her palms and fingers. And the bones of her hands ached as if they’d been trampled by an oxcart.

  Surely she did not lead so pampered a life that this small amount of work should have such a devastating effect. They’d all been required to work at the abbey, in the kitchen and gardens…Yet none of them had been required to kill a man. She dipped her hands in the cold water and rubbed away the sensation of blood that remained from her confrontation with the chieftain. Horrified once again by what she’d done, she closed her hands into fists and looked ahead, toward their destination.

  The sight of the cove was much clearer. It looked like a ledge of land, littered with sparse pine trees, and the ground was dark with moss. A massive gray cliff towered over the ledge where they would land, and Isabel fought a wave of queasiness at the sight of such a high cliff and almost despaired of finding a path that led south, away from the river. She knew she would never be able to climb to that high precipice.

  “What will we do once we reach the cove?” she asked, hoping he would not tell her they must climb.

  “I won’t know until we get there.”

  “I intend to stay with Roger.”

  Anvrai made no answer to her statement, nor did the rhythm of his rowing change. ’Twas as if he had not heard her though she knew he must have. She wondered if he would go off without her and Roger as soon as they reached the land, for surely Roger would be unable to travel.

  Isabel peered past Anvrai to look at the young knight, lying inert in the front of the boat. His posture of repose called to mind a sleeping child, one with no cares in the world, while his parents toiled to keep him safe.

  ’Twas an unfair comparison. Roger was gravely injured, and Isabel’s throat tightened painfully when she thought of the young man’s fate. ’Twas in God’s hands, and all Isabel could do was pray for His mercy.

  Sir Anvrai carefully guided the boat near the rough coastline, but the turbulence increased, and the river became much more difficult to navigate. Anvrai’s muscles strained with every stroke of the oar, and Isabel worried that he wouldn’t be able to keep them away from danger. She was powerless to help.

  “There is a waterfall up ahead!” he shouted above the sounds of wind and crashing water.

  Fighting against the current that would pull them over the waterfall, Isabel was certain Anvrai must be near the limits of his strength. He struggled to keep the currach outside the force of the river, but it was becoming more difficult the closer they got to the falls.

  The currach brushed against the rocks in the water as he steered them to the cove. “Isabel! On the left! Push us away!”

  The boat teetered as she sh
ifted position, but they stayed afloat, and Anvrai steered them through the rough current into the calmer waters of the cove. He propelled the currach to the rocky ledge and climbed out awkwardly—hanging on to the oar while Isabel held the opposite end to keep the boat in place. Then he dragged Roger out and helped Isabel climb to dry land. Finally, he used what strength he had left to pull the vessel onto the shore. He collapsed beside it.

  He did not speak, nor did Isabel detect any movement other than the rise and fall of his chest with each labored breath. She knelt beside Roger, whose breathing was much quieter, and touched his head. “Roger?”

  He stirred slightly, turning to face her, yet his eyes remained closed. She heard a small groan.

  “Roger, can you hear me?”

  He did not reply. Isabel let her hand drop and rested back on her heels. ’Twas time to see where they’d landed and search for their path of escape.

  She pushed up to her feet and took a step, but nearly stumbled with the pain that blazed through the foot she’d injured while running from the chieftain’s men the night before. She leaned against the stout trunk of a tree and looked at it, dismayed at the sight of the reddened flesh surrounding a deep gash in the arch. In her panic and their desperate escape during the night, she’d hardly noticed it. Now it throbbed unmercifully.

  Had she been at Kettwyck or the abbey, there might have been time for pampering. She had no such luxury now. Her chemise was ruined already, so she tore a strip from its bottom edge and wrapped the cloth ’round her foot. She tied it in place, then stood and limped inland.

  The ground was littered with sharp rocks and low shrubs, as well as trees that obscured her view of the tall, gray wall of stone that blocked any southward path. She looked to the top of the cliff and saw naught but trees and roots. Closer to the wall were signs of a settlement. A long-cold fire ring and an old boat lay among the low shrubs near the rock face.

  Isabel wondered about the people who had made fires there. How had they reached the place? By the boat that lay there rotting? If she continued searching, would she discover a path that led from the high cliffs to the low ledge?

  She moved forward and noticed a tall wooden cross staked into the ground in front of a shadowy opening in the rock wall. In awe, she walked toward the holy place, certain the cross must be a sign from heaven. Surely it would show her their course away from the isolated beach.

  With high hopes, she approached the cross and discovered that the narrow opening in the wall was a cave. She turned and looked ’round for signs of anyone who might have constructed the cross and built the fires…but there were none. Nor were there any signs of a path leading away from the river.

  She turned to the cave opening and stepped inside. It grew dark as she walked, but at least it was warmer inside, out of the chilly wind that whipped ’round the escarpment. She kept close to the wall as she walked, but suddenly tripped over something on the ground and lost her balance. She came down hard on the rocks, injuring her blistered hands.

  Fighting the tears that welled in her eyes and the despair that threatened to surface, she began to raise herself from the floor of the cave when her eyes, by then accustomed to the dark, rested upon a horrible specter—half bone and half rotted flesh, it had once been a human face.

  She screamed.

  Chapter 6

  Anvrai grabbed his sword and ran toward the sound of Isabel’s voice.

  He should have told her to stay close, but it was too late now. As he came upon signs of occupancy, he readied himself for battle, though ’twas almost certainly hopeless. His strength was so severely diminished, he would never be able to rescue Lady Isabel if her attacker mounted a substantial fight.

  Isabel flung herself out of the mouth of a cave as Anvrai approached. He caught hold of her arm as she fled and pushed her behind him.

  “How many are there?” he demanded, raising the sword and standing firm.

  “One,” she croaked. “Only one that I saw. It was horrible!”

  Anvrai stood poised for attack, but no one came.

  “Was he armed?”

  Isabel did not reply. Anvrai turned to look at her, noting tears in her eyes and a quivering chin. “H-he’s d-dead,” she stammered.

  Anvrai lowered his sword arm. “You killed anoth—?”

  Before he could brace himself, Isabel threw herself into his arms and began to weep. “I was s-so frightened!”

  She pressed her face against his chest. Without thinking, Anvrai slid one arm ’round her shoulders. She felt soft and vulnerable, and he felt entirely inadequate. He’d done very little for the lady…hadn’t rescued her at Kettwyck or saved her from the dark-bearded Scot. And now this.

  “I don’t know how long he’s been dead,” she said with a shudder. “Not long…his flesh is still…”

  “You didn’t kill him?”

  “Kill—? No. His body was lying there. I f-fell over him.”

  “Wait here for me.” He set her aside and stepped into the cave, then waited for his vision to adapt to the darkness.

  ’Twas not long before he saw the body. He went down on one knee and looked closer, determining that the corpse had once been a man—a holy man, judging by the cross that hung ’round his neck on a thin leather thong. Anvrai raised his head and looked into the cave, where he saw the shadowy remains of the man’s belongings.

  He stepped outside. Isabel stood with her back to him, shivering in the cold, her body dwarfed by his long tunic. Her legs were bare below the knee, and she’d wrapped her foot in a strip of cloth torn from her chemise.

  The sight of her tender, desolate form touched him in an unwelcome manner. He had left all softness behind with the violent deaths of his family. He was not about to join the ranks of her mush-hearted suitors.

  “Lady Isabel, go back to Sir Roger. Stay with him until I come for you.”

  She gave a quick nod and left the area, leaving Anvrai alone to deal with the dead man.

  It did not take long. Anvrai found torches and flint inside the cave, and he soon had light. There were tools, cooking utensils, and furs for warmth. He took the man’s clothes, rolled him onto one of the furs and pulled him out of the cave, then down the beach. There was no place to bury him, so he lifted the body into the old boat, then launched it on the river where the current carried it out of sight.

  Anvrai went back to the place where he’d left Roger and found Isabel sitting next to him, tending a wound in her foot. Crouching beside her, he took her foot in hand. He had an extensive collection of healing herbs and ointments in a special satchel that he kept in his quarters at Belmere, but that would do her no good at present. He would have to see if there were any medicinal plants nearby, something useful that might still be growing so late in the season.

  Releasing her, he lifted Roger onto his shoulder once again. “Come on. The cave is empty now,” he said as he stood, “and we can use it for shelter until Roger is able to travel.”

  Isabel came along quietly, but when they reached the tall cross with the cave entrance right behind it, she faltered.

  Anvrai sensed her nervousness, but there was no kindness in him. When he replied, ’twas only to convince her to go inside. They both needed to rest, and the cave was the best place to do so. “The body is gone,” he said.

  Isabel nodded. “I saw you,” she whispered.

  Anvrai walked past her, carrying Roger into the cave. He lowered the young man onto the hermit’s pallet and covered him with one of the furs, then took the dead man’s cooking pot and carried it outside. There were things that had to be done before he could rest, before he made the mistake of trying to comfort the comely dark-haired lady who stood at the edge of the cave in such distress. Beautiful, highborn ladies abhorred his company, much less his touch. He would foist neither upon Lady Isabel.

  He returned to their stolen currach and retrieved their few belongings, hanging the wet skins over the branches of nearby shrubs. Then he filled the hermit’s pot with fresh water
and carried it, along with the rolled-up skin Isabel had taken from the chieftain’s hut, to the cave.

  She was inside now, sitting close to Roger, her legs tucked under her, and her arms wrapped ’round herself. In the flickering light of the torches he’d lit earlier, her skin looked pale and taut over the fine bones of her face. The bruises and split lip seemed to magnify her delicate beauty and the differences between them.

  He tossed her one of the skins. “This will warm you.”

  He set the water down and picked up one of the torches. The inside fireplace was no more than a circle of heavy rocks, but there was soot on the wall, and Anvrai could see a narrow line of light in the cave’s ceiling. Clearly, there was adequate ventilation.

  ’Twas only a matter of time before Anvrai had a fire going and was sitting on the cool rock floor across from Isabel and Roger. He felt hungry, but he would have to hunt before they could eat, and that posed additional problems. Before all else, he would be content with a few hours’ uninterrupted sleep.

  His eyes drifted closed, but when Lady Isabel came and crouched before him, he mustered what small amount of energy he possessed and looked at her. In her hands was one of the rolled-up skins he’d brought in from the currach. As she carefully unwrapped it, the smell of food hit Anvrai’s nose all at once. He did not know what she held, but it was edible.

  Isabel broke off a small piece of bread, which she kept, and held the rest out to him. She looked back toward Roger and the rest of the items that lay within the skin. “There are a few apples, too.”

  He took what she offered and tasted the coarse bread.

  “’Twas on the chieftain’s table,” she said. “I took all I could carry.”

  He reached for the water, as much to wash down the dry bread as to reexamine his earlier impressions of Lady Isabel. Mayhap she was not the brainless imp he’d first thought. In a difficult situation, she’d not only killed the chieftain, she’d thought ahead and planned for their escape. ’Twas more than many inexperienced knights would have done.