by Karin Tabke
When she opened them, Rohan stood only a hand’s breadth from her. He reached out an open hand and placed it on her right breast. Her heart lurched against it, and she knew he felt it as solidly as she. As if that were not enough, to her complete mortification, her nipple puckered. He smiled softly. “A body doesn’t lie, Isabel.”
He slipped an arm around her waist and brought her hard against his chest. Her legs trembled, and had he not held her so tightly, she would have crumpled to the floor.
“Make no mistake, the only exchange between us when I take you will be mutual satisfaction.” He dropped his head to her throat. Pressing his nose softly against her skin there, he inhaled deeply. “Your scent will ride with me this day as a reminder of what is in store for us both this eve. Make yourself available.”
He released her and left.
Isabel held her breath, clenching her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering. Her entire body trembled as if several hands grasped her arms and shook her back and forth. She turned to look at the door Rohan had just walked through and knew with a sinking heart that she was a marked woman.
When she entered the great hall a short time later, forgoing the rest of her bath, Isabel was met with several stares. With her damp hair and high color, she did not have to guess what was on every man’s mind. Especially since Rohan’s clothes were equally as damp as her hair,
Heat washed across her skin as their eyes clashed. Rohan stabbed a piece of cold meat with his dagger and casually munched it as he stared her down. Isabel threw her shoulders farther back and ignored him. Instead, she stared down his knights, finding for the most part that they were as stubbornly rude as their leader. Every last one of them, including Rorick, met her challenging gaze before turning back to their meal. She turned to find the African’s keen eyes watching her raptly.
He scowled when she cocked an eyebrow at him, daring him to add insult to her injury. Haughtily, she strode past him and into the kitchens. When she emerged several minutes later with a modestly filled trencher, she found the one called Warner poking at Manhku’s bandages, the same soiled ones he had ripped off earlier. The African grumbled and pushed the man away.
“God’s teeth, man, the bindings stink! Shall I separate your leg from your arse now, or will you allow me to tend it?”
Rohan laughed and stood, coming to stand next to his knight. He laid a hand on the man’s shoulder as he stood and backed away from the giant. “Mayhap he needs to see the edge of your blade, Warner, to know you mean to help.”
“He would cut the wrong leg!” Manhku tossed back.
Warner shook his head and pointed to the maimed limb. “Tend it yourself, then, heathen, and be glad. Like the lady Isabel, I no longer have an interest in you.”
Warner strode to Rohan’s other side. Isabel continued to the end of the only vacant table in the hall. Unfortunately, it was also the lord’s table and the one closest to the hearth. And Rohan.
He turned and glowered down at her as she nibbled a piece of hard bread. “My man needs his dressings changed.”
Isabel shrugged and slowly chewed. She glanced at his hand, then up at his face, her gaze resting briefly on his swelling jaw. “Your jaw may be broken, but it appears your hands are in good order. Do it yourself.”
Warner slapped Rohan heartily on the back. “Ha! Smote by a woman!”
Rohan rubbed his swollen jaw. It was obvious he had been struck. He grinned, his humor restored. “She wields her lips as expertly as I wield my sword.”
Isabel gasped, choking on the piece of bread she chewed. “I did no such thing!” She coughed.
Rohan made to approach her, but she waved him off. Valiantly, she managed to catch her breath.
“A man approaches!” The shout came from the tower.
Rohan hesitated as Isabel continued to collect herself. She nodded and took a long draught from his cup. Rohan moved past her, accompanied by the scraping sound of leather and metal as his men followed him out into the courtyard. Isabel sat still for a moment, praying the man would have good tidings of her father and her brother. She did not know how much more bad news she could consume without becoming like Lyn and Mari.
Taking a big gulp of air, she inhaled and slowly exhaled and moved quickly to the courtyard. With each step, her heart raced, hoping and praying it was her father or her brother come home.
Instead, the sight that greeted her was truly horrifying. Abel, her father’s bailiff, torn, bloodied, and his right arm a stump, stumbled into the courtyard, then fell to his knees in the dirt before planting himself face-first in the hard stone.
“’Tis Abel!” Isabel cried, pushing past the massive shoulders to the man. She dropped to her knees and with Rohan’s help turned him over. A white death mask drew his color. His arm, though bound, bled. Emotion washed over Isabel. Abel had been a loyal man. “Abel,” she whispered, touching her hand to his blood-and dirt-encrusted brow. “How came you by your wounds?”
His eyes fluttered open, and with a strength that surprised her, he grasped her hand to his chest. “The raiders, milady.”
Isabel gasped. “Where, Abel? Where?” He lay quiet, but breath stirred against her hand. She grabbed his tunic and shook him. “Where?” she screamed, her voice on the edge of hysteria.
“The glade, near the river,” he murmured.
Rohan stood. “Do you know of this place?”
“Yea, ’tis several leagues from here.”
Rohan turned to his men. “To arms.” As they set about readying their mounts, Rohan turned back to Isabel. “Tell me of these raiders.”
She swallowed hard and bent back to Abel. “They came almost a fortnight ago just after we received word of Harold’s fall. They seem more bent on destruction than anything else. They take what they need until they need again. Two days before you came, they were so bold as to come to the edge of the village and attack. They may have been the same who befell your man.”
“Do they bear a coat of arms?”
“Nay, they cover their faces with dark hoods, and they fly no standard. I think mayhap they could be Vikings from Stamford Bridge looking for revenge.”
“They will find themselves revealed this day.”
Isabel stood and grabbed his arm. “Allow me to show you the way to the glade. I have a sturdy mare.”
Rohan’s eyes widened in surprise. He almost smiled. “You never cease to amaze me, damsel. I will see you stay here.”
“But there are several glades. I know—”
“I can show you the way,” Russell said, stepping forward.
Rohan scowled, staring down at the boy. But the youth regarded Rohan with quiet strength. “What of your back?”
“It pains me not.”
Rohan scoffed but nodded. “If you think you have what it takes to ride with me, then find yourself a suitable mount. Go to Hugh, my squire. He will see you properly outfitted.”
Rohan turned back to Isabel, who had sunk down beside her fallen man. She looked up with teary eyes. “Abel gave his final sacrifice for my father.” She closed his eyes and crossed herself several times. Rohan helped her to stand.
“Stay within the protection of the hall, Isabel. I know not if these raiders mean to draw us out. I will have plenty of men to guard and protect, but there is too much danger for you to be about.”
Isabel scanned his eyes; they seemed to soften. In spite of his harsh words and deeds, did he perhaps hold some affection for her? If ’twere true, it would make her less prickly toward him. When she did not answer, he harshly said, “No argument. For many reasons, I do not wish to have to pay a ransom for you.”
Before she could offer a sharp word at yet another of his callous barbs, Rohan stalked off.
Several moments later, the devil’s Huns thundered away from Rossmoor. For a long moment, Isabel stood and watched the dark mass of man, horse, and weaponry as it disappeared into the thick forests. If there was one good thing that came of Rohan’s presence, it was that the raiders would think twic
e before engaging again, and she admitted ’twas better they were in Rohan’s hands and not in the hands of that devil Henri de Monfort. For had he arrived first, Isabel knew full well she would no longer possess the thin skin between her thighs that made her a virgin. She shivered and ran her hands up and down the thin fabric of her gown. Be that as it may, she knew her days to remain intact were severely numbered. Oath or no, she could see the Norman breeching her in the heated throes of passion.
A harsh wind ripped at her dress, bringing her back to the present. Isabel looked up to see several villagers staring at her. Her eyes went to Abel, then to the group of men. “Take him to his wife, and see to it he is buried.” With a heavy heart, Isabel moved back into the hall. A priest. They must have a priest to bless the many graves.
Eight
“Milady!” a man’s voice cried out. Isabel turned to see Ralph the smithy hurry across the bailey, craning his neck back and forth like a swinging noose. Hunch-shouldered as if trying to make himself small and insignificant, he hugged the stone wall as he entered the courtyard, continuing to look fearfully about.
Several of Rohan’s men scowled his way, and one, the knight Warner, kept a wary eye on the smith. Isabel hurried to him. As soon as he could hear, she said, “Act as if you come to the manor every day, Ralph. You bring too much attention to yourself with your skittish movements.”
Isabel turned then. As he caught up and fell in step with her in a slow, unhurried pace, she walked toward the manor.
“Forgive me, Lady Isabel,” Ralph huffed, out of breath.
“But I am unused to these foreigners in my home.”
Isabel nodded but kept her pace slow and even. “I understand, but so long as they are here, let us not give them cause to do more harm than they already have.”
Ralph spit. “Had I a sword!”
Isabel shushed him, and they entered the hall, stopping at the forward hearth that warmed the aft portion of the hall. It was also where the villagers ate and came to see to the lord’s business and where the hounds were leashed. The upper hall where Manhku rested, along with the lord’s table, was where the nobles resided. And, Isabel thought, the Normans who acted as if all was theirs. And William had yet to be crowned!
Isabel bent to let several of the hounds free. As she did, Ralph moved closer and whispered, “Milady, many villagers hide in the forests, near the caves. They are hungry, and many are wounded. You are our only hope.”
She turned to look up at him and nearly screamed. Warner stood only a few feet from Ralph. He fondled the hilt of his sword, his dark eyes narrowed, and he stepped closer still.
“Is privacy now against Norman law?” Isabel intentionally asked in English.
Warner’s scowl deepened. “It would please me, Lady Isabel, if you would speak my tongue,” the knight responded in French.
Isabel nodded, her suspicions confirmed. Sir Warner did not speak her tongue. “I beg your pardon, sir knight. I but asked if privacy was now against Norman law.”
Warner nodded and smiled a crooked smile. The scar on his chin tightened with the gesture. He was a handsome man whom under different circumstances Isabel could find herself admiring. Of all of Rohan’s men, he seemed the most interested in bridging the great divide that separated Norman and Saxon, while Rohan seemed to be the one most bent on widening it.
“Nay, Lady Isabel. In times of war, etiquette does not exist. Not even on the battlefield.”
Isabel curtsied and smiled a trite, forced smile. “Of course, Sir Warner. How foolish of me to expect more from a Norman.” She looked him directly in the eye. “If you will pardon me, my man Ralph brings me news of the village. He speaks only English.”
Warner nodded but did not move from them. Instead, he leaned up against the hearth and reached down to scratch a hound behind the ears. “Feel free to discuss your affairs.”
Isabel turned from the arrogant knight. She would have the last laugh on them all. In English, she said to Ralph, “He does not understand our gentle tongue. Speak freely to me, but do it in a manner such that he believes we discuss the daily business of Alethorpe.”
Ralph nodded, and before he started, he cast a wary eye on the knight, who regarded him with cool disdain.
“Deep in the great forest of Menloc, a group from Wilshire gathers, as well as many people from our village. They fear the Normans. They are tired and hungry, and many have festering wounds.”
With the toe of her shoe, Isabel poked at an ember that jumped from the hearth to the stone floor near her foot. In a slow, grinding motion, she snuffed the heat from it. “I cannot bring food, Ralph, but”—she bit her bottom lip and tried hard not to look at the Norman knight—“methinks I have a way to deplete the stores under the Norman’s nose. I will gather the healing basket. Then I will meet you behind the stable along the south wall.”
“Aye, near the rubble break.”
Isabel nodded. Ralph swept a narrowed gaze at Warner, who stood staring at them both as if he understood every word they said. Isabel felt her cheeks warm. It was difficult to remain calm when she was about to defy Rohan’s orders.
“The Norman guards you well. How will you rid yourself of this unwanted shadow?”
Isabel smiled and put her hand on his forearm. “Leave that to me. Now, let me sway the Norman.”
Isabel turned a serene face up to Warner. He immediately stiffened. She smiled and softly said in French, “You have nothing to fear from me, Sir Warner. I only ask a small favor of you.” Skeptically, he nodded for her to continue. “Sir Warner, Ralph has explained to me that there are many villagers who are ailing and have not eaten in several days. Our stores are full. I ask that you give him permission to take from them to feed my people.”
Warner scowled, uncertainty clouding his features.
Isabel touched his arm. “Sir, the people require nourishment to survive.”
Warner continued to scowl at her. It was clear he held no trust of her.
“Would you and your fellow knights tend the fields and the sheep when there are no churls left to tend them?”
She knew the moment she won. He straightened, and his eyes cleared. “I’ll have a man see to it.”
Isabel pressed her hand more firmly on his arm. “’Tis not necessary. You Normans scare my people. Allow Ralph to go unsupported so that they may sup in peace.” When he gave no further word, she smiled and squeezed his arm, then stepped back. “My thanks, Sir Warner.”
Isabel hastened to inform Ralph of what she was about. “See to several families, and when the time is right, slip out the back of one of the huts, and meet me with the cart.”
Ralph’s eyes danced in humor, but Isabel gave him a stern look. No need to alert the Norman that he was being played for a fool. As Ralph moved toward the kitchen, Isabel moved toward the great hearth and the Saracen. Warner followed close behind.
Isabel stared down at the sleeping giant. His wound gaped, but it did not fester so much. She bent to her task. Several times as she cleaned, packed, then bound the leg, the African stirred. As she wrapped the last of the linens around his thigh, his dark eyes opened, and she frowned at him. “Stay down, Manhku, or lose your leg.”
He growled softly, more like a puppy than a great dog, but closed his eyes, and soon his snores filled the hall. Isabel looked up at Warner, who offered his hand to her. She placed hers in his, and he drew her up. “Thank you, Sir Warner. Now, if you will excuse me, I should like to change my clothes and freshen up. I have much that needs my attention this day.”
“I have been entrusted to secure your safety this day, damsel. Do not play me the fool in Rohan’s eye.”
A quick stab of guilt flittered through Isabel’s chest. But her path was clear. Her people came first, and did not Sir Warner say only moments before that there were no rules of etiquette in war?
“I doubt, Sir Warner, that you could ever look the fool to Rohan.” Isabel grabbed her basket of herbs and hurried up the great stairway to the lady’s solar, whe
re she quickly changed into sturdier clothes.
Moments later, with her basket replenished and laden with herbs, balms, and linens, Isabel slipped out of the room. Casting a wary glance over her shoulder, she held her breath. Warner stood at the end of the hall leading to the stairway. In a slow backward motion, Isabel moved down the hallway. As Warner turned, she pressed back into a shallow alcove. Her heart beat so hard in her chest she thought for sure it would rip her open. The hard, cold stones dug into her back.
After several long moments, when no sound emerged, she dared to peek. With Warner’s back once again to her, Isabel darted around the bend of the hallway to the next stairway. On one side, there was a thick wooden door that led to the old chambers of the manor and down to the kitchens. Some were still fit for habitants, but mostly they were used for storage. Across from the door was stone.
Isabel reached up as high as she could on her toes and felt along the protruding ledge of a ruggedly hewn block. She pressed her fingertips up and down until she heard a small snap. She smiled. Several larger blocks moved forward, a door, leading to a secret passageway to the back of the manor and into the forests.
Her smile tightened as she remembered her mischievous brother. Close in age as they were, Geoff had always included her in his adventures. One had been the discovery by accident of the secret passageway. Many a time, they hid from their father in the dark recesses of the dank stairway when he stormed the hall demanding that his children perform loathsome tasks.
Her heart ached for her brother. When he had gone to foster with Harold, she had been devastated. But Geoff had returned regularly, and once he’d earned his spurs, he resided more oft than not at Rossmoor.
Quickly, she slipped through the narrow opening into the dark, dank stairway. Isabel nearly dropped her basket as the odious stench of excrement assailed her senses. The drop to the cesspool ran along the passage. She gagged several times before she managed to gather herself and feel her way down the slippery steps, using the wall as her guide.