The Bride Hunt

by Margo Maguire

  She looked up at him. “T-take care,” she said, and though she kept her voice neutral, she could not mask the fear in her eyes. He wondered if she was afraid for him, or merely afraid because he was leaving her and Tillie in Roger’s care. He clenched his hands into tight fists to keep from reaching for her, to stop himself from pulling her against him and melding them together with a kiss. ’Twould be wrong, just as wrong as the night’s interlude in her arms.

  He took to the path and moved swiftly ahead, taking care to watch for signs of recent travel. He didn’t think there was anyone following them, but he would not go so far ahead that he couldn’t hear Isabel’s cry. Still, ’twould not do to blunder into any other travelers or a Scottish settlement. They needed to take care as they traveled this path so fraught with danger.

  He hoped to come upon an intersecting path that would take them south before encountering a village like the one they’d escaped. They could not continue traveling east indefinitely.

  Anvrai wished he had a better sense of their location, but he had little knowledge of the Scottish lands, and he’d been insensible during the greater part of their captivity. ’Twas fortunate Isabel had paid heed to their direction.

  She was not the spoiled, brainless maiden he’d originally thought her, but intelligent, quick, and uncomplaining. Her only flaw was her attachment to Roger. He had no doubt she had chosen him before the attack upon her father’s holding. Anvrai doubted that any of Isabel’s family had survived, so ’twas imperative she wed a man of wealth and standing. His personal disdain for Roger changed naught. The boy remained the best candidate as Isabel’s spouse, and Anvrai was certain the marriage would take place soon after their arrival at Kettwyck.

  Unwilling to consider that inevitability, Anvrai thought about his own future. His armor and horse—the sum total of his possessions—might still be at Kettwyck. At least, that’s where he’d left them the night of the assault. Anvrai had vaguely considered the possibility of leaving Roger and Isabel on their own as soon as they came to an English holding, then going on to Belmere alone.

  Now he realized that was not practical. He had to collect his armor at Kettwyck before he could join King William on his campaign against the Scottish king. Gladly, he turned his thoughts to the battles ahead.

  Training knights and warfare were his skills, and he looked forward to the day he rejoined the Belmere company. Nearly a fortnight had passed since the attack upon Kettwyck. At that time, Lady Elena of Belmere had been near the end of her first pregnancy. Surely Lord Osbern would be free to travel with the king once his lady wife had delivered their child.

  Unbidden, Anvrai was struck by the thought of Isabel in childbed, and he felt his knees weaken. If she were his wife, he would not wish to leave her too quickly, especially after childbirth. He at last had some vague grasp of Osbern’s sentiments toward his wife, an understanding that had eluded him before.

  But it did him no good, nor did thoughts of Isabel holding her own bairn or feeding her infant at her breast. He would have no part of that.

  The terrain became rougher, and Anvrai retraced his steps, returning to the cart to take Roger’s place. Roger had already stopped, and Isabel stood with her head bent over the young man’s arm, examining her stitches while Roger leaned close enough to touch his lips to Isabel’s head.

  Anvrai reined in a sudden wave of jealousy and looked away. What they did could be no concern of his.

  He reached into the cart, lifted out one of the jugs they’d filled with water, and took a long drink.

  “What’s ahead? Any sign of England?” Roger made no attempt to hide his sarcasm.

  Anvrai ignored the question, and asked his own, “What’s wrong with your arm?”

  “Besides a sword wound? Naught that should concern you.”

  Isabel gritted her teeth and left the two men to bicker on their own. Roger had been positively hateful all morning long, and Anvrai had been indifferent. ’Twas intolerable.

  She had not gone far when Tillie joined her. She carried Belle as well as several clean cloths. “Would you hold Belle while I…” She nodded toward an area thick with trees and shrubs.

  “Of course.” Isabel took the bairn and walked away, giving Tillie her privacy. Belle was wide-awake and looking at her surroundings. She was a beautiful child, her bright blue eyes alert and content. What little hair she had was pale blond, the same color as Anvrai’s. Isabel imagined that Anvrai’s child would resemble Belle.

  She pressed her lips to the bairn in her arms and felt a surge of warmth at the thought of Anvrai’s child. He’d used great care in holding Tillie’s newborn. Belle’s entire body had nearly fit inside one of those big, gentle hands…

  “What’s wrong with Sir Anvrai today?” Tillie asked when she returned to Isabel. “Ever since he put on that eye covering, he has been so very unfriendly.”

  Isabel shrugged. Roger was irritable, too, and Isabel could hardly blame him. The wound in his arm was swollen and irritated from pulling the cart all morning. She’d offered to help pull it, but Roger had snapped at her, saying he was every bit as capable a man as Anvrai.

  “Let’s not talk about the men. Tell me of Haut Whysile and your family.”

  Tillie shook her head. “I have no family. I came to England in service to a noble household. After all this time, no one in Haut Whysile will expect to see me again. There is naught to keep me from going with you and Sir Anvrai to your holding.”

  “Tillie…Sir Anvrai is not my husband.”

  The girl’s eyes went wide. “But I thought…You slept in his arms the night you came to Cormac’s cottage, when Belle was born. And last night, you…I apologize, my lady, for saying what I did. I should never have—”

  “’Tis all right, Tillie,” Isabel said, flustered by the girl’s observations. She took a deep breath. “We three were taken, just as you were. But we managed to escape.” It seemed like months since that harrowing night in the currach, and she hadn’t appreciated Anvrai’s worth as he’d fought the current to save her and Roger. “We…came to rely upon each other for survival.”

  Tillie sat down upon a large, flat rock that had been warmed by the sun. She gazed up at Isabel. “Did they…” She turned away, lowering her gaze and holding Belle tightly against her chest. “The Scots hurt me. They tore my clothes and they became like beasts, wild and cruel.” She began to weep, her tears running freely, soaking her face, dripping onto her clothes. “I th-thought they were killing me when they…w-when they…” She looked up at Isabel. “I was not sorry when Cormac broke his neck. When he fell…If he had not already been dead, I think I would have killed him.”

  Isabel crouched down in front of Tillie and looked into her haunted eyes. She could not imagine the horrors Tillie had survived. For a girl her age to be so brutally used was unthinkable. “I would kill him myself if he stood before me now.” She meant it truly. In these past days at the cottage, she had begun to feel as protective as a sister to Tillie. They shared a bond in their terrible experiences, though Tillie’s were so much more devastating. Isabel would never forsake this poor girl. Tillie would always have a place with her.

  Tillie hiccuped and wiped at her tears. “D-did you kill the Scot who took you?”

  Isabel swallowed and nodded. “There was only one man, and he let down his guard before he could hurt me. I killed him.”

  Tillie sniffled and smiled through her tears. “Good! Killing was less than he deserved!”

  “Aye. You’re right about that.” She reached up and patted Belle’s back. At least the bairn’s coloring was not so different from Tillie’s. She would not have to be continually reminded of the Scot who had raped her.

  “Lady Isabel?”

  “Aye?”

  “Do you think Sir Roger might walk ahead this afternoon and leave us with Sir Anvrai?”

  Isabel did not know, but she shared Tillie’s hope, which came to pass when they returned and saw Roger stalking off. When he threw back a hateful glance, I
sabel saw a red mark upon his upper cheek. Anvrai must have struck him.

  Roger had been churlish and childish, and Isabel did not doubt the two men had exchanged unpleasant words. But Anvrai’s manner did not invite questions. Nor did his mood improve with Roger’s departure. They resumed their journey, Tillie lay down on the mattress, and was lulled to sleep by the rocking of the cart. Isabel came ’round to the front of the cart and walked beside Anvrai.

  “You should ride,” he said. “You will be weary by day’s end.”

  “’Tis good of you to concern yourself with my welfare, Sir Anvrai,” she said, hardly able to believe she was speaking so coldly to the man with whom she’d shared the previous night’s intimacies. Even then, she longed to step in front of him, to stop him in his tracks and…

  She did not know what she would say or do. She ached to touch him, to have him look at her as though he desired her above all else, but he did not take his gaze from the path ahead. His demeanor remained cold and remote.

  “I don’t want you to slow us down tomorrow.”

  Isabel swallowed her disappointment. His only concern was for the journey. “My foot is completely healed.”

  “I’m glad to know it,” he said, although his tone was indifferent.

  They walked on in silence, and Isabel tried to think of a subject that would engage him.

  “How long do you think we can keep walking east?”

  Anvrai shook his head. “I hope there will soon be a southward path.”

  “We traveled steadily north and west with the Scots,” she said. “This path seems to take us directly eastward.”

  “Aye. It does.”

  “If we keep on, we’ll reach the sea.”

  “’Tis unlikely,” Anvrai said. “We’ll come to a village or town first.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “This path is too well traveled. It leads somewhere.”

  Isabel had not considered that, but she was glad Anvrai was at last talking to her, and his manner was not so irritable.

  “Will we come to Dunfermline?”

  “I know not. Scotland is unfamiliar territory to me.” He turned suddenly to look at her. “If we could get to the River Tees…”

  “Why? Does it flow southward?”

  “’Tis where King William is gathering his armies.”

  Isabel frowned. “How do you know this?”

  “’Twas what Sir Hugh Bourdet told me the night Kettwyck was attacked. I’d planned to leave your father’s holding the following morn to gather my men and join the king.”

  The strain of pulling the cart began to show on Anvrai’s face. He moved along much faster than Roger had, and a fine sheen of moisture glistened on his forehead. Though the air was cool, the sun shone brightly, making the temperature comfortable for Isabel, but warm for Anvrai. He loosened the laces of his tunic and pulled the edges apart, baring his chest.

  Isabel’s breath caught, and her fingers ached to slide over his dense muscles. She knew how sensitive his nipples were and how he pulsed with arousal when she licked them.

  With great effort, she turned her attention back to their conversation. “We would be safe if we joined the king’s men.”

  “Aye.”

  “Does the River Tees run near Dunfermline?”

  “No, ’tis south. It flows through English lands.”

  “So King William intends to gather his army there and go north?”

  “Aye.”

  They walked on in silence and Isabel’s mind wandered over all their possibilities. They could leave the path and try to move south over untraveled ground, but that might cause them to lose time. If they came upon unpassable land or a cliff, they would have to turn back.

  “I wonder if Queen Margaret’s court is near.”

  Anvrai did not respond. How could he, when he did not even know where they were.

  “’Tis said that when Margaret fled England with her brother, the English king, a storm forced her ship to seek refuge in King Malcolm’s harbor. They say the storm was a miraculous—”

  “Miraculous?” Anvrai scoffed. “Like the storm that nearly killed us?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Malcolm met with Edgar the atheling in York and offered sanctuary to his family. Edgar simply accepted the invitation. There was no miracle.”

  “King Malcolm wed Margaret upon her arrival at Dunfermline,” Isabel said, though she knew little of Edgar’s history, nor did she know much about his sister. “’Twas quite romantic, was it not? He must have fallen in love with—”

  “I am a soldier, Isabel. I know naught of romance.”

  Isabel turned away so he would not catch sight of her disappointment. He refused to acknowledge that powerful emotions had passed between them, emotions she could not ignore.

  “Nor did I, Anvrai,” she said. “I had planned to join the order de St. Marie in Rouen.”

  “’Twould have been a waste.”

  Chapter 17

  He glanced at her, clearly intending to say more, but quickly returned his gaze to the trail ahead and resumed his silence.

  “I-I never planned to wed…but to remain pure…”

  Anvrai said naught, but she saw a muscle in his jaw flex and his lips tighten.

  “I do not feel impure now…” Isabel did not know quite what she felt. She should not have spent the night in the shed, but she could not regret it. Whatever happened to them on this perilous sojourn, she would always have the memory of the intimacy she and Anvrai had shared.

  ’Twas pointless to think past the day’s walk, and the next’s, nor would she contemplate the day they would enter Kettwyck’s gates and she would be compelled to wed Roger.

  Anvrai was not mistaken in his assessment of Henri Louvet’s requirements for her marriage. Her father had been quite clear that her husband was to be a man of good family and substantial wealth. He wanted a liaison with a man whose connection to King William was strong.

  Roger de Neuville fit all the important criteria. Once Isabel would have agreed with her father. Now she knew that a comely face reflected little of a man’s character.

  She let her gaze rest upon Anvrai’s hand as he pulled Tillie along. He’d said he had no family, nor any property. She knew that the fate of his mother and sister weighed heavily upon him. Their current sojourn, with all its inherent dangers, must remind him of all he’d lost. More than ever, he seemed anxious to be rid of her and the others. “Does the king expect you to join him at the River Tees?”

  “Aye.”

  “Do you know him well—the king?”

  Anvrai nodded, but seemed reluctant to speak of his connection to King William.

  “Did you come with him from Normandy?”

  “Aye, with Osbern of Belmere. We fought side by side at Hastings and moved north…”

  “Baron Osbern’s lands adjoin those of my father, do they not?”

  “They do.”

  “King William granted rich holdings to my father and the rest of his loyal knights, did he not?”

  “You wish to know why he did not do the same for me?”

  Anvrai must be the worst fool in all of Britain. He’d allowed himself to get lost in the moment with Isabel, indulging in the worst kind of deception…Deceiving himself. He’d had every intention of making it back to Kettwyck alive, yet he’d gone along with Isabel’s notion that today might be their last. He’d made love to her as though there was no future, as though she would never return to Kettwyck and wed Roger.

  “You refused to accept the prize King William offered?” she asked. “After all that happened to your family, I can understand why you would not wish to—”

  A bitter laugh escaped him.

  “The king has not yet forgiven me for refusing a royal request.”

  Isabel frowned, a crease marring her perfect forehead. “I don’t understand. You refused the king’s command?”

  “William asked me to remain in Winchester to train his knights.”
r />   “But you would not?”

  Anvrai shook his head. “’Twas not an outright refusal. I merely declined and asked to remain with Lord Osbern of Belmere.”

  She placed one hand upon his arm, slowing his pace, looking up at him as though he were not the ugliest man she’d ever seen. It must be the patch. “You wanted to withdraw from the king’s army?”

  “Aye.”

  He’d had enough warfare to last two lifetimes. Had he stayed with the king’s garrison, he would have faced march after march and battle after battle. Instead, he’d had months of peace at Belmere.

  “The king must respect your skills.”

  Anvrai shrugged. “It makes no difference. I spent four years in King William’s service, fought every battle by his side, more than many of his favored barons. The king chose to leave me unrewarded.”

  Isabel’s expression was one of shock. Mayhap ’twas disbelief. Either way, it did not matter. He was a knight with no land, a loyal subject who enjoyed no favor with King William.

  “I remain in Baron Osbern’s service.”

  “Training knights?”

  “Aye.”

  They walked on in silence, and Anvrai knew she didn’t understand. He trained knights for Osbern, yet he would not do the same for King William. But they were two very different occupations. Had he remained with the king, he’d have seen no end of warfare. With Baron Osbern, he kept the Belmere men in readiness in case of attack, and for the weeks when they were required to serve the king.

  “So there is no hope that he would ever…”

  “Isabel, you know I am a knight of no renown and no property. I foresee no change in the king’s sentiment toward me.”

  Anvrai had never experienced such pleasure as he’d had during the hours he’d spent with Isabel in his arms. She’d come to him looking for forgiveness and camaraderie, for comfort and reassurance. However blissful the night had been, naught had changed. Even if he were to agree to King William’s demands and go to Winchester to train and command his army, he could not take Isabel to the king’s garrison. Nor could he engage his heart where it did not belong.