Norwyck's Lady

by Margo Maguire

  Eleanor touched the woman’s hair. She frowned and pulled her lower lip between her teeth. “Will she die up here in Mama’s tower?” she asked, looking up at her elder brother.

  Bart clenched his jaw. He hadn’t given that possibility a thought, never considering how it would affect his brothers and sisters. “Nay, little goose,” he said. “She’ll not die in Norwyck Keep if I have aught to say about it.”

  Eleanor looked back at the lady. Her gaze was thoughtful, wistful. “She is very pretty,” the child said. “Will she wake up soon?”

  “Ellie, I have no more answers for you,” he said as he raked the fingers of one hand through his hair. He’d seen men injured like this during the campaign in Scotland. Some of them never awakened at all, and the thought of this lady’s certain death did not settle well with him. “Run along and find Sir Walter for me. Have him send for the healer in the village.”

  “She’s starting to move a bit more,” Alice Hoget said, placing a cool poultice on the survivor woman’s head. Night had fallen, and a terrible storm with it, yet the victim remained unconscious. How long could this go on? How long would it be necessary for her to remain at Norwyck?

  “What do you think?” Bartholomew asked. An odd restlessness possessed him. He paced the length of the room while Alice examined the woman and did what she could, which was frighteningly little.

  “What I think is that she took a blow to the head and was thrown overboard,” Alice said in her frank manner. “’Tis a wonder she made it to the beach alive. She’s lucky she didn’t drown.”

  Bartholomew scowled and resumed his pacing. ’Twould have been better if he’d let her die out there on the beach. Less trouble for him. And no doubt less trouble for the woman whose wounds would likely kill her, anyway.

  Yet he hadn’t been able to abandon her to the elements. Even though he no longer had any fondness for women, the thought of leaving her on the beach had never even crossed his mind.

  “What I mean is—will she recover?”

  “No bones broke, only a rap on the head.” The old healer picked up the lamp, then lifted the unconscious woman’s eyelids. “Look,” she said. “The blacks of her eyes shrink with the light. It means she’ll be coming out of it soon.”

  “How do you know that?” Bartholomew asked.

  “Experience,” she replied as she gathered her things together. “Seen plenty of people knocked senseless. ’Tis not unusual for a body to remain in this state for a day or more.”

  “You mean she could stay this way for more than a day?”

  “Aye, m’lord,” Alice said. “Though this one’s showing signs of coming ’round.”

  Bart scowled at Alice, then turned his sour expression on the woman in the bed. Alice ignored him as she collected her things and shuffled out of the chamber, leaving Bartholomew alone with the stranger…and his dismal thoughts.

  He ceased his pacing and sat on a chair near the bed. The sooner the woman came to her senses, the better, he thought. Then he would send her on her way to wherever she’d been going when her ship had gone down. Likely she’d been en route to one of the southern harbors, but had been blown off course by the storm. That very thing had often been known to happen, though the ships did not usually sink.

  Bart picked up one of her hands. The nails were nicely shaped, and the skin was soft. This woman could be naught but a lady with hands like these. Her face was finely shaped, too, and Bart was certain that someone would soon come looking for her.

  The sudden, distant clanging of the church bell had him on his feet in an instant. ’Twas not time for services, and there was only one other reason for the bell to ring: the village was under attack.

  Without another glance at the unconscious woman, Bart left the chamber and fairly flew down the steps. On the first landing, he met a footman who’d been sent to summon him.

  “My lord, Armstrong men are raiding the village!”

  “Go out to the stable and see that my squire has my armor and horse ready,” Bart said as they quickly descended to the main hall together. “I’ll be there directly.”

  Eleanor sat tearfully at the great table in the hall, with John’s arm around her. Kathryn stood stoically near the fireplace. Henry, thrusting his chest out, approached Bartholomew as he crossed the hall. “I’m coming with you,” he said.

  “Nay,” Bart replied. His brothers should have been sent out to foster at a neighboring estate, but circumstances in recent years had prevented it. Therefore, their training was lacking. He would not send the boys out to battle until they were ready. “Stay here and defend the keep and your sisters. The servants will look to you for direction.”

  “But, Bart—”

  “That is my final word, Hal,” he said, as he crossed the great hall toward the main door. He stopped short when he reached it, and turned back to his younger brother. “I intend to bring back the head of Lachann Armstrong. Make sure there’s a stout pike in the courtyard to put it on.”

  Chapter Two

  Lightning slashed across the sky and thunder crashed all ’round them. Only the whoreson Armstrongs would mount an attack in this kind of weather. They’d managed to torch a few cottages and rout half a herd of cattle into the hills before Bartholomew and his knights met the attack, with a ferocity that quickly had the Armstrongs retreating to their own land.

  Trudging through a heavy downpour, Bart’s men chased the Scots across hills and muddy dales, but the cowardly Armstrongs managed to melt away into their hidey-holes. Bart had had enough of battles to last a lifetime, and he wished the Armstrong would desist with his warring ways.

  Yet, ever since William’s death, the Scottish laird had made it his personal mission to destroy Norwyck. Bart assumed ’twas to pay for his and William’s part in the recent Scottish wars.

  To Bart’s supreme disappointment, the Scots disappeared entirely by dawn. Bartholomew had no choice but to turn back without his enemy’s head, though he’d managed to cut down a goodly number of the raiding Scots.

  He had not given a thought to the woman in the east tower, but as he dismounted before the stone steps of the keep, he wondered in passing if she had awakened yet from her stupor.

  The light in the chamber was dim, but that did not account for her blurred vision. Naught was clear, not even her hand when she studied it up close. What was wrong? What had happened to her eyes?

  “Oh my!” someone cried. “You’re awake!”

  English. The woman had spoken English, and for some reason, the sound was strange and unfamiliar. Yet she understood the words.

  “Would you like a sip of water?” the woman asked, leaning over her. She was able to make out light hair and a dark gown, but the facial features were unclear.

  She nodded and accepted help in drinking from a mug.

  “I’ll just go and tell Lord Norwyck that you’ve come ’round,” the servant said.

  “L-Lord…Norwyck?” she queried, trying out the English words.

  “Aye,” the voice replied. “You’re in the keep at Norwyck Castle. Lord Norwyck himself carried you here from the beach.”

  “Norwyck…carried me?” She swallowed dryly and furrowed her brows, only to wince at the pain it caused. Naught made sense to her. Norwyck. Norwyck Keep. ’Twas wholly unfamiliar.

  “Aye, he did. When you washed up on shore.” The servant was suddenly gone, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

  They were surprisingly vacant.

  She could not think why she’d have “washed up” on a shore. She had been…Where?

  Her stomach did a flip when she realized that she could not remember anything specific. There were faces, and strange places, but she could not name any of them. Her memory was gone, and her sight was poor. What was she to do?

  Panic seized her. Her heart pounded and her breathing became erratic. She could not even remember her own name! She did not know where she’d come from, or how she had gotten here.

  Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, s
he felt a wave of nausea nearly overcome her. Even so, she could not lie here and wait for someone to take care of her. ’Twas not in her nature to be so passive, though how she could be certain of that, she did not know. It just did not seem right to remain abed and wait for answers.

  Light-headedness made her falter, but she moved away from the bed in spite of it. She was bruised and sore all over, with a knot at the side of her forehead and a gash along her shinbone. At least these seemed to be the worst of her injuries. The hazy vision alarmed her, too, but she had no way of knowing whether she’d always had poor eyesight. She doubted it, since it seemed so strange to her.

  Almost as disturbing as her injuries was that she was naked. She was fully and completely exposed, and there did not seem to be any clothing within reach. Squinting, she extended her arms to feel for any objects in her path, nearly tripping over a chair in her attempt to reach what she thought was a gown draped over a chair.

  ’Twas just a woolen shawl.

  The sudden sound of footsteps and voices came to her, and she knew she could not make it back to the bed quickly without tumbling over something. She grabbed the shawl and held it up before her just as the door opened.

  Bart stopped in his tracks at the entrance of the tower room, holding back his brothers and Eleanor, who had come to see the wounded woman.

  “Go back down, and I’ll come and get you when…er, when I…” He swallowed.

  “Come on, Bart,” Henry said, pushing at his brother’s back. “Let us through.”

  “Nay,” he replied, frowning as the woman stood gazing at him blankly. Her body was partially covered by the wool shawl that usually rested upon the back of one of the chairs, leaving most of her body bared to his view.

  Awake, she was exquisite. His eyes raked over her, from the delicate bones at her shoulders to the swell of her barely concealed breasts, then down to hips that were not entirely covered by the shawl, to sweetly dimpled knees and slender ankles.

  His siblings shoved him from behind. When he finally found his voice, he ordered them away. “Go! Go and…and I’ll be down shortly.” He turned and slammed the door, barring it, and ignoring the pounding that came from the other side.

  ’Twas naught compared to the pounding in his skull, in his chest, in his groin. She was beauty and grace, angelic and dangerously seductive.

  Tearing his gaze away, he cursed under his breath. He knew better than to allow a comely form to cloud his thoughts. She was a woman, no more and no less. Fully capable of the most devious treachery.

  He would allow her to stay until she was steady on her feet. But then she had to go.

  “Wrap the shawl more securely, if you don’t mind,” he said coolly as he walked toward her.

  She fumbled with the heavy wool as she stepped back, and lost her footing. Bart lunged and caught her before she fell, and lifted her into his arms.

  Her naked flesh felt absurdly enticing. She had only covered the front of her body—and not very well at that—leaving her back entirely bare. Her skin felt smooth, warm.

  Her eyes were an unusual light green, edged in blue, framed by dark lashes. Bart did not believe he’d ever seen eyes like hers before, but they were unfocused, confused. Her predicament touched him. To have survived such an ordeal, possibly to have lost her family in such a terrible way, was unspeakable.

  Inuring himself against any feelings of pity, he set her on the bed and tossed the blankets over her. Whatever had happened was done. It had naught to do with him. He would allow this woman to remain at Norwyck until she was well enough to travel, then send her on her way.

  When she began to tremble, Bart looked away.

  “My lord?”

  “You’re at Norwyck Castle,” he said, keeping his back to her. “Your ship went down in our waters.”

  “My…ship?”

  “As far as we know, you are the sole survivor,” he said, turning back to pierce her with his stony gaze. “And you are…?”

  She moistened her lips. “I…I…cannot remember,” she said simply.

  Bart stared at her mouth, unable to comprehend the meaning of her statement. Oh, he well understood what she’d said, but he did not know quite what she meant.

  “You cannot remember?”

  “N-nay, my lord,” she said. She fought to keep a tremor from her voice, but Bart refused to be taken in by that manipulative wile. ’Twas one his late wife had used to great effect. “I awoke without knowledge of who I am or w-where I belong.”

  Bart chortled without humor. How was it possible that she did not remember who she was? She must think him a fool to believe such a tale.

  He walked to the eastern window and gazed out to sea. He did not care to look at her now, not with that impossibly vulnerable expression in her eyes, nor the lies on her tongue.

  “So. You have no idea who you are, or from whence you came,” he said. “What, exactly, do you remember?”

  She hesitated long enough that he was just about to turn to her, but then she murmured, “I remember…only s-snatches of things. A face, a garden…children. I…I—”

  Bart pushed away from the wall and turned to her. “You’ll pardon me if I find your story difficult to believe,” he said derisively. He crossed the room, looking back at her only when he’d reached the chamber door. “You will need clothes. I’ll have a maid bring something suitable to you. When next I see you, mayhap you’ll have a more believable tale to tell.”

  With those parting words, he was gone.

  She turned away from the door and blinked back tears. Not only was she unable to remember anything of substance, but something was terribly wrong with her eyes. The lord’s attitude was quite obviously hostile, as if her turning up at Norwyck had somehow offended him or caused him undue hardship.

  Well, she would just remove herself from this place. There had to be someone who could direct her to a more hospitable dwelling, a place with a less frightening master. As soon as she had clothes to wear, she would get as far from Norwyck as possible.

  If only she could remember. She wracked her brain trying to place the images that came to mind, but was unable to make anything coherent of them. The face of a woman…some blond children…a field of flowers…

  Someone entered the chamber, and she looked up to see the shadowy form of a child. A child with bright red hair, certainly not one of the children she’d seen in her mind.

  “My lady?” the girl said as she approached the bed.

  She cleared her throat. “Yes…”

  “I am Eleanor,” the child said, “sister to Bartholomew.”

  She must have looked quizzically at the child because the youngster clarified, “Bartholomew Holton, Earl of Norwyck.”

  “Oh,” she replied numbly. Bartholomew was the bad-tempered man who’d just left her.

  “I’ve brought you some…What is it?” the child asked.

  “My eyes.”

  “Your eyes are beautiful, my lady,” the girl said as she placed something on the bed. “So clear and bright.”

  She shook her head, sending sharp spears of pain through her skull. Lying back on the bed, she swallowed back a wave of nausea. “Nay, they are not clear. I cannot see.”

  “You are blind?” the child asked, astonished.

  “Not quite,” she replied, “but I might as well be. Everything I see is hazy. Blurred.”

  “Like when I squeeze my eyes almost closed and look at you?”

  “Something like that.”

  “How terrible,” the child replied, placing a small hand on her forearm. “How do you manage? I mean if you’re—”

  “I do not know,” she said. “I don’t know if I’ve always been like this, or if…Nay. This malady seems too unfamiliar. I could not have suffered it before….”

  “I do not understand, my lady.”

  She hesitated. Would a child—even this child, who seemed so bright, so interested—ever understand?

  “I—I seem to have lost my memory.”

&nb
sp; Silence filled a long, empty interval, and she could feel the little girl’s eyes upon her. Finally, the child spoke, her voice alight with wonder and puzzlement.

  “You’ve lost your…You mean you cannot remember—”

  “I cannot remember anything,” she whispered in reply.

  “Did the wreck take your memories away?”

  “I suppose so, though I have no way of know—”

  “Your name! You do not even remember your name?”

  She fought back tears. “Nay. I do not know who I am. Or where I belong.” She did not even know if English was her own language. It seemed familiar to her in an odd, distant way.

  Eleanor made a small sound, then walked around to the other side of the bed. “Will you ever remember it?” The girl’s voice was full of astonishment and sympathy.

  She felt the child’s interested gaze upon her.

  “I do not know.”

  “What will we call you, then?” the child asked.

  She bit her lip and tamped down the panic that threatened to overwhelm her again. Who was she? She tried to think of a name that seemed to fit, but could not. Naught seemed familiar, and trying to force the memory only made her head hurt more. “I have no idea.”

  “Then we’ll just have to give you a new name,” the child said excitedly. “I will share my name with you. We’ll call you Eleanor…. Nay.” It sounded as if the girl was frowning. “That would be too confusing, with two of us. I know!” The voice brightened. “We’ll call you after King Edward’s wife—Marguerite!”

  “’Tis as g-good a name as any, I suppose,” she replied, though it, too, sounded utterly unfamiliar.

  “Oh, I forgot!” Eleanor said. “I brought you some clothes. Bartie sent a maid to do it, but I came in her stead.”

  “I thank you, Lady Eleanor,” Marguerite replied, somewhat buoyed by the girl’s exuberance. “Tell me, is there a shift or chemise I can put on now? I seem to have…lost all my clothes somehow.”

  Eleanor sorted through the stack that she’d brought, and held up something long and white. “This will do,” she said. “Shall I help you?”