by Karin Tabke
She smiled as she slid into the front pew and saw that some devout soul had lit several candles. Her muscles relaxed in this most sacred of places. She had always found comfort here. She crossed herself and sank to her knees. She closed her eyes tightly and prayed for a priest. She prayed for her father and her brother, and she prayed for all of England, and as she was about to say amen, she crossed herself again and prayed for Rohan’s black soul.
As she lit several more candles, the shout of the lookout announcing that riders approached swept away her easing tension. She knew the riders would not be welcome. For the first time that day, Isabel wished for Rohan’s hasty return. She moved to the doorway of the chapel and pulled back the door to peek out. Her heart missed a beat. Henri.
He strode straight toward her. Isabel turned and quickly moved back to the pew she had just sat in. She sank to her knees and crossed herself several times. Henri would not dare harm her in the house of God.
The door opened with a slam. The sound jerked her around to stare at a man who resembled Rohan in all ways but one. Henri’s eyes were almost brown, and his face bore no scars. But there was something more. As he pulled his helmet from his head and pushed back his cowl, his short hair, cropped in the Norman fashion, stuck to his forehead. His eyes smoldered. Yet behind the superficial passion there, a cold evil lurked.
“Milord,” Isabel breathed, feigning surprise and also feigning calmness. She smiled and gave him a short curtsy. “I did not expect to see you again so soon. Rohan rides to the south, but his return is imminent.”
Henri took her hand and brought it to his lips. She expected them to be cold like his heart, but they were surprisingly warm. Her hand trembled. Not in the excitement his brother drew from her but in fear.
“I did not come to see my bastard brother, Lady Isabel. I admit, I came for you. I could not wait to see you again, damsel. Your beauty has haunted my dreams.”
Isabel attempted to pull her hand from his, but he tightened his fingers around her. He pulled her closer to him. He smelled of sweaty horse and leather and ale, but underlying those scents was the stench of death. Isabel yanked her hand from his and moved away, putting the pew between them.
“I am not one to mince words. Tell me what you desire, and if it is in my power to give you, I will then see you gone.”
He smiled. His teeth were as white and straight as his brother’s. “I want you,” he softly said. Isabel shook her head. “Aye, Isabel. And I want you now. Come to me, we haven’t much time.”
She shook her head again, not believing what was happening.
Henri darted around the pew with such quickness Isabel cried out. He grabbed her by the waist and pulled her struggling form against his mailed chest. She opened her mouth to scream, and he kissed her. Isabel fought harder. She twisted her head away from him, but he grabbed her hair and pulled her back so hard her back arched and her breasts jutted out toward him. He pushed her arms behind her back and with his left hand clasped her wrists. With his right hand, he grabbed her breast and squeezed. Isabel screamed and stomped on his foot. She howled in pain. His boot was hard.
Henri laughed at her piteous attempt to thwart him. He shoved his knee between her thighs and hiked up her skirts.
“’Tis sacrilege!” she screamed. “We are in a house of God.”
“Mayhap your God, damsel, but not mine.” Henri moved her toward the altar and cleared it with one long sweep of his arm. He shoved her onto it. Isabel rolled over away from him and silently begged God’s forgiveness as she grabbed the goblet used for the communion wine. He yanked her back to face him. Isabel slammed the heavy vessel against his head with all her might. He howled in pain, his hand loosened, and it was enough. Isabel twisted away from him on the other side of the altar and ran for the door.
“Bloodthirsty bitch!” he called after her.
Isabel tore through the courtyard, and instead of running straight for the manor, where he could trap her, she ran for the village. Several of Henri’s men who lounged about rose to attention as they saw her running their way.
“Seize her!” Henri screamed from behind her. Isabel was light and fleet, they were heavy and encumbered with mail. She darted between two men as they lunged for her. She would have found their thudding bodies as they crashed together amusing on any other day. Isabel continued to run toward the bailey, where several people stopped to watch the drama unfold. The sharp cry of the lookout announcing approaching riders on the horizon spurred her to move faster. She dared not hope for rescue. It could be more of Henri’s men.
In her wild flight, she heard shrill Saxon voices erupt not far away. Dear God, her people were fighting Henri! They did not stand a chance. But she could not help them. She must draw Henri and his men as far from the village as possible.
As Isabel crested a small knoll, she dared to look over her shoulder. She screamed. Though she was half the well-born knight’s size and did not sport the heavy mail, even in full battle garb, Henri was a large, strong man with a long, strong stride. He was right behind her. Behind Henri, a swarm of her people descended on two of Henri’s men. Two more followed their master.
Isabel zigzagged down the hill and away from more villagers, hoping the others would stay away from Henri and his men. For if they got too close, the Norman would surely hack them to pieces. The tree line was just ahead. If she could get to it, she would have the advantage. Just as she passed the edge of the village and broke for the trees, Isabel stumbled on a stump she did not see. She hit the ground and rolled. Springing back up, she moved to continue her flight. But it was too late. Henri grabbed her. His great weight slammed her into the hard November earth. The force of the hit knocked all breath from her, and she saw only black. Isabel squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them. Henri grinned above her. “I would wager, Isabel, you are more sport than I bargained for.” He grabbed a hank of her hair and pulled her face up to meet his. “I will take you here in the wood, as a stag takes a doe.”
He dragged her toward the trees. Isabel stumbled as he pushed her harder. Once they had broken through the tree line, he spun her around, and while he held her with one hand, he pulled the slit in his clothing aside. He shoved her to the ground, and she squeezed her eyes shut, not wanting to see his engorged member. “It will give me great pleasure to give my brother my bastard.” Henri sank to his knees and flung her over. He intended to take her from behind! He grasped the hem of her dress and shoved it up, exposing her bottom.
“It will give me great pleasure, Henri, to geld you,” Rohan said from behind them.
Isabel cried out and rolled from the blackhearted brother. Henri grabbed her and pressed his dagger to her throat. “Aye, but at what cost, brother?”
Rohan dismounted from the great horse. He was not alone. His knights fanned out behind him, all of them with arrows notched and strung in their long bows. They were a most awesome sight.
Henri’s men, who had joined the chase, stood back.
“Harm the maid, and you pay with your life,” Rohan said quietly.
“It is that simple?” Henri asked.
Rohan nodded. “Aye.”
“The life of a Saxon slave is of no consequence to William,” Henri proclaimed. “But the son of one of Normandy’s greatest families? I doubt there would be a large enough penalty to pay, Rohan.”
Rohan pointed his sword at Henri’s chest. “If you would like to find out, I am willing.”
Henri pressed the tip of the dagger to Isabel’s throat. He laughed heartily. “Look at her throat, Rohan. By these marks, I suspect she likes rough play. And ’tis not by my hand.” Rohan’s eyes narrowed. Henri laughed. “She has played you for the fool. When I found her in the chapel, she was begging your God for forgiveness for her shameful acts.”
“’Tis a lie!” Isabel shrieked.
She met Rohan’s narrowed stare. She saw doubt there. Did he think she—?
“Aye, she meets her betrothed not far from here,” Henri lied.
Th
ough he wore his helmet, Isabel could see Rohan scowled.
“She is no virgin, brother. You have been cuckolded!” Henri threw her at Rohan. “Have her, I do not wish to be third with this piece.”
Isabel landed at Rohan’s feet. She sprang up and lunged at Henri’s back, pummeling him. “Liar!”
He turned, raising his arm to backhand her, but found it seized by Rohan’s fist. “For every mark you put on her, I will put three times as many on you.”
Henri grinned a nasty smile and flung Rohan’s hand from him. “I never thought I would see the day you place a woman above blood, brother. Good riddance. May she spill the Saxon’s bastard before she spills yours.” Henri stalked past Rohan but turned and gave notice. “I had come by to warn you, Rohan, there are marauders about. Just past the Dunsworth border, there was an attack last eve. The louts seem bent on simple destruction. What was left of my churls was not recognizable.”
Rohan faced his brother and nodded. “Aye, I will keep an eye out for them. But should you meet them before I do, give this message for me.” Rohan stepped toward his brother, stopping only a horse length away. “When I hunt them down, they will burn alive.”
Henri’s lips twisted into a sadistic smile. “I would pay good silver to see it.”
“You may be present for free,” Rohan said, his voice low and threatening.
Henri’s eyes sparked, and for a moment Isabel swore she saw a flash of fear. While she did not understand the full scope of Rohan’s threat, Henri did.
Henri opened his mouth to retort, but he must have thought better of it, for he turned and strode back to his horse. His men followed.
When Rohan turned back to her, a glower marked his features. He sheathed his sword as he walked toward her. When he stopped, Rohan stood silent, looking hard at her as if to assess the truth of his brother’s words.
A hard trembling wracked her. Henri’s lies did not affect her half as much as the thought that Rohan believed them.
“I will not defend myself to you, Rohan. You will think what you will.”
He moved a step closer, close enough that he could brush her hair from her neck. When he did, his scowl deepened. “How came you by these marks?”
Isabel kept his stare. What would he do to his man if he knew Manhku had attacked her? She shouldn’t care. They were all her enemy. Let them kill one another in their bloodlust. But she could not name Manhku. She was overfed with blood and death. She did not want to be responsible for what may follow.
“It has been a long, tedious day. I do not know.”
Rohan wrapped his gauntleted hand around her throat and squeezed. The pressure hurt. Tears erupted. She was so weary of this game of war. “You lie.” He released her and stepped back. “And I do not deal well with liars.”
He turned his back to her and called to the villagers who had gathered behind his men. “See to your lady.” Then he mounted his horse and galloped up the hill to the manor.
Fourteen
Fatigue took over both Isabel’s mind and her body, squeezing what little will she had left from her. As she allowed several of the village women to walk her back to the manor, Isabel realized it was the first time since her mother’s death some six years past when she wasn’t the one seeing to another’s needs.
And with that realization, more emotion poured out of her heart. Never once had she complained to her sire or her brother that while they were given the luxury of time to grieve, she was not. She was thrust into the role of lady of the manor before her mother’s body was cold. And she did not regret it or resent it; it was what had to be done. Had she not stepped up to the role, Alethorpe and its people would have suffered greatly, for Alefric became a stingy, bitter man after his wife’s passing. And only Isabel could soften him. So, for the sake of her sire, her brother, and the people who depended on the lord, Isabel put her own emotions aside. She did the same now. As weary and emotionally drained as she was, she would require only a short time of privacy to collect herself, then once again present the face of a lady in complete control of the manor, to her people and to the Normans who sought to rip it asunder.
When Isabel entered the hall, she caught Rohan’s angry stare from across the great divide. Though her energy was severely depleted, she squared her shoulders and presented a hardened front. Let Rohan think what he would of her. In her heart, she knew the truth, and at the end of the day it would be enough, for she had no one else to depend on. That understanding did more to knock her off balance than Rohan’s accusing glare.
She was utterly alone.
Rohan’s heated gaze followed her up the stairway. His men were quiet, several of them watching her as if assessing for themselves the validity of Henri’s words. Isabel leashed the urge to tell them all to go to the devil. How dare they question her virtue!
Having met her in the courtyard, Enid took Isabel’s elbow halfway up the stairway, forestalling the eruption the servant knew was imminent. Enid shooed the other women away, and instead of directing her mistress to the lord’s chamber, she guided Isabel down the hall to the lady’s solar.
Once in the room, Enid threw the bolt. “Norman swine!” she hissed.
Isabel sank to a cushioned hassock at the foot of the large bed. Enid fussed around her. “I’ll prepare a bath for you, milady. The blood of the village and the stench of the bastard’s brother cling to you like dung.”
In a fog, Isabel allowed her maid to undress her. “These are not fit to wear,” Enid scoffed, and tossed the bundle of clothing into the fire. She wrapped Isabel in a thick linen towel and set her back against the hassock. “Lie down, milady, and rest whilst I prepare your bath.”
Isabel did. As she closed her eyes and swallowed, the rawness of her throat reminded her of the day. Her chest tightened as she remembered not Henri’s attack on her but the way Rohan had looked at her, as if she were not fit to clean his chamber pot. Did he truly believe his brother? How could he? Rohan, of all men, knew how desperately she clung to her virtue. A hard sob wracked her chest, and try as she might, Isabel could not contain the tears. In silent protest, they slid down her cheeks. Eyes closed, she sucked in a huge breath and desperately wished for sleep. Wearily, she exhaled and prayed that when she awoke, the nightmare would be over.
Rohan wished for no company. Not even from his men, who having sensed his morose mood moved down to the far end of the hall and the hearth there. He wanted complete solitude. He wanted to throttle his brother for touching Isabel, and more than that, he wanted to force the truth from the maid. Yet he did nothing but stand in front of the roaring hearth and drink another cup of ale. ’Twas his fourth.
Once again, his pride waged a terrible war with feelings he did not understand. When Henri pushed up Isabel’s skirts and laid her bottom bare for all to see, Rohan felt an inexplicable rush of fury. And a foreign sense of propriety. He did not want his men or anyone else to see that part of Isabel that only he had seen. Or so he had thought. Did Henri taunt with lies, or did he speak the truth? Had the maid met with her betrothed? Was she with child?
Rohan cringed at the thought of her lying with another man. He tossed back the last of his ale. Nay, his gut told him. She was not with child, nor had she willingly given away her virtue. Since his coming, she had been watched.
His blood cooled. What of her time yesterday in the forest? She was alone for most of the day and into the evening hour. Mayhap Arlys met her there. The fine hairs on the back of Rohan’s neck stood straight up. Aye, she had slipped past Warner with little effort. Mayhap there was a secret passage in the manor. ’Twould make perfect sense. And mayhap they met that way.
Rohan gripped the cup in his hand so tightly his knuckles whitened. And what of those marks on her neck? They were fresh, the mark of a man’s hand boldly imprinted. No man in this manor would dare touch her for fear of his wrath. So? How had the marks gotten there? Did Isabel, as Henri suggested, like rough play? He knew of women like that. Indeed, he had had a few. And while he had never left su
ch marks, he could not be sure. For he never stayed long enough to see the face of his evening’s tumble. So, it was more than possible her marks had come in the throes of passion.
Rohan threw the cup into the fire and turned, determined to put his doubts to rest once and for all. He strode up the stairway to his chamber. When he flung the door open only to find the room cold and empty, his fury soared.
He left the room, slamming the door open so hard it crashed against the wall. He strode farther down the hall to the lady’s solar, where he saw Enid carrying in two great buckets of steaming water. He shoved her aside and burst through the door, intending to have it out with the damsel. He stopped short when he saw her small form curled up in a linen wrap on a hassock. He stepped closer. Her cheeks glistened with tears.
Something moved in Rohan then. Something so deep and so profound it terrified him. He had no words to explain what it was or what it meant. He just knew the woman who lay asleep before him was braver than ten of William’s knights combined.
When her body shuddered as she drew in a ragged breath, he stepped closer. She stirred, and the linen fell from her shoulders, catching on the high swell of her breasts.
God’s blood, she was beautiful. She moved again just slightly, but it was enough for the thick veil of hair to fall back from her neck. The bruises that marked her jumped out at him, mocking him for a fool.
Rohan moved closer and squatted beside the sleeping maid. Tracing a finger across the bruises, he marveled at the softness of her. Not able to stop, he trailed lower to the creamy rise of her breast. He watched her skin pucker in gooseflesh and her nipples rise below the fabric. His blood quickened, but so did his doubt, and with it his anger welled up again. Setting his jaw so hard he thought he would break his teeth, Rohan wanted to shake her until she told him the truth. He wanted to push up her skirts and ease himself within her body and know for sure that he was the first. Rohan stood and moved away from her. Aye, he could take her and know for certain. He’d hang the bloodied linens out for the entire shire to witness his taking of her. Not her betrothed, as Henri insinuated, and certainly not that most unnoble of nobles, his brother!