Authors: Margo Maguire
He looked at the snares he held in one hand and the large fur pelt in the other. Kneeling, he laid out the pelt and sliced a gash in the center of it. He slipped it over his head, then wrapped a length of twine ’round his waist to keep the rough tunic in place.
There were many useful goods and supplies in the cave, but the most important thing—food—was missing. Anvrai intended to remedy that lack immediately. He followed the path to the dale and set his snares in a grove of trees. Next, he wandered toward an acre that had once been cultivated—most likely by the hermit—and picked some germander and sage that grew wild nearby. In the field were a few cabbages and onions that would soon go to rot. There was also a pheasant’s nest containing
three eggs. Anvrai took the eggs and gathered the vegetables into the front of his fur “tunic” and returned to the cave, where Isabel lay sleeping near Roger.
The bandage ’round her foot caught his attention. It covered a nasty gash that could easily become a crippling injury.
Anvrai had learned many hard lessons on the battlefield, the most important of which was that wounds did not always kill immediately. They often festered and putrefied, causing an agonizing death days or even weeks after the injury.
He laid his collection of goods on the floor beside the fire. He was not going to let Isabel’s wound kill her.
’Twas a simple matter to grind the germander leaves and roots into a dry powder. He added heated water to it, then went to Isabel, sitting beside her feet. Anvrai touched her, but she did not stir, and he knew she had drifted into the sleep of one exhausted beyond her limit.
Her hands were a blistered mess. Clearly unaccustomed to such labor as rowing a boat or wielding any other heavy tool, the work had been too much for her. If only he had a crock of his healing salve, he’d be able to smooth some of it over her hands and wrists, easing the raw aches he knew she must feel.
He looked at the blisters, running his thumb over each one, as if his touch alone could give relief to the pain caused by her injuries.
He tucked her hands under her chin and lifted her foot onto his lap, then unwrapped the cloth binding and washed out the wound. She would certainly have recoiled from his touch had she been awake, and Anvrai succumbed to the pointless wish that his face were not so repulsive to every young maid he met. Long ago, he’d forgone all hope of enjoying the touch of a comely young wife. He would sire no children, leave no riches nor wealthy estate.
He was a landless knight, a man who lived by his talent with his sword, an occupation that had become abhorrent to him. What woman, comely or plain, would take a husband who refused to do the king’s bidding and therefore possessed naught?
He made a low growl at such pointless musings and tended the cut in Isabel’s foot. ’Twas deep enough to need sewing, but since the hermit seemed to possess only one thick needle made of bone, Anvrai decided to put a poultice on the wound instead, then bind it tightly. With care, the cut would heal.
In the meantime, Lady Isabel would not be able to walk very far—certainly not down the path he’d discovered as he’d walked the woods
and fields, setting snares and looking for food. They were trapped there together, at least for a few days. Anvrai covered Isabel with one of the hermit’s pelts and moved to the far side of the cave. The weariness temporarily assuaged by the bread he’d eaten returned, and Anvrai felt every bruised muscle and bone in his body. He eased himself to the floor and lay down to sleep.
I
sabel felt warm and secure in her soft bower lined with rose petals and fur. She heard the early sounds of dawn and felt the heat of the French sun upon her face. A man’s voice, deep and resonant, sent a frisson of expectation through her, a feeling unlike any she’d ever experienced before. She glanced his way and warmed at the sight of his powerful body, his strong muscles.
She could not see his face, but she knew he was her beloved, the one whose touch would give her such pleasure—
“Do you want some food?”
Suddenly confused by the rough male voice, Isabel opened her eyes and looked up at Sir An
vrai’s terrible countenance. She recoiled instantly, and he leaned back, putting space between them.
“’Tis dawn, my lady,” he said coldly. “And there are eggs to eat.”
Isabel sat up, regretfully leaving the peace and contentment of her dream. She was hungry, and her stomach growled when Anvrai handed her a bowl of cooked eggs. “Thank you.”
His reply was hardly more than a grunt. Isabel took a bite of the hot food and decided that though the man was uncivilized, at least he knew how to cook.
Anvrai moved away as Isabel finished her meal. He spoke quietly to Sir Roger, and Roger replied.
“He’s awake!”
“Aye,” said Anvrai.
“Isabel?” Roger croaked. “Are you all right?”
She put down her bowl and hastened to his side, taking his hand and placing it upon her cheek. “Me? I’m fine! I was so worried about you!”
His eyes drifted closed. Anvrai returned and handed her a cup of water. “He’s feverish. See if you can get him to drink.”
Anvrai was right. Roger’s skin was hot. Isabel helped him drink half the water, and when
he would take no more, she helped him lower his head upon a soft pelt she found nearby and covered him with one of the skins she’d stolen from the chieftain’s hut. Anvrai must have brought them inside, for they were dry and folded in a neat pile near the place where she’d slept.
Anvrai sat beside the fire, where he was cutting a fur pelt with the hermit’s knife. He cut it into two squares, then sliced two long, narrow strips of leather.
“What are you doing?” Isabel asked.
“Making you some shoes.” He came to her then, crouching beside her. “Give me your foot.”
She extended her leg, and he wrapped her foot in the fur, tying it in place with the leather strip. He started on her other foot and Isabel experienced the oddest, most disturbing feelings, akin to the agitation she’d felt during her dream.
“I can finish,” she said, pulling her foot away from his competent hands. She did not need Anvrai’s assistance for such a simple task. Nor could she deal with the onslaught of sensations caused by his touch
Regretting her curt tone, she thanked him for his efforts on her behalf, then stood and walked to the end of the cave and back. He had done a
great deal for her—and for Roger—and did not deserve her discourtesy.
Fortunately, he seemed not to notice her rudeness, picking up the larger cooking pot and going outside with it. Isabel sat down beside Roger, smoothed back his hair, and considered her future with him.
Isabel knew how to run a large household. She’d learned such matters during her years at the abbey, though at the time, she hadn’t realized that she was being prepared for the duties she would perform as chatelaine to a husband’s estate. And though she knew how much ale to brew for a household of forty and how many loaves to bake every day, she knew naught of being a wife. She’d lived in the abbey since her tenth year and seen no husbands and wives during the intervening years. What would be required of her?
Obviously, ’twas the wife’s duty to bear her husband’s children, but if that process required her to submit to him as she would have done with the dark-eyed chieftain, she wanted no part of it. Still, she’d seen enough playful flirting between men and women at Kettwyck to know that mating was not always distasteful. Some women actually encouraged it. She gazed at Roger and tried to imagine lying with him, kissing him, urging him to make love to her.
When he groaned and turned toward her, she decided ’twas time to go try out her shoes.
The fur cushioned her step, and though the gash in her foot was still sore, the makeshift “boot” made walking tolerable. The weather outside was mild, and Isabel wondered where Anvrai had gone. Assuming he’d headed toward the currach, she made off in the opposite direction, toward the western edge of the escarpment. She watched the ground carefully, avoiding stepping on any sharp rocks, but came up short at the edge of the trees.
Anvrai stood near the embankment, his fur tunic lying on the ground beside him. He stood in half-naked profile, with his blind side toward her, so he was unaware of her presence. Isabel remained silent and watched him shave the beard from his face and neck.
It seemed too delicate a procedure for such large, rough hands. He scraped the blade from the base of his neck to his chin in repeated motions, and Isabel took note of the strong muscles of his neck and the sharp line of his jaw.
Her gaze rested upon the dense muscles of his chest, formed so differently from her own. Unconsciously, Isabel slid her hands over her breasts and felt their soft fullness. The pebbled tips were wildly sensitive, and she pressed her hands against them, as if to quiet their de
mand for…for something she could not name.
Anvrai scooped water into his hands and splashed his face, dripping water onto his chest.
His
nipples constricted into points.
Isabel loosed the laces of the tunic she wore over her chemise. The breeze did naught to cool her overheated skin, so she fanned herself with a flap of the heavy cloth. ’Twas time to return to Roger, yet she found she did not have the will to take her eyes from Sir Anvrai’s masculine form.
She knew it was mere curiosity. Certainly she had no particular interest in him, but he was made so differently that she could not keep herself from staring. She ran her hands down to her belly. Of course her own flesh did not ripple with hard muscles as Anvrai’s did. Nor were her hips as narrow, yet taut with power, as his were.
Isabel’s face flushed with heat, and she swallowed thickly when he unfastened his belt and dropped his braies to the ground. She felt no fear or revulsion at the sight of his powerful body, the way she had when the Scottish chieftain had stood naked before her. What she felt was something more like wonder—at their differences, at Anvrai’s raw male potency.
’Twas wholly improper to go on observing
him unnoticed, yet she did not leave until he had finished his task and dropped into the water. Then she used the moment of distraction to retrace her path through the trees. Roger was much smaller than Anvrai—in every way. And he was definitely not as robust as the other knight. Isabel wondered how their escape would have gone if she’d had to rely upon Roger instead of Anvrai to get them away.
Afraid she knew the answer to that question, Isabel walked directly to the place where Anvrai had dragged their stolen currach and knelt at the water’s edge. She did not want to think anymore.
She slipped her hands into the water and rinsed them, cooling all her scrapes and blisters and cleaning away the last traces of the chieftain’s blood.
A
nvrai felt almost human again. Since he’d used the hermit’s blade on his face and washed the filth of captivity from every pore, he could go and check the snares he’d set.
He returned to the cave and found only Roger. Isabel was gone.
Telling himself ’twas impossible for her to become lost on their small shelf of land, he headed toward the tunnel that would lead him to the south side of the cave. He stepped outside and saw that the wind had picked up, and heavy clouds were moving in their direction. It would soon become colder.
He wondered if Isabel had noticed the change in weather, or if he should leave his
snares and go searching for her. Would she feel the cold edge of the wind and know that she should return to the cave?
Anvrai turned to go back, but stopped himself. Isabel was a grown woman who could look after herself. By the sky’s appearance, they were going to be trapped inside the cave for at least one day, and he could only hope his snares had already trapped something they could eat.
He stood above the dale and looked out, searching for the paths that would lead them south, to England. The route did not appear difficult, but if Roger survived, he would be weak, and Isabel’s foot was injured. Neither was a good prospect for moving rapidly.
Mayhap the hermit had a wain or cart stored somewhere nearby. The man must have used something to carry his firewood and crops back to his retreat. If Anvrai could find it, Isabel and Roger would be able to sit in it while he pulled them to Kettwyck.
He looked for it as he scrambled down the path to the dale, but saw no signs of a wain nor any wheel tracks. His luck changed when he came upon his snares. Two birds had been trapped, fat partridges. Anvrai collected them and a few more eggs, then replaced his traps and returned to the cave where Roger lay groaning. “Isabel?” the lad called weakly.
Anvrai could do naught for him. If the boy was strong enough, he would survive. He set the partridges on the floor near the fire and went to the cave entrance.
From the water a light mist had come up to cover the ground. Isabel should have already returned. She’d had ample time to take care of her needs. The lady might be a grown woman, but ’twas sure she hadn’t sense enough to come inside when the weather threatened.
He headed for the area where he’d landed the boat and found Isabel bending over the water, washing her hands.
She’d removed his tunic, and the thin cloth of her chemise molded to her buttocks, showing such detail that he could see a small mole on one side.
She sat up abruptly when he cleared his throat. “You startled me!” Her face flooded with color, but she did not look away, as she usually did.
“It’s about to rain,” he said.
She looked like a goddess of old, rising out of the mist with her fair skin, golden eyes, and that dark, curling hair swirling down her back. “Your beard…”
“’Twas itchy. The hermit had a razor, so I made use of it.”
“Must you shave it every day?” A small
crease formed between her delicate brows, and Anvrai realized she must know naught of men if she had to ask that.
He nodded, suddenly uncomfortable as she studied his neck.
“You cut yourself,” she said. She stood and moved close, then touched a finger to his throat. “Here.”
The hair that framed her face was wet, as was the front of her chemise. It opened invitingly, and the upper swells of her breasts were visible above the cloth. Her dusky nipples pebbled her thin garment.
Anvrai swallowed. He should step away.
“And here.” She touched his cheek, and he grabbed her wrist, not to hurt her, but to stop her. He was already painfully aroused, and she was no harlot who would welcome his advances.
“A few more scars mean naught.” His voice seemed rough, even to his own ears. “’Tis time to go back.”
She bent down then and reached for the tunic just as Anvrai did the same. They bumped heads on the way down.
“I’ll get it.”
She stood still, with her hands at her sides as he handed her the sherte. “Put it on, Lady Isabel.”
She did so, but not quickly enough for his
peace of mind, and he wondered if she had any idea of her effect upon him.
“Roger is asking for you.”
Isabel did not see any reason for Anvrai’s bad temper. They were safe for the moment and had a formidable retreat to give them shelter. Mayhap he was anxious to move on but resented her and Roger for holding him back.
She crossed her arms over her breasts. “You may feel free to go as you will, Sir Knight.”
“Go as I will?”
“Aye. Leave me here with Roger. We will manage without you.”
“To starve?”
“I’ll think of something.” She always did.
He gave her a skeptical look, but Isabel gazed back at him defiantly. “I escaped the Scottish chieftain…and got us to the currach, did I not?”
“And almost killed on the river.”
She admitted readily that it hadn’t been easy. “But we made it. And we’ll make our way back to Kettwyck, too.” Turning away from him, she retraced her steps toward the cave, and Anvrai followed.
The rain started just as they entered, but the fire had warmed the cave. ’Twas comfortable inside.
“Birds!” Isabel cried happily when she saw the two partridges lying on the floor. She smiled up at Anvrai. “So we
won’t
starve.” And there were cabbages and onions, too.
He picked up one of the carcasses and went deep into the cave while Isabel knelt beside Roger. She’d been unfair in her thoughts about the young knight. He was ill, and that was the only reason he’d seemed so unappealing, so…incompetent.
She tore another length of cloth from her hem and wet it, then laid it upon the bump on Roger’s head.
“Isabel,” he groaned, “you’re here.”
“Aye,” she said gently. “How do you feel?”
“My head…My chest…”
“Your chest hurts?”
He swallowed and gave a weak nod.
“Is it bruised?”
“Aye.”
Isabel opened the laces of his tunic and looked down at the expanse of skin she’d bared. There were no obvious bruises or cuts. Nor was there much muscle, or even hair. She raised her eyes to his face as she pressed the heel of her hand to his breast. “Does this hurt?”
He winced. “Aye.”
“And this?” She moved her hand to another place on his chest.
“I hurt all over.”
She felt no thick layer of muscle under his soft, smooth skin. ’Twas clear Roger was a gentle knight, one who gave more attention to virtue and prayer than those who made war at every turn. He was exactly the kind of man she’d decided to choose for her spouse, a man who was gentle and kind. One who would understand her gentle needs.
“Take a drink of water, Roger.”
He sipped from the cup she held and dribbled some of the water down his chest. Isabel tended him and forgot about her curt interchange with Anvrai. He was rude and had no concern or understanding of her delicate sensibilities. Otherwise, he would not have stood naked in a place where she was likely to see him, displaying more than any virtuous young woman should see.
He spent a great deal of time removing the feathers from one of the partridges and cutting it into parts. When he finally finished, he put the pieces in the cook pot, poured in water and hung it over the fire. Then he cut up an onion and a cabbage and added them to the pot.
Roger was asleep again, so Isabel leaned back against the wall of the cave and untied the lace that held her fur shoe in place. She un
wrapped the bandage she’d wrapped ’round her foot and looked at the wound.
“Oh!” ’Twas green and disgusting.
“’Tis a poultice,” said Anvrai without turning to look at her. “I put it on your foot while you slept last night.”
’Twas impossible. “I did not awaken?”
“No, my lady. You were exhausted.”
“But
you
were not?”
He shook his head. “Not as much as you.”
She peeled away the poultice and wiped her skin with the wet cloth she’d used on Roger’s head. The wound was deep, but there was no dangerous redness, no drainage.
“Let me see,” Anvrai said, crouching beside her.
He turned her foot to get a good look by the light of the fire. “’Tis healing well.”
He made another poultice and placed it on her foot, then wrapped it carefully. He worked without speaking, and the silence seemed to grow like a palpable thing between them. ’Twas a strange sensation, having him touch her foot so intimately. She felt warm and languid, and it seemed that even her bones turned to pulp. She studied his face as he worked, his strong brow and straight nose, his mouth—those full lips tightly closed as he concentrated on his task.
Roger suddenly awakened and called for her.
“Water,” he said weakly.
Anvrai sat back on his heels, giving Isabel space enough to get past him. She felt his gaze as she sat down beside Roger, offering him sips of water and gentle conversation.
With sheets of rain spilling down just outside the cave entrance, Isabel felt completely cut off from the world, though ’twas not such an unpleasant sensation this time. A meal was cooking on the fire, and ’twas warm and secure inside the cave. Roger’s wounds were mending.
Had she remained at the abbey, she would never have known this moment in time, would never have felt the prickling awareness of Anvrai’s rough potency. He touched something deep within her, some foreign aspect of her she hadn’t known existed.
She moistened her lips and looked up at him. “Why do you think that man came here?”
“The hermit?”
She nodded, and he shrugged, adding more wood to the fire.
“I cannot imagine closing myself away from everyone and everything I know.”
“You become accustomed to it. Were you not used to life in the abbey?”
“Of course, but that’s different.”
“Not really,” Anvrai countered. “You have little contact with anything but nuns and abbey walls.”
“But there is a community of people in the abbey. Here, the hermit was alone.”
Anvrai said naught, but stirred the contents of the pot. A savory aroma emanated from it, and Isabel felt her stomach clench in anticipation of the meal.
“There are many reasons a man might seek solitude,” he finally said. He did not look up, and Isabel sensed he spoke from experience. Yet he was a powerful knight whose reputation had been known to all at Kettwyck. Surely the celebrated Sir Anvrai had never felt the need to remove himself from society.
“Name one.”
God’s breath, would the woman let him be? He’d tended her foot and would provide her a meal. Was it too much to ask for a bit of quiet? A little peace?
He left the cook pot and went to the hermit’s store of supplies. There was much to do before they could leave the cave and take to the paths that would lead them to England. ’Twas late in the season, and Anvrai had heard of the harsh
winters in this northern clime. The sooner they headed south, the better it would suit him.
There were enough pelts to make at least one tunic, maybe more. He’d taken the hermit’s shoes and clothes before sending him off into the river’s current, but they would only fit Roger. If the boy survived, that was the garb he would wear when they left the cave. Roger would never need to know his clothes had come off a corpse.
They would need as much protection against the weather as they could find or make, since they were unlikely to find nightly shelter as they traveled.
“I am a very good seamstress, Sir Anvrai,” Isabel said, after Anvrai had sat down with the pelts. “If you hunt and cook…I’ll sew.”
He must have given her a dubious look, for she came and knelt beside him, taking the bone needle from his hand.
“Truly. I am quite good.”
She started to lay out the pieces of leather and fur.
“Your hands…” Anvrai began. They had to be too sore to work.
“I am accustomed to doing my share, Sir Knight,” she said, bristling. “Do you have the knife?”
He handed it to her, and she cut one long
piece of leather into two. “First, I’ll make sleeves for you.”
“No. ’Tis you who need more adequate covering.”
“There is more than enough here for my needs,” she said. “Don’t argue.”
He folded his arms over his chest and watched her work. She had not lied. She knew what she was doing.
She cut small holes in the long edges of the cloth, then used the needle and a length of twine to sew it into sleeves. When they were ready to be fitted to the tunic, she bid him to stand before her. “Let me have your arm, Sir Anvrai.”
Her attitude was still stiff and annoyed, and Anvrai had an uncharacteristic urge to lighten the moment with a jest.
“’Tis attached, my lady.”
When she looked at him quizzically, ’twas obvious his jest had failed. “My arm. ’Tis attached to me.”
“Well, of course it is.” She moved toward him with one sleeve. “Put your arm out.”
She slid the sleeve up his arm. “Haven’t you been cold without any sleeves?”
“Not much.”
“Even without your tunic? I appreciate your giving it to me, but—”
“No, my lady,” he said. “I was not often
cold.” Did she not realize his reason for giving his tunic to her? ’Twas only partly to keep her warm.
“’Tis very finely made.” She glanced up at him suddenly, then looked away. “Did your…wife…sew this for you?”
“No wife, Lady Isabel.”
“Oh. The needlework is so fine, I assumed…” A small crease appeared between her brows. “Sir Anvrai, you were not among the knights who gathered at Kettwyck to vie for my hand. I would have remembered.”
“No, my lady, I was not.”
Would she never stop fondling his arms and shoulders? How long did it take to sew a simple sleeve?
“You must have bought it in France, for the craftsmanship is—”
“No, it belongs to a friend who lent it to me for the banquet at Kettwyck.”
“Oh.” Her hands stilled for a moment, then resumed her measuring.
“My friend’s Saxon wife made it,” Anvrai said in an attempt to distract himself from her touch. He could remember no other young woman who’d touched him willingly. ’Twas a heady feeling.