Roger stalked away, giving Anvrai the space he needed.
“Oh, aye, my lady!” cried Tillie as she shifted out of the way. Anvrai knelt beside her and gently removed the bandage, but Isabel grabbed hold of his arm and held on tightly as he worked.
He did not mind the sharpness of her nails in his skin. It reminded him of her feisty spirit—of the fire deep inside her that had kept her going through the night on the river and all the nights in the cave when she’d fretted over Roger. It had gotten her this far, and he prayed it would help her to survive this last insult.
“Ingeld, have you any medicines?”
“Some…You are welcome to all there is.” He opened a trunk on the far side of the room and took out a small wooden casket. This he handed to Anvrai. “I will take my leave of you now. Stay here in my chambers with my blessing and use whatever you may find.”
“My thanks to you, Ingeld,” he said, grateful for the Saxon’s unexpected generosity.
Tillie made a place to lay her sleeping child. And, as Anvrai tended Isabel, he was vaguely aware of the girl busying herself with meal preparations.
“Roger,” Anvrai said, “go out and get the mattress off the cart for Tillie and Belle before the rain comes.”
They passed the evening much as they had in Tillie’s cottage, although they had much more space. Roger went to sleep in the priest’s anteroom, lying upon a settee, while Tillie fed her bairn and settled down to sleep near Isabel.
Anvrai brought one of the priest’s chairs close to Isabel’s bedside and stayed with her while she slept. ’Twas a deep sleep, and he worried about her as night deepened, and the firelight flickered over her pale features.
The hours passed, and she became restless as she tried to move into a comfortable position. Anvrai crouched beside the bed and took her hand. “Isabel, try to rest,” he said quietly.
She opened her eyes at the sound of his voice. At first she seemed confused, but her expression soon cleared. “I remember now.”
He put his hand upon her brow but felt no fever. She shifted again and grimaced in pain.
Would that he had been the one injured. One more scar on his marked body would not have mattered. His muscles were more dense than Isabel’s, too. The depth of the wound would not have been so significant in his own thigh.
He poured some of the priest’s ale into a mug and helped her to raise her head. “Drink.”
Isabel slid her hands ’round his as he held the cup to her lips, and she took a few sips. Anvrai encouraged her to finish the mug. A bit of drunkenness would serve her well.
She opened the laces on the tunic she wore over her chemise. “Help me, Anvrai.”
She leaned forward and started to pull off the only garment that covered her adequately. Without it, she would be practically naked.
“Isabel, rest easy.”
“’Tis uncomfortable.”
He slipped the tunic off her arms and could not help but remember the last time he’d done so. Had it only been two nights since he’d held her in his arms and made love to her?
With a whimper of pain, she slid over to make room for him to sit beside her. “I would have told this tale differently,” said Isabel.
“Aye…we would never have been taken from Kettwyck.”
“No, our abduction must be a part of it, else I would never have met you.”
She was heading down a path they could not take. ’Twas torture enough that she lay nearly naked beneath the blanket. “Have you always been a bard?” he asked, intentionally changing the direction of the conversation. He thought of their night together constantly, aware that it could not be repeated. It had been rash and irresponsible to indulge her fear that they might perish during their journey, treating that night as if it might be their last.
’Twas only because he’d wanted her, not because of any fear he felt in facing their journey home. She drank more ale and the blanket slid to her waist, exposing her bare shoulders and her breasts, visible through the chemise.
Isabel curled one hand over his knee, and Anvrai forced himself to ignore the stirring in his groin. He pulled the blanket up to her neck, silently chastising himself for feeling such arousal while Isabel lay gravely wounded.
“I only started telling tales when I first went to the abbey with Kathryn,” said Isabel. “She is merely one year younger than I, but she missed home—our mother—so I told her the tales I’d heard as a child. Stories of St. Martin de Tours, of St. Eligius. They calmed her. And then the abbess sent the other young girls to me when they were sad.”
“They must have been dull tales,” he teased.
Isabel smiled. “Not the way I told them.”
Anvrai could well imagine the details she’d added to the staid and proper stories of the saints. When she closed her eyes, Anvrai thought she’d fallen asleep again. But she spoke again, her voice soft and tentative. “Will I ever see Kathryn again?”
“I don’t know, Isabel. I’ll do all I can to get you home to Kettwyck. And then…” He shrugged. “I can make no further promises.”
She relaxed, but did not move her hand from his knee. Her touch was sweet torture. “What is this place?”
“A church,” he replied, wishing he did not feel such a strong desire to slide into the bed with her, to press his face into her hair and hold her close.
Isabel heard voices outside. The fire had died down, and morning had already dawned. She’d slept fitfully most of the night but had managed to keep quiet so that Anvrai could rest.
Soon the voices woke him, and he stood abruptly, drawing his sword. A sharp rap at the door in the next room roused Roger and Tillie from sleep, and Isabel tried to scramble out of the bed in spite of the burning pain in her thigh. “Lie still,” Anvrai said.
“Sir Anvrai, ’tis Ingeld,” the man called.
Isabel recalled the name…’Twas the priest who’d given them sanctuary. Drawing the blanket up to her chin, she waited alone when Anvrai went into the adjoining room and opened the door.
The men exchanged a few quiet words that Isabel could not discern, but it sounded as if several people had entered the room and closed the door behind them. A moment later, Anvrai reappeared at her side with a tall Scottish warrior following close behind.
The priest came next, escorting a fair-haired young woman at his side. “Your Majesty, Lady Isabel. My lady, I bring you Margaret, Queen of Scotland.”
Isabel made another attempt to get out of the bed, at the same time, holding the blanket decently before her. But Queen Margaret stopped her this time. “Pray, remain in your bed, Lady Isabel.”
The queen wore a gown dyed a rich blue color, trimmed with fur at the cuffs and neck, and gathered discreetly beneath her bosom over a belly quite round with child.
“Father Ingeld told us of your unfortunate injury,” she said.
Isabel gave a shrug and wished she did not look so ragged. ’Twas not fair that she should meet the Scottish queen while wearing only a tattered chemise.
“’Tis not our habit to attack unsuspecting travelers.” She turned to Anvrai. “Sheathe your sword, Sir Knight. I’ve only come to make amends.”
Anvrai placed his sword upon the bed beside Isabel, but he did not relax, and Isabel thought he might pick it up again when two more men entered the chamber, carrying a large wooden chest.
“Please accept these items, Lady Isabel…And come to Dunfermline, to the tower, where you shall enjoy the king’s hospitality.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” said Anvrai. “As soon as Lady Isabel is able to travel, I will take her to Dunfermline. For now, we will remain here, if Ingeld can accommodate us another night or two.”
“Of course—”
Roger pushed past the guards and came into the room. “But there is no reason why I cannot go with you, Your Majesty. We needn’t all remain here. ’Tis too crowded.”
In spite of the strange clothes he wore, Roger still managed to look handsome, and the queen succumbed to his boyish ch
arm when he smiled and made a courtly bow.
Isabel could barely believe she’d once been susceptible to his airs, too. She slid her hand into Anvrai’s. He squeezed it once, then went to the door and stood near Tillie when Queen Margaret approached Isabel’s bedside and placed her hand upon her shoulder. “I am truly sorry for this mishap, Lady Isabel. I fear my guards are too nervous about my safety. I will send my physician to see to you presently, but please come to me as soon as you are able.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty, I will.”
“In the meantime, I’ll steal young Roger away from you and leave you in Sir Anvrai’s capable hands.”
Roger followed the queen and closed the door behind him. He said naught to Isabel—not farewell, not even the basic courtesy of inquiring about her wound. There was silence in the chamber when they’d gone, and Isabel felt only relief at their departure.
Holding Belle, Tillie came to her then. “What can I do to help you, my lady?” she asked. “Your leg…Is it—”
“Painful? Aye. But I must get up. Where is the privy?”
Chapter 19
Anvrai felt helpless. It was as bad—or even worse—than when he was chained in the Scottish enclosure and could do naught. Isabel was in pain. Every grimace, every muffled moan cut him to the depths of his soul. He should have protected her.
He opened the trunk that had been carried in by the queen’s men and found a trove of women’s clothing.
“Let me see,” Isabel said. ’Twas clear that every movement she made hurt her wound, but her curiosity won out over the pain.
“’Tis new clothes for you.” He lifted a dark red kirtle for her to see, then a linen underkirtle, followed by a delicate linen chemise. Woolen hose and garters followed, and a pair of stylish shoes. There were more clothes in the trunk, presumably for Tillie. At the bottom were two oversized tunics, along with braies and chausses meant for him.
Anvrai looked up at Isabel and saw the glint of tears in her eyes. He frowned. “What’s amiss? Aren’t these—”
“I need a bath. I cannot wear such finery in this state.” She sniffled and tried to hold back her tears, but they streamed down her face, in spite of her efforts to contain them.
“Aye, Isabel, we all do,” he said, puzzled by her sadness. “But are these not suitable replacements for the rags you wear?”
She nodded and lay back, closing her eyes to sleep. Anvrai left the bedchamber and went into the next room where Tillie sat quietly, nursing Belle. “There are clothes for you in the trunk brought by the queen,” he told her as he went through the door and walked outside.
The inability to help Isabel grated upon him. The priest’s store of medicines was poor indeed, and besides the sharp needle and silk thread he’d used to sew Isabel’s wound, there was little else of use.
Fortunately, ’twas not long before another entourage appeared, bringing the king’s physician, another Saxon. Desmond was a wizened old man in black robes and a long, gray beard, and looked like a personage from one of Isabel’s tales. He came with three guards, along with two Norman noblemen, and one lady.
They approached the church and dismounted, with one of the noblemen assisting the richly dressed lady. They looked at him with interest and none of the revulsion that usually met him. He wondered if it was because the worst of his scars were concealed under the patch.
“Sir Anvrai!”
The elder of the two noblemen approached, extending his hand openly. “I am Robert de Montaigu, and this is Lady Symonne de Montbray.” Anvrai bowed over Lady Symonne’s hand and was introduced next to Honfroi de Vesli.
“Where is the injured lady?” the physician inquired, clearly impatient with the niceties. He carried a large satchel of tawny leather, the strap of which he’d slung over one shoulder.
“By all means,” said Lord Honfroi with a flourish, “we should see to the wounded one.”
“You are Normans,” Anvrai said. He crossed his arms over his chest and barred their passage into the priest’s quarters. No one would enter until he understood the reason for their presence. “How do you come to be at Dunfermline?”
The lady came forward. “Sir Anvrai, there are many more of us in King Malcolm’s stronghold. We have come for one reason or another—”
“Mostly because we have been disaffected by King William. Here we await his renewed approval,” said Honfroi.
“Or a change in policy that will allow for our return to our estates,” Robert added.
“We intend no harm, Sir Anvrai,” said Lady Symonne. “Only to welcome you and Lady Isabel to our small enclave here.”
The Scottish guards remained impassive, and since Anvrai could detect no dissimulation in the Normans’ speech, he stood aside and allowed them to enter.
He led the physician to the bedchamber, where Isabel lay with her eyes closed. Desmond went into the room and placed his bag upon the chair beside the bed. Anvrai touched Isabel’s hand. “My lady…”
He was careful to show no undue familiarity with Isabel, to provide no tales for these courtiers to carry back with them.
Isabel opened her eyes and smiled, but her features crumpled with pain when she moved. “The physician is here to look at you,” Anvrai said. Desmond folded the blanket away from her leg, and Anvrai turned to push the Norman onlookers out of the room, closing the door behind them. He did not appreciate their prying eyes.
The healer unwrapped the cloth Anvrai had used to bind Isabel’s leg. “Hand me a lamp,” he said.
Anvrai brought the lamp from the table and gave it to the man, who held it close in order to examine the wound.
Isabel cried out when he prodded it, and Anvrai took her hand in his. She turned her head to press her face against their clasped hands. In spite of his resolve to show no particular devotion to her, Anvrai threaded his fingers through her hair and caressed the back of her head as she strained to keep still.
“The stitches will hold nicely, I think,” said Desmond, seemingly oblivious to the bond that surged between Anvrai and Isabel. “How far did the arrow penetrate? Did it lodge in the bone?”
Isabel shuddered.
“I don’t think so,” Anvrai replied.
“Well, you would have known it,” said Desmond. He took out several small crocks and two pouches and set them upon the table. He poured powder from one of the pouches onto Isabel’s wound. “Have you any warm water?”
“Aye. I’ll get it.”
“Bring clean cloths.”
Isabel released Anvrai’s hand, and he went into the anteroom, where Tillie had made herself scarce, standing quietly in a corner with Belle’s face at her shoulder. She was clearly uncomfortable among the Norman nobles, so Anvrai asked her to fetch him some clean bandages while he removed a large pot of water from the fireplace. He brought Tillie into the bedchamber with him.
Anvrai followed Desmond’s instructions, adding some cool water to the hot, then took a thick cloth, soaked it, and placed it upon Isabel’s leg where the doctor already spread a dark salve.
“I’ll leave these medicines with you,” he said, and he held up each one to Anvrai, describing its contents, and how to use them. “Healing of this sort is a delicate process. ’Twould be best if you returned to the tower with me. The queen has made a chamber ready for you.”
“No!” Isabel implored. “I…’Tis restful here, and I’d rather…not travel until my leg has healed.”
Desmond nodded. “There is something to be said for tranquillity.” He poured some water into a mug and added a small measure of powder to it from one of the crocks. “Drink this. ’Twill help you to rest.” He turned to Anvrai. “If there is any difficulty, the queen requires that you send for me. Please do not hesitate.”
He started for the door, but turned before opening it. “Those who came with me…They will wish to meet you before we return to the tower.”
Isabel glanced at Anvrai. He would have preferred to send them away and let Isabel rest, but he sensed it was important to
maintain friendly relations with the Normans in the queen’s court. “They are Normans,” he said to her, “visitors to King Malcolm’s domain.”
Isabel nodded as though she understood his reasoning without even hearing it.
Desmond opened the door and beckoned to the Normans, who came in without hesitation, with Lady Symonne first. She went directly to Isabel’s bed and took her hand. “You poor thing,” she said. “What an ordeal you’ve endured!”
“I thank you, uh…”
The lady introduced herself and her companions, and they talked quietly with Isabel of their mutual acquaintances in England and France and their difficulties with King William. Isabel tired rapidly, and just as Anvrai was about to ask the visitors to depart, Lady Symonne voiced her intention to do just that. “We will take our leave of you, Lady Isabel. But only for now. As soon as you are well, you must join us at Dunfermline. ’Tis quite civilized.”
Isabel drifted into a sound sleep when the Normans departed, and Anvrai, too, left her bedchamber. Tillie came out with him and laid Belle upon the mattress. Then she began to tidy the room, sweeping the dust from the floor.
“I’m going hunting,” he said, too restless to remain indoors and idle. “I’ll be back soon.”
He gathered what he needed from the back of the old cart they’d dragged from Tillie’s cottage and headed into the forest. Isabel’s encounter with the highborn Normans had solidified his resolve to keep his distance from her. Once her leg was healed and they went to Dunfermline Tower, she would have the company of Roger and the rest of the noble Normans who had gathered there.
With Queen Margaret’s assistance, she would be able to return to her family and go through with her plans for marriage. Soon she would have no need of him.
Anvrai took to the eastward path toward Dunfermline and wondered if the queen knew her husband was about to join battle against King William’s forces. He followed the path until it turned into a road, then hiked into the forest and continued on, intent upon approaching the tower unnoticed.
The Bride Hunt Page 17