Читать книгу The Norman's Bride - Terri Brisbin, Terri Brisbin - Страница 13

He was a coward.

With the cold dampness seeping through his blanket and into his exhausted body, it became clear to him, and he smiled grimly as he realized the punishment for his cowardice. The torments of being on this road escorting his lord’s wife on her pilgrimage to Carlisle Abbey was probably as torturous as staying behind and facing the prospect of Isabel in her bath. Turning onto his side and pulling the meager blanket tighter, William knew assuredly that one hell was just as bad as the other.

William’s plans had been to leave before Wenda’s arrival at the cottage the next day. His services, already requested to escort the lord’s wife for a visit to the convent where her sister was prioress and her niece was a nun, was his ready excuse. He’d accepted the lord’s assignment with a speed that surprised even himself. Mayhap he’d known what was to come?

William de Severin, champion of numerous jousts and tournaments all over the Plantagenet kingdom on the continent and in England, was a coward after all. The victim of visions of a woman and a bath. It was all her fault, after all.

He’d been able to think of her as an injured stranger for all the weeks when she lay in his cottage, helpless and ailing. But when she spoke of her anticipation of a bath, a simple bath, his mind was suddenly filled with her as a woman.

He’d been able to fight the images until she asked for his aid in getting off the pallet that next morning. Isabel wanted to be seated at the table in order that Wenda could decide about removing her stitches and so the old woman would have to lean down no farther.

Placing his hands on her waist, he’d lifted her easily from the pallet. When her knees buckled at this first standing and his hands slipped up from her waist, he’d been granted a hint of the womanly attributes still hidden under the loose shift and gown she wore. The reality of the woman shocked him, for he had thought only of her as a stranger and never looked at what was in front of him all those weeks.

His attention followed his hands’ course and then her indrawn breath drew his attention. Without loosing his hold on her, he moved to her side and held out one hand for hers. Balancing her weight as in the step of a popular court dance he once knew, William eased her to the bench and guided her down to it. They were both out of breath when she settled on the bench.

She would not raise her eyes to him immediately, but took a few moments to position her splinted and trussed leg. From the way her lips pressed together and her brows wrinkled, he knew she was battling the significant pain of being on her broken leg for the first time.

William left her and came back with a mug of water. Isabel gulped it down in two swallows and the mug thunked back onto the table.

“Is there aught else you need?” he’d asked her. A strange awareness had been created in that moment of touch and he’d felt the strong need to be away, as though threatened in some way.

“I will just sit until Wenda arrives. My thanks for your help, Royce.” She lowered her eyes and fumbled with her skirt, rubbing on her leg to ease what he knew must be tightness and discomfort.

And then he ran.

Oh, he knew to outward appearances he strode purposefully from the cottage with his sword and scabbard in hand. He knew that he’d maintained a directed, self-composed pace until he’d reached the cover of the trees, and then he’d run as though chased by demons.

Or by the thoughts of a full-breasted woman within his embrace.

William shifted again on the hard ground where he lay and waited for the dawn. There would be no sleep this night, not with the memories of the soft-bodied woman who lay asleep in his home while he lay here. Sitting up, he slid back and leaned against a stout tree. It was not much later when Lady Margaret’s maid approached him with her lady’s call.

Lady Margaret sat within the dry, well-appointed travel tent that he and his men had erected the night before for her comfort on the road. ’Twas obvious that Lord Orrick supported his lady wife’s need to go on pilgrimage and had made her frequent journeys as comfortable as possible. That this was opposite of what was normally expected of pilgrims on their way to holy places for prayer and contemplation had surprised him the first time his escort had been asked. Now he’d grown accustomed to the many ways in which Lord Orrick indulged his wife.

“I seek your counsel, Royce.” Another of the indulgences of Lord Orrick was his lack of opposition to his wife calling his men by their given names. In many circles at court, this would have been an indication of some untoward attentions being given, but not here within Lord Orrick’s sphere of control.

William considered it another of the many eccentricities that seemed to govern life on the fringes of the Plantagenet kingdom in England. Left on their own, close to the wild Scottish borders, those who held land and power lived their lives according to their own standards. So long as their tribute in fighting men or in wealth of one kind or another arrived when requested, the king and his brother bothered them not. With King William of Scotland and King Richard’s agreement some years ago, the north of England lay in relative quiet while chaos in the kingdoms to the south, on the continent, held Plantagenet attentions.

“How may I help you, my lady?” William dropped the tent flap behind him and stepped closer.

“I rely on your opinions, as does my lord husband, and have a question for you.” The lady changed from the rough English tongue and now spoke to him in Norman French, their native language.

He nodded and waited for her question. She played this game often—speaking in a language not heard in the mostly Saxon northwest. If she had revealed this practice to Lord Orrick, he knew not, for Orrick never mentioned it to him and she did this only in private, with her maid as the only witness.

“While at the convent, should I mention or seek out information about a woman having been beaten and left on our property? So many people pass through its gates that surely someone may have heard or known the woman you harbor.”

William thought about her words. Since the prioress of the Gilbertine Abbey was her sister, Lady Margaret would have no problem seeking out information about such a woman. But he knew, just as surely, that someone did not want the woman now called Isabel to live. And that someone might very well still be in the area or be waiting to hear of anything that could link him to the attack. No, until Isabel had some sense of herself, the danger to her life still existed.

“I would listen, my lady, but ask nothing at this time.”

She smiled and nodded. “I understand, though what bothers me is the harshness of this. ’Tis easy enough these days to rid one’s self of an unwanted wife by putting her aside and placing her in a convent or other religious community. Having her killed is a bit excessive.”

“One would think so, my lady.” He had enjoyed her irreverent sense of humor since he’d been introduced to her. She was very different from Lord Orrick in temperament and upbringing, but it seemed that opposites did attract in their case.

“Then, unless words are offered, none will be given about this woman. Has she spoken of her life? Know you anything yet?” Lady Margaret motioned for him to sit in a chair next to her and he did so. Her maid offered him a cup of ale.

“She continues to live without knowledge of her past, or at least, none that she can speak of.” Lady Margaret nodded at him.

“But you suspect what?” Another thing he respected about the lady—her intelligence.

“She speaks as one noble-born. She has fleeting memories that speak of wealth. She knows of knights and squires and she knows our Norman French.”

Lady Margaret’s eyebrows rose at those revelations. “Is she aware that you know these things?”

“The French, yes. We exchanged a few words in it when she realized I understood it.”

He waited for the Lady Margaret’s reaction, for no one but she and her maid knew this about him. He’d sheltered his past from all in Silloth. She chose, and he recognized it for the conscious decision it was, to ignore this weakness on his part and offer her own suspicions.

“A lord’s bastard or leman? Both could have that same background—raised or living near the noble-born, exposed to the wealth and privilege of those in that rank.”

It was his turn to raise a brow. Never had she come so close to speaking of her truth to him before. He knew it, of course. He had heard the story many times both in his homeland of Anjou and at the court of Eleanor—although no one would have ever spoken of it in the queen’s presence. Then called Marguerite, she was the bastard of one of Henry’s closest allies in Anjou and her beauty and wit drew him like a bee to honey. She’d been Henry’s mistress for a number of years before overstepping her bounds and demanding marriage of the king.

Henry had, in his own way, said yes. But he’d married her off to Lord Orrick, in thanks for services rendered in his service in the north of England and Marguerite became Margaret. So far as he knew, she’d been the perfect English wife to the powerful lord. Her tale had been used for years to caution those women hungry to gain the royal gaze and attentions that, regardless of his volatile relationship with his queen, Henry would never voluntarily give up anything Eleanor had brought to their union.

“That is a possibility, of course. Until she remembers more, there is no way for us to know.”

Lady Margaret stood and handed her goblet to her maid. “Tell my husband when you return that she should be moved into the keep and placed in my care. When she is able, that is. Let Wenda guide us on that. As my sister would say, she has been delivered to us for a reason. We should be responsible in our care until we discern the Almighty’s reasons.”

“Aye, my lady.” He rose as she did and handed his cup over as well. “We will break our fast and be ready to leave anon.”

“I shall be ready, Royce.” When the last words were spoken once more in English, he knew their discussion was over.

There were no more private meetings during the rest of their two days of travel through Thursby and into Carlisle. William and his men delivered Lady Margaret to her sister’s abbey outside Carlisle and left the next morning to return to Silloth. If he forced the group to travel more quickly on their return, no one remarked on it. All knew that their pace was faster due to the lack of women, but William also knew he wanted to get back to see how Isabel was progressing. As Lady Margaret had said, he needed to be responsible in his care of their injured stranger.

They arrived later than he had planned and he was drawn into several hours of discussions with Orrick about the news from Carlisle and the building of the new stone wall around the keep. He accepted Orrick’s standing invitation to stay the night, but the dawn found him awake. In spite of Orrick’s assurances that a man had been sent to guard her, William could not fight the urge to return to his cottage and see to her safety.

It was an hour after dawn when he approached his home. As he dismounted from the horse that made his arrival sooner rather than later, he heard voices from inside. A man’s and a woman’s. No. Two women’s voices—Isabel’s and Avryl’s. William walked to the door and opened it.

The first thing he noticed was that she stared at him with wide, jade-green eyes and did not look away. Then he realized she was sitting up, on a chair in front of the hearth. And after nearly three years of taking notice of little and having even less interest than that in the way of things, he saw that her black hair reached to her hips.

The silence rose between them and he was aware of Avryl and young John who stood and watched. No words came to him. He searched for something to say and nothing happened. Except that he felt the rising tension in the room and knew he must stop it. Finally he took a breath and blurted out his first thoughts without censoring them for the others present.

“By the look of things, your bath went well.”

He watched the blush spread over her face, down her neck and below the collar of her gown. Isabel blinked several times and looked away from him. He listened to Avryl’s sudden intake of breath and tried to ignore the choking sound that young John made. The gangly youth with the scruffy growth of a first beard on his face stood protectively near Isabel. With a sinking feeling in his gut, William realized the personal nature of his words.

Inappropriate and personal. Well, they would be if he had not been taking care of her for weeks. Confused by the reaction in the room and the change from cheery to uncomfortable, William sought to explain himself.

“I did not seek to embarrass you, Isabel, and meant only that you look well. How are you feeling?”

He moved across the room and crouched in front of her, focusing on her. When closer to her, he could see the results of her injuries. Wenda had removed the numerous stitches from Isabel’s face, but the angry scar still outlined her from scalp to chin. More of the redness and bruising would go away with time; however, the area looked sore right now. Her nose carried a bump from its break that would never go away. William fought the urge to reach out and touch it.

“I am well, Royce. Avryl and John have been attending to me these last few days while you were gone.”

He stood and nodded at the two as they watched the exchange of words with some interest. “My thanks for looking after our guest.” The urge to sweep them out the door grew in him and they must have sensed his desire for them to leave. With a few murmured words of leaving, they rushed out of the cottage and strode off in the direction of the keep and village.

“John’s father made this chair for me. Wenda thought it might be more comfortable to sit in rather than lying on the pallet.”

“’Twould seem to make sense. This gives you much more support than the bench.” William sat on the bench himself. Looking over her face once more, he was surprised again by her appearance now.

“Now, without the blood and stitches to hide them, you are taking note of all of my flaws?” Her lips trembled with a nervous smile and he knew his answer was important to her.

Such things were of importance to a woman.

A woman! Dear God!

He stood and began to clean up the bowls from the table, thinking about this situation as he moved. Hiding beneath the blood and healing for these weeks, right under his gaze and care, was a woman, complete with the fair face, soft, full body and intelligent, quick mind God had given her. Their world had shifted with his notice of her gender. How had he fooled himself for this long?

He had certainly known in those first weeks, when he took care of her needs during the darkest of nights. He had seen and touched most of her body, but realized now that her unfamiliarity and his despair of her not surviving had allowed him to ignore the fact of her femaleness.

“Royce? Have no fear, for Wenda has told me the truth of my injuries.” Isabel lifted her hand to her face and outlined the scar that had cut so deeply into her skin that it reached down to the bone beneath. “’Twill fade, she said, but never be gone. And even now the hair at my scalp grows in white.”

He turned at her words to see what she spoke of. He moved out of the sun’s rays, which poured through the open door, and stood next to her. His eyes could see nothing but the even blackness of her hair and it reminded him, in its brightness, of the shiny ebony and onyx jewels he’d seen on the queen. Isabel lifted her chin a bit and pointed at the place where the scar ran into her hair and disappeared. A tuft of white now grew from there.

A mark to remind her of the terrible battle for survival that she fought and won. He didn’t realize he’d said the words aloud until she replied.

“I am ever the warrior?”

“A warrior of some success, it would seem. Do not belittle your survival or the strength of will it took on your part.”

“Or your part in my survival.”

This was getting much too dangerous a way of discussing the simple topic of her scars. He needed to bring the conversation and situation under control…under his control.

“I am happy I was able to bring you in from the forest and get Wenda’s aid for you.”

She scrutinized his face for a moment and nodded. “You have my thanks for that and more.”

Knowing when to retreat was as important in a battle as knowing when to fight. And William knew, as soon as he was looking at her and noticing her features, her face, her hair and her form that he was in over his head. ’Twas as if he could feel the crack in the shell of his well-ordered, well-controlled, empty life begin in his soul. Once begun, ’twould matter not if the break came from within or without.

“If you need naught from me, I must return to the keep.”

William waited for her reply and, when she shook her head, he searched through his storage chest for something, anything, that made it look as though he had come to retrieve it. Taking out a small wooden box, he turned to her.

“I told Lord Orrick I would bring this to him. I shall return later.”

He left the cottage and made it into the trees before the mocking words in his mind clarified how low he’d sunk.

Coward was repeated but joined by another word.

Liar.