Authors: Margo Maguire
“And Kathryn?” There was hope as well as dread in her voice, in her expression.
Anvrai clenched his jaw. “She was taken.”
I
sabel blew out a shaky breath, and her eyes filled with tears. ’Twas the news she’d always expected yet hoped she would never hear.
“I know no details, Isabel. I wish I could tell you more.”
She sat up in bed and felt Anvrai cover her shoulders with a blanket. “Have they searched?”
“I assume so, although—”
“What direction did they take her?”
“You will have to ask your father. I know no more.” He drew her back into bed and pulled her into his embrace. She felt his lips upon her forehead, touching her lips, her hands…then he curled his body ’round hers, as though he could protect her from the grief she felt.
Poor Kathryn. Would she have a champion to help her escape her captors, or would she be abused, raped…impregnated as Tillie had been?
“Oh, Anvrai,” she said shakily. And then she wept without restraint.
She must have fallen asleep in Anvrai’s arms because when she awoke, the fire had died down and Anvrai was breathing softly in sleep. The memory of what she’d learned about Kathryn struck her all at once, like a blow to her heart. She felt weak and horrified, all at once.
“Isabel?” Anvrai stirred beside her.
“I should go to my own chamber.”
“You’ll stay with me,” he said, enclosing her in his arms.
“But the household—”
“I’ll awaken you well before dawn,” he said. “Then I’ll take you back to your chamber.”
Her limbs felt heavy when she lay back down in the comfortable circle of Anvrai’s embrace, and she felt ashamed for enjoying this comfort when Kathryn was captive to some northern barbarian.
“’Tis unfair that I lie here while Kathryn—”
“There is little fairness in this life, Isabel,” Anvrai said, his voice gruff and his words curt. “But you should trust that your father is doing all in his power to find your sister.”
She knew he was right. He himself was proof of life’s unfairness. How many times had he been misjudged because of his appearance? And how could God have visited such terrible events upon him when he was a mere child? ’Twas no wonder he would not let himself love her.
Isabel had no more tears to shed, only a terrible emptiness that filled her chest. Kathryn was lost to her, and soon Anvrai would be, too. She’d made a desperate attempt to show him she was not the burden he thought she was, but she’d failed. She’d felt his emotional withdrawal even before the last shudder of his climax.
Before morning dawned, Isabel returned to her own chamber, alone. She washed and dressed, then put her hair into a simple plait. No one was about when she left her room, so she went to Anvrai’s door and knocked softly.
He was not there. She went down to the common room, hoping to find him, but saw no one, although she heard voices in the kitchen and smelled something cooking.
Tillie came into the room, carrying Belle, who began to cry loudly. “I don’t want her to wake the house,” said Tillie.
“Let me take her.” Isabel carried the bairn to the window, bouncing her gently. Belle quieted
as she looked out at the rain, coming down in streaks against the glass. The gray of the day matched Isabel’s mood.
Soon her father would arrive to take her back to Kettwyck, away from Anvrai.
“Good morning to you!”
Isabel turned to see Lady Symonne coming into the room, smoothing back her hair and brushing wrinkles from her skirts. “Let’s break our fast, shall we?” she said to Isabel, as the servingwomen followed her into the room, carrying trays laden with food.
“Earl Waltheof has summoned us to the castle,” said Symonne.
“When?”
“Last night, when he learned of our arrival. But we were already settled here.”
“Why did we not go?”
Symonne smiled. “Surely you must know your protector did not wish to turn you over to the earl so quickly.”
Isabel’s heart jumped. She sat down with Symonne and pressed her lips to Belle’s head just as Anvrai and Ranulf came into the common room. Anvrai took a seat beside Isabel, and all the voices and other noises, the food and the smells in the room receded to the back of her mind. Her senses were filled with his presence. She felt the heat of his body and
smelled the spicy, male scent of him, mixed with leather and horse.
“Any news this morn?” asked Symonne.
“Aye. Riders came into the city early with word that King William came to an accord with King Malcolm—without bloodshed,” said Ranulf.
Isabel saw Symonne exchange a glance of victory with Anvrai.
“You succeeded, then,” she said to him, feeling a surge of pride in his accomplishment and shame in her doubt of him. She should have trusted his honor and integrity…in all things.
“Sir Anvrai arranged for a covered conveyance for you ladies,” said Ranulf. “When you are ready, we will leave for the castle.”
Anvrai paced the wall walk of Durham’s new castle, oblivious to the weather. He knew this was the only place where Isabel would not seek him out, not with her fear of heights.
His need for her love was just as terrifying as a high precipice was to her.
He let the rain soak him while he berated himself as a fool and a coward. Handing her into Waltheof’s protection should have given him a sense of relief. Instead, his newfound freedom felt hollow.
A large contingent of riders approached the walls and Anvrai observed as the guards stopped them briefly, then admitted them through the gates. He knew it could only be Henri Louvet, come to collect his daughter.
Anvrai made his way to Waltheof’s great hall, where a large group of Norman knights had gathered, including several whom he recognized. Lord Henri saw him right away and came to him. “Sir Anvrai.” He clasped Anvrai’s hand, looking shaken, weary, and ill. The journey had taken its toll on the older man.
“My lord.” Anvrai led Henri to a chair. “I’ll send someone for Lady Isabel.”
“Hold, Anvrai. A housemaid has already gone to fetch her.”
“Is the lady well?” asked a tall, young knight who came to stand beside the older man. He was Etienne Taillebois, one of the suitors who’d been present the night Kettwyck was attacked.
“You heard of the wound she sustained?” Anvrai asked Henri.
“Aye. Roger de Neuville came to Kettwyck. We were about to leave for Dunfermline when King William’s men arrived and directed us here. Anvrai, is she truly healed?’
Anvrai nodded. “She is fine now, my lord…Did Roger return with you?”
“Roger spent one night at Kettwyck and went on to Pirou, to allay his own father’s fears,” Henri replied.
“Of course,” Anvrai muttered. He should have known.
“Tell me of my daughter,” said Henri. “Roger had little to say, only that she’d been wounded near Dunfermline.”
“’Tis your daughter who is the bard, my lord,” he said. “I’ll leave it to her to tell the tale. She will be glad to see you.”
As he finished speaking, Isabel came into the hall, followed by servants carrying refreshments for the cold, wet travelers. Henri and Anvrai stood when Isabel entered, and Henri hurried to meet her, embracing her warmly.
“Did the Scots abuse her?” asked Etienne, who remained near Anvrai.
Anvrai gave a shake of his head. “Our captors saved her for their chieftain,” he said to the young man, whose brown eyes glittered with curiosity. “But she killed him.”
Etienne’s expression became one of incredulity.
“’Tis true,” Anvrai asserted. “Only by her actions were we able to escape.” She was brave and inventive, a woman without equal in all of Britain.
“Truly? Before the barbarian could harm her?”
Anvrai looked at her, smiling happily through her tears as though all her cares were solved now that her father was there. “Aye,” he said. “The man gave her a few bruises, but she overcame him.”
She overcame every tribulation, rose to every new challenge, and met it without flinching. Anvrai turned his glance to Etienne and found him frowning.
“She is unlikely to make a biddable wife after all she’s been through.”
Anvrai’s gray mood turned black. “Have you come to wed her?” He did not know how he managed to find his voice, but somehow posed the question.
Etienne looked across the chamber at Isabel. “She is still as comely as ever. And well schooled at the Abbey de St. Marie.”
Anvrai nodded as acid churned in his stomach. “Not to mention her noble birth.”
Isabel looked up at him and smiled. She slipped her hand through her father’s arm and walked toward him. “Father,” she said as she reached him and Etienne, “you know Sir Anvrai, do you not?”
“Aye. But I have yet to thank him for his part in bringing you safely to me.”
’Twas then that Earl Waltheof came into the hall with his wife. Soon all the goblets had been filled, and the Kettwyck men took refreshments before leaving to find beds in Durham’s barracks.
Henri drew Isabel to the fireplace with Waltheof and his wife, Lady Judith, while Anvrai slipped away unnoticed.
“Father, where did Sir Anvrai go?”
“Mayhap he had to attend some business.”
She frowned, torn between going to find him and staying with her father.
Waltheof invited Henri and Isabel, along with Etienne, to take seats in the comfortable chairs near the fire, where servants brought them mugs of warm, mulled wine. “Father, what news is there of Kathryn?” Isabel asked, now that all was quiet in the hall.
“None,” Henri replied starkly. “I sent three parties of men into the north country in search of her, but none of them have returned.”
“Tell us, Lady Isabel, how you managed to escape your captors,” said Lady Judith. Isabel knew the lady was a niece of King William, and her marriage to the Saxon earl was one of political importance. She was kind, and warmly hospitable, yet Isabel had no heart for the tale, not when Anvrai’s absence weighed so heavily
upon her. She forced herself to accept that he was apt to leave Durham at daybreak, and she had to find some way to stop him. Somehow, she had to convince her father that Anvrai d’Arques—regardless of his rank—was the only husband she would abide.
And she had to convince Anvrai that he was as worthy a husband as any man.
Henri paled when Isabel spoke of the Scottish chieftain and what she had done to escape him. Her father tapped his fingers nervously when she related their harrowing flight upon the river. He leaned forward in his chair when he heard of the Scots who turned up at Tillie’s cottage, and jumped to his feet when he learned details of the attack at the Culdee Church, resulting in Isabel’s wound.
Henri clasped his hands behind his back and paced before the fire. “Sir Anvrai tended you while you were ill with fever?”
Isabel nodded. “Along with Tillie…the Norman serving maid who was taken from Haut Whysile a year ago.” She also mentioned the part Queen Margaret’s physician had played, but Henri shook his head and murmured quietly to himself.
Lady Judith marveled at Isabel’s tale. “’Tis good that King William has decided to deal with Malcolm,” she said. “Our lands should
not be harried so. No one should be taken from home and abused as you were.”
Etienne spoke. “Sir Anvrai was quite your champion, was he not?”
“We were in danger a great deal of the time. Sir Anvrai had the knowledge and expertise to do what needed to be done.” The truth of her words echoed in the cavernous hall, and Isabel caught sight of her father’s subtle nod.
Waltheof and his wife soon retired, and Etienne also took his leave, giving Isabel a moment alone with her sire. They walked together toward the stairs.
“My child,” Henri said before Isabel could speak of what was in her heart. “It does my soul good to see you, so hale and healthy.”
“Father…”
“We will find your sister,” he said, his expression resolute, but full of pain. “And by the grace of God, Kathryn will be restored to us, unscathed, as you were.”
“I pray for her every day. And for all the others who were taken.”
“Anvrai d’Arques will be well rewarded for his efforts. You can be certain of that.”
“About Anvrai,” said Isabel.
“A good man. He and Etienne are cut from the same cloth. Strong, honorable…He will make you a good husband.”
“Yes, Father! ’Twas what I’d hoped.” Isabel took her father’s hand in hers. “Anvrai is the most honorable knight in all of England. If you can stop him from departing for Belmere, I would wed him as soon as—”
“Anvrai?”
Isabel’s forehead creased with consternation. “Aye, Father. Anvrai d’Arques.”
“He has no property, Isabel,” Henri said, stepping away from her. “No standing, and no prospects.”
“I care for him, Father, and I will wed no other.” Etienne might be a fine man, but Isabel loved Anvrai.
“We will speak of this tomorrow, Isabel. ’Tis late and I am weary.”
“My heart will not change overnight, Father.”
Isabel heard him sigh. They spoke no more of it as they climbed the stairs, and he left Isabel at her door.
She went inside and stood staring into the fire in the grate. The chamber was warm, and there were heated bricks in her bed, but Isabel did not care for the warmth such objects might give her. She craved Anvrai’s strong arms ’round her and the heat of his lovemaking.
Pacing the floor of her chamber, she was fully aware that he would not come to her and wondered if she dared to go to him once again. It
had taken all her nerve to cross the hall to his chamber at the inn the previous night, and that had required only a few steps.
Gathering her shawl about her shoulders, she took a candle and left her chamber. The climb to the next floor was not so very challenging, but Isabel went quickly up the steps before she could lose her nerve. She knew Anvrai’s door was at the end of the hall, and she knocked lightly upon it.
There was no answer.
Isabel pushed open the door and stepped in. The grate was cold, and the chamber looked uninhabited, but for one dark tunic hanging upon a peg behind the door and the shaving blade that lay upon a table near the bed. Both belonged to Anvrai, but these were the only signs the room was inhabited.
She set her candle down and hugged herself against the damp chill of the room as she paced impatiently. Where had he gone? Surely he had not left Durham already. He would not want to travel at night, and certainly not in the wet weather that was coming.