The Bride Hunt

by Margo Maguire

  The rain held off, but the fugitives continued on for some time, until Isabel heard Anvrai’s breath rasping with strain every time he stroked the oars. He was exhausted and injured. He could not go on much longer, but what choice did they have? Roger was barely conscious, and Isabel but a woman, hardly skilled in seamanship. She could not take over the rowing. She would not know how to begin.

  She knit her brows together. Could it be so difficult? Before night had enclosed them in complete darkness, she’d seen the way Anvrai held the oar and pushed the boat through the water. It certainly did not require any intelligence to do it, only brute strength.

  “You must rest a while, Sir Knight,” she said, resolved to do her part. “You cannot go on at this harried pace.”

  “Aye. I can.”

  “Surely you are weary.”

  He did not answer, but continued rowing while Isabel wondered if all men were so stubborn. Certainly her father was. It had taken many sessions to wear down his resolve to wed her to Lord Bernard. Yet Sir Anvrai was not merely stubborn. Isabel wasn’t certain he was actually human. Still, he could not go on this way, not with the damage the Scots had done to his powerful body.

  “Pl-Please allow me to take a turn. Surely we’re far ahead of any pursuers.”

  His only answer was another grunt of pain.

  “I’m quite strong.” At least, she hoped she was strong, strong enough to propel them on their course across the lake.

  Anvrai muttered something Isabel could not quite hear, but he turned ’round and helped her move to the center of the boat. She took hold of the oars, slipping them into the water, steering the boat in the direction of the southern bank. The movement was awkward, unlike anything Isabel had ever done; but she managed to make progress, in spite of Anvrai’s doubting stare through the murky darkness.

  She wondered how his eye had been torn from its socket. Surely such an injury would have been the death of many a knight, yet Anvrai had not only survived the wound but lived on to wage subsequent battles. She could not help but shudder at such barbarity. He was little more than a beast.

  ’Twas nearly silent on the lake, but for the sound of the oars cutting through the water and Roger’s occasional groan. But the acrid smell of smoke was still strong, so Isabel knew they hadn’t gone far enough to start feeling safe. Once they made it to the southern bank, she would be able to relax, and not one minute sooner.

  Isabel could see naught in the darkness, but she’d always had a strong sense of direction. Surely her strength would hold, and she could row the currach until they reached their destination. With God’s grace, Roger would rouse himself and manage to keep up as she and Sir Anvrai took to the paths that would lead them south, toward Kettwyck.

  “Do you remember a river?” Anvrai peered into the darkness ahead of the currach, but he was only able to hear it. The character of the water had changed, and ’twas no longer a placid surface.

  “No,” Isabel replied. “We crossed from the south bank and traveled due north. I’m certain…a—at least I think…”

  “Move aside.” Anvrai scrambled to the midsection of the boat and took the oars from Isabel, whose voice sounded anything but certain. “We’ve drifted off course.” And he hoped they were nowhere near a waterfall.

  Pain roared through his shoulder as he tried to turn the boat around. Wherever they were going, it was not the direction Lady Isabel had intended.

  A sudden flash of lightning gave him his bearings, and he started rowing toward the shore. “Look back, Lady Isabel,” he said. “Keep your eyes open. If the lightning comes again, you’ll be able to see where we are.”

  “But I…I am sure I rowed south. I couldn’t have steered us so far off course.”

  Anvrai would have laughed at her incredulous tone if their situation had not been so dire. Once again, lightning illuminated the way, and Anvrai corrected their course. “Can you see the village?”

  “No—Yes, I can see smoke billowing under the clouds,” she said. “At least, I think it’s smoke.”

  “The smell is not so strong anymore.”

  Anvrai had no idea where they were. They must have traveled some distance from their captors’ village, thanks to Isabel, even though they were far from the other side of the lake. She must have been rowing them in ever-widening circles.

  “We’ll stay on the river,” he said, “and let the current carry us farther away.”

  ’Twould be best for them to conserve their strength, yet the lack of control was unnerving. Anvrai had no clear sense of their direction and was able to correct their course only during the occasional bursts of light from the sky. Even so, there did not appear to be anyplace to land the boat. The shore was bordered by high cliffs on both sides.

  Somehow, all remained well until Roger roused himself and began to retch in the bottom of the boat.

  “God’s bones,” Anvrai muttered in disgust, but when the boy did it again, his annoyance turned to anger. “Do that again, and I’ll toss your sorry arse overboard,” he barked.

  “Let him be! He’s ill!”

  “He can be ill outside the boat!”

  The currach began to rock and Anvrai realized Isabel was moving from the back of the boat. She crawled toward him and slipped into the tight space beside him, pushing the oar away. “He needs help,” she said as she squeezed past.

  “By God, woman, if you capsize this boat, I won’t be responsible for you. Either of you!” Battles were his forté, and hand-to-hand combat. Responsibility for Lord Henri’s daughter was the last thing he needed.

  Isabel ignored him, rocking the boat as she pulled Roger up. Anvrai could barely see them in the dark, but she managed to prop him up and rest his chin upon the side of the boat. They were dangerously heavy in front, so Anvrai slid back a few feet in order to balance them better.

  His mood was not improved by the sound of more retching over the side.

  The river continued to carry them, and by the time the rain came, Anvrai estimated they’d floated a good many miles downriver. ’Twas much farther than if they’d fled on foot, but where were they? Surely they were far enough that the Scots would not come after them even though Lady Isabel had killed their chieftain. They would need to concentrate all their resources on rebuilding their village before winter came.

  Diffuse light illuminated the sky behind them, and Anvrai saw the moon emerge from behind the rain clouds. The shoreline looked rugged and unapproachable, and Isabel’s form became more than just a dark shadow before him. Her hair lay soaked against her skull, and the dark bruises on her cheek and lip stood out against her pale flesh. Her clothing was saturated—hardly adequate protection against the rain, certainly not a shield against his unwilling gaze.

  Anvrai reached behind him and took hold of one of the skins she’d carried out of the chieftain’s cottage. He tossed it to her. “Put that over your shoulders so you don’t freeze.” He looked toward the shore. “We’ll head in…See if we can find some shelter.”

  “Aye. Kindly hand me the other skin, and I’ll cover Roger, too.”

  Anvrai clenched his teeth and avoided looking toward the comely young woman tending her pitiful suitor. Instead, he searched for a suitable place to dock the boat, but the river suddenly became more turbulent, and Anvrai turned ’round to see what lay ahead.

  Dangerous outcroppings of rock rose out of the water near the banks and the current began to spin the currach in circles. Quickly, Anvrai rose on his knees and began to paddle toward the south shore. “Isabel! Take the other oar and start rowing.”

  “But Roger—”

  “Do as I tell you. Now!”

  She moved Roger off her lap and knelt to do Anvrai’s bidding, while he used all his remaining strength to steer them away from the obstacles in the water. “We must get off the river before we collide with these rocks!”

  As if the danger had suddenly become real to her, Isabel moved beside him and started to work. They ignored the rain as it pounded their bodies
and chilled their bones. Isabel’s leather shawl fell away, but she did not allow that to interrupt her rhythm as she followed Anvrai’s lead.

  “This way!”

  Anvrai barely felt the pain in his shoulder or his aching rib as he paddled toward the shore. The current tossed the currach wildly, and they heard the boat scrape against something beneath the surface of the water. But the hull remained intact as Roger moaned, distracting Isabel from her task.

  “He’s all right,” Anvrai shouted above the sound of the rain and the rushing water beneath them. “But we won’t be unless we get this currach out of the current!”

  They struggled against the crashing waves. Roger leaned to his side and retched once again, and though Isabel faltered momentarily at his distress, she never stopped rowing.

  ’Twas fortunate, for Anvrai knew he could not manage to get them to safety without help. The torrent of rain and the crashing river were more formidable than any army he’d ever faced. The trials of the past week had severely diminished his strength, and he doubted he would be able to continue much longer.

  Isabel cried out, but Anvrai did not waste the effort to look in her direction. He kept moving the oar, pushing the boat through the water toward the shore. The wound in his shoulder burned with pain in spite of the cold rain that continuously washed it, and his ribs ached as if they were caught in an armorer’s vise and were being squeezed with every move he made.

  “How long have we traveled thus?” she shouted.

  “On the river?” he asked her.

  “Aye!”

  “I do not know, my lady,” he replied with what breath he had. “But if you do not continue rowing, our journey will end prematurely. At the bottom of the river.”

  She went back to work, paddling in earnest against the rain and the rough current that tossed them dangerously from side to side. The waves carried them precariously close to the rocks, but they managed to get ’round them and maneuver past the strongest part of the current. “Look for shelter—anyplace to pull in,” Anvrai called out.

  Craggy cliffs towered over them, and sheer rock walls dropped straight down to the river. Even if they managed to row to the edge of the water, there was nowhere to land.

  “There!” Isabel called. “Up ahead!”

  She pointed out a small outcropping, and they paddled with renewed strength to reach it. Though ’twas unlikely there was any shelter from the rain, Anvrai thought they might be able to pull the currach out of the water and prop it up against the storm. In any event, they would be safer out of the river, at least until they had a chance to rest.

  “Keep paddling,” Anvrai shouted. “I’ll pull us in!”

  Isabel had no time to think about their predicament or what Sir Anvrai would do. She pushed and shoved the oar through the water to keep them from crashing into the rocks as they approached the narrow projection of land. The boat wobbled dangerously as Anvrai raised himself and reached out to take hold of a sharp projection of rock, and the force of the rocking knocked the oar out of her hands. “Sweet Gesu!” she cried.

  The boat slammed into the promontory and pitched toward the land. “Jump for it and pull in the currach!”

  Isabel eyed the shore. Anvrai asked the impossible. She couldn’t possibly make it.

  “You can do it, Isabel!” The wind and rain tore at his tunic and whipped his flaxen hair across his face.

  “’Tis too far!” And there was no gradual increment of land. The water off the ledge was deep.

  The boat jerked suddenly, swinging closer to the land. Isabel stood abruptly and jumped, then quickly reached out for the currach. Anvrai extended the remaining oar to her, and she managed to take hold of it.

  “Pull!”

  “I am!”

  A moment later, the side of the boat hit the rocky ridge of land, and Isabel used both hands to grab hold of it. “Hang on to it!” he shouted over the wind. “I’ll get Roger.”

  Ignoring the pain in her hands, Isabel braced herself against a low shrub and watched Anvrai lift Roger from the currach, talking to him, cajoling him to help himself until they were free of the currach.

  “Don’t let go of the boat!” Anvrai and Roger collapsed onto the ground, but Anvrai did not rest. With inhuman strength, he took Isabel’s place and hauled the front of the boat out of the water. Then he levered the back of it onto the ledge. When it was safely on land, he dragged Roger as far inland as they could go, mayhap ten paces, to the rocky wall.

  There was a small sheltered area, under an earthen ledge, beside a sturdy pine tree. It protected them from the worst of the wind and rain, and Isabel collapsed there, shivering beside Roger, and watched as Anvrai pulled the currach all the way up to them. He positioned it on its side in front of the shallow enclosure, then slipped in beside Isabel.

  “Your hands are bleeding.”

  They were too cold for her to notice the pain anymore, but Anvrai took them between his own hands, raised them to his mouth, and blew his warm breath upon them. Isabel was too exhausted and cold to feel repulsed by the touch of this scarred and barbaric man. She concentrated her attention on the top of his head, away from the ugly scars that marred his visage.

  “Roger is ill.”

  “Aye,” Sir Anvrai replied.

  “Is there anything we can do for him?”

  “Not here. We must rest and wait out the storm.”

  “Then what shall we do?”

  “We’ll get back in the currach and continue on.”

  “We cannot.”

  Anvrai stopped working on her hands and frowned at her. “Why not?”

  “Because the river flows west,” she said. “It has carried us miles out of our way.”

  Chapter 5

  ’Twas nearly noon when Anvrai awakened. The rain had stopped, and the sky was beginning to clear. Isabel continued to sleep, and Roger was likely not merely asleep, but unconscious. The bruise on his head boded ill for him, if that was what had caused his vomiting. Anvrai had some skill at healing, and he knew a blow to the head could cause death many hours after the fact. But there was naught to be done for the lad. Anvrai had no herbs or potions. He could not even keep them warm. If the boy died, Isabel would have to find herself another husband.

  The lady’s hair had dried, though ’twas a tangled mass of dark curls. She was much cleaner than when he’d discovered her climbing from the chieftain’s hut.

  He wondered what had really happened inside that cottage. Surely the lady had not killed the man as she thought. No Norman woman, especially not one as gently bred as Lady Isabel, could have overcome the dark-bearded chieftain and killed him with his own knife. There had to be another explanation.

  Isabel lay on her side with her head pillowed upon one arm, her hands tucked together under her chin. The skin of her wrists was scraped raw, her fingernails were cracked and torn, and there was dried blood on them. She looked childlike in sleep but for her womanly form, barely concealed by the thin, damp fabric of her chemise. Her cheeks were hollow, and bruises covered much of her body. Anvrai turned away abruptly, before he could begin to feel any pity for her. He could not afford pity; nor could he invest anything more than getting all of them out of their predicament.

  He knew from experience the situation was likely to get worse. They had to move if they were going to find food, and they had to do so soon. He’d been near-starved ever since his capture, and his strength was quickly ebbing.

  Anvrai walked to the water’s edge and searched the shoreline for signs of a better landing place. ’Twould be preferable to go eastward, but even if he could row against the current, the forbidding cliffs in that direction prevented their landing. The escarpment continued west, but it curved slightly, so Anvrai had a clear view of what lay in that direction.

  “Can you see anything useful?”

  Anvrai turned at the sound of Isabel’s voice. All remnants of lust should have been beaten out of him, but when he looked at her, he felt its punch. She held her bodice together m
odestly, but the thin gown was damp and clung to the feminine curves of her body. The small cuts and bruises on her face and arms made her appear soft and defenseless, infuriating him.

  He was angry for all that had happened since that night at Kettwyck, for his own inability to protect the lady—and all the others who had been killed or captured. He was furious with Lord Kettwyck for gathering so many Normans together before his fortress was complete, making them all vulnerable to attack, and reminding him that it was all too easy to fail to protect those who needed it most—the women and children.

  “There is naught to the east,” he said in response to Isabel’s question. “Only this high escarpment as far as I can see.”

  Isabel stepped to the edge of the water. The wind blew the hem of her chemise well above her ankles, and Anvrai turned away. She knew not how enticing she appeared, how difficult she made it for him not to care. Anvrai refused to be sucked into the morass of need, of dependency. He was a master of detachment, never allowing his emotions to rule. ’Twas too painful.

  “The water is moving fast,” Isabel said.

  “Aye. If we keep close to the shore and let the current carry us there—”

  “’Tis the wrong way,” Isabel protested. “We must go east and south.”

  Anvrai crossed his arms over his chest, a gesture he wished she would imitate. Then he wouldn’t be so tempted to ogle her breasts, full and high, with dusky nipples that peaked in the cool air. He pointed to a green area on the shore to the west. “We’ll ride the current to that cove. From there, we’ll be able to walk inland and find a path that leads south, and east.”

  “How do you know—”

  “I don’t. But it’s our only option.”

  He went back to the currach and pulled it away from the nook where Roger still lay insensible. Kneeling beside the young man, he pushed back his hair and looked at the lump on the side of his forehead. ’Twas the size of a chicken’s egg, colored purple and green.