The Bride Hunt

by Margo Maguire

  He’d wanted to kneel before her, slip her legs over his shoulders, and show her true pleasure. He would kiss her gently at first, tasting every inch of her body as she trembled with arousal. And when she looked at him, ’twould not be with revulsion. Her golden eyes would flash with desire.

  “What do you suppose happened to Kathryn…my sister?”

  With Isabel’s words, Anvrai’s mind snapped back to the present. And reality. The intimacies he’d imagined were for others, certainly not for a man whose scars and disfigurements proved how inadequate a protector he would be. He could make no promises to any woman. ’Twas better to stay one step removed.

  “She was…probably taken,” Roger said.

  Isabel’s head snapped up. “Did you see her?” Dark shadows circled her eyes, and Anvrai knew she had not slept well. She seldom spoke of the night they’d been taken captive, and not at all about her family. But there were times in the days since their escape when she’d sat staring out at nothing, with her shoulders slumped and sadness in her eyes. Anvrai did not doubt that the fate of her family preyed on her mind. He knew the feeling well.

  Roger shrugged. “They were taking as many women as they could carry.”

  “I dreamed of her last night,” Isabel said. “That the Scottish chieftain took us both—”

  “You never said how you escaped him, Isabel,” said Roger.

  “’Tis not important.” She gathered her limbs close to her body, hugging her legs as she pulled them tight against her chest.

  “How did you know what to do? You are no warrior, my lady.”

  Anvrai had wondered the same thing. He could not imagine how one small, gently bred woman had managed to kill the Scot. Still, he appreciated the courage she’d displayed in doing so, then keeping her wits when the fire broke out.

  “I know naught of battle, or of killing,” she said quietly. “I could do little more than imagine what would happen, as though I were telling a tale of my plight.”

  Roger frowned. “You mean, you thought of our captivity as one of your stories?”

  “Aye. If I’d been telling such a tale, my hero would have come for me. But you were injured.”

  “Isabel, I would have come for you.” Roger took her hands in his and spoke earnestly. “But I was tied down. Beaten. Incapacitated.”

  Anvrai could have spit. On the best of days, Roger wouldn’t have been able to help Isabel. But she thought of that raw lad as her hero. He started to gather their bowls and pack them into the satchel.

  Isabel gazed into her hero’s dark eyes. “I knew I would have to act in my own stead, so I…I did.”

  “I don’t understand.” A frown marred Roger’s boyish face. “What did you do? Why did they let us leave?”

  Anvrai stood and tossed water on the fire. “She killed the chieftain and set the village on fire,” he said gruffly. “It’s past time to go.”

  He slung the two dead partridges over his shoulder and walked toward the path, so angry he could have left the two of them to find their own way to England. Let Roger—the hero—try to provide their food and lead them south.

  The two lovers followed Anvrai at some distance, and he let his temper cool. Of course he had not figured as a character in Isabel’s tale of her abduction. Though she seemed to appreciate the service he gave, Anvrai knew she would never feel more than gratitude. And he knew better than to care.

  He plodded through the woods, hardly aware of his surroundings when the sound of voices ahead brought him up short. A party of Scotsmen appeared on the path, raggedly attired, but heavily armed with broadswords and axes. Fortunately, they did not see him in the woods.

  Anvrai turned to Roger and Isabel, blocking their way. Raising a finger to his lips, he pointed to the road with his other hand. In the silence, they heard the Scotsmen talking loudly among themselves.

  Anvrai made a quick gesture, indicating that his companions should go and hide behind a nearby tree while he stepped behind a massive oak where he placed his hand upon the hilt of his sword and watched the Scots. Isabel suddenly slid into the small space between him and the tree.

  “Will they see us?” she whispered breathlessly.

  Anvrai could not have been more surprised at her arrival. He slid his hand over her mouth and leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Hush.”

  He let his hand drop to her waist and held her close. She did not feel cold, so it must have been fear that made her tremble, and Anvrai wondered what a hero of her tale would do now.

  Isabel could hardly breathe. Sir Anvrai had a sword, but Roger was unarmed. The big knight would never be able to protect them if the Scots discovered their presence.

  Anvrai slid his hand ’round her waist and pulled her back against his chest. He spoke quietly in her ear, but she hardly heard his words. “They will pass us.” His voice, soft and deep, resonated through her.

  She turned to look at Roger, so slender and handsome, and imagined they were his arms ’round her. She should have stayed with him and taken comfort in his protection, yet she’d gone to Anvrai, without even thinking about it.

  Isabel held her breath as the Scots advanced and walked past. She breathed again and leaned into the heat of Anvrai’s body, allowing him to warm the chill from her bones. His chest was a solid wall against her back, his legs bracketing her own, keeping her steady, supporting her against falling.

  His hand felt surprisingly gentle, yet reassuringly firm, just as it had the night before. His touch had heated her blood, made her dizzy. The intimate interlude was unlike anything she’d ever experienced. ’Twas as if he’d caressed every private place of her body.

  Those disturbing sensations commenced once again, starting at her waist, where she felt the pressure of Anvrai’s hand. She imagined him sliding it up to her breast and caressing her there. When her nipples tightened at the mere thought of his touch, Isabel pushed away from him. She placed one hand upon her chest as if she could slow her racing heart.

  Without a backward glance, she returned to Roger’s side and took his arm. The Scots were gone, and as Sir Anvrai had said earlier, ’twas time they were on their way.

  “Wait,” Anvrai said.

  She and Roger stopped, but Isabel could not meet his gaze. Her face heated, and she was afraid that if he looked into her eyes, he would know what she’d been thinking.

  Her thoughts were so inappropriate. She’d chosen Roger for his gentle ways, yet it was Anvrai’s unrefined masculine power that drew her. ’Twas Anvrai whose actions were heroic.

  “We’ll travel south, but avoid the footpath and stay within the woods.”

  “The ground is far too rough. Isabel’s foot is not healed—”

  “’Tis fine, Roger. Sir Anvrai is right. I do not wish to encounter any more Scots who might be traveling on the path.” Her voice was steady, and there was no outward sign of the turmoil she felt within.

  She managed to follow Anvrai, though she found it distracting to have his long, powerful legs and muscular back in her line of vision. She did not want to think about his hard physique or how the sight of his body inflamed her when he was without his clothes.

  Surely ’twas worry and uneasiness that caused all these strange feelings. She thanked heaven for Roger’s presence. The young knight brought sanity to their insane situation, civility to this barbarous predicament.

  She turned to him and felt instantly reassured. “Tell me of your mother and sisters,” she said.

  The sky grew heavy with clouds, and Anvrai watched for some kind of shelter where they could pass the night. The air was cooling, and he did not relish the thought of trying to keep Lady Isabel and her swain warm and dry until morning.

  When she began to favor her injured foot, he knew they could not continue much longer. She had yet to complain of any discomfort, but Anvrai knew he could count on Roger to tell him Isabel was suffering.

  She looked better that day. The swelling in her lip had gone down, and the bruise on her cheek had faded almost entirely
. But the blisters on her hands were still raw. Roger was little help to her with his frequent complaints, nor did he think to offer his arm to assist her across the uneven floor of the forest.

  “It looks like rain,” Roger said.

  “’Twould not surprise me,” Anvrai replied.

  “Is there…do you have a plan for shelter?”

  “No. Do you?” ’Twas a curt response, but Anvrai’s patience with Roger grew thinner with every passing hour. He had no desire to be responsible for him or for Isabel, but he had no choice.

  “We’ll keep moving as long as we can.”

  A piercing scream split the air. They all stopped as Anvrai drew his sword.

  “It sounded like a woman,” Isabel whispered.

  Anvrai agreed. “Stay behind me.”

  With caution, he walked toward the sound until they arrived at a decrepit cottage in a small clearing at the edge of the woods. Some distance behind the cottage were a privy and a small shed, and he noted a narrow brook burbling nearby. On the other side of the brook was a field, only half-harvested.

  “Stay here,” Anvrai said. He approached the cottage quietly, but heard naught from within. Using the tip of his sword, he pushed the door open.

  ’Twas dark inside, but he could see a body lying on a bed in a far corner. A young girl.

  “Gesu.” He muttered the word under his breath. She was alive, but breathing heavily, whimpering occasionally. She seemed not to notice Anvrai in the doorway as she tossed off a heavy woolen blanket, exposing a belly that was hugely pregnant.

  There seemed to be no one else around, no one to help the girl deliver her infant. Anvrai put his hands upon his hips and sighed. He’d dealt with every imaginable wound during the course of battle, but childbirth was the only malady that made his stomach heave. He had a clear memory of his mother’s screams of agony in labor…

  Anvrai cleared his head of such thoughts and turned to Isabel and Roger, waiting under the boughs of a large tree. He beckoned them to come, then spoke in gentle tones to the girl in the bed, even though he knew she would not understand him.

  She cried out in surprise. “Norman!” she rasped. “You are Nor—”

  She suddenly grabbed her belly and drew her legs up, crying out in pain. Anvrai put down his sword and looked to Isabel to deal with the woman.

  Isabel came up beside him. “Mon Dieu, she’s just a child!”

  “Aye. And she’s Norman.”

  “Do you understand me?” Isabel asked the girl.

  She took hold of Isabel’s hand and pressed it to her tear-stained face. “Help me! Please!”

  Anvrai dropped the satchel and set the two partridges on the floor by the hearth. He went for the door, pushing past Roger, eager to escape the confines of the small cottage.

  Isabel caught his arm. “What should I do?”

  “I am no midwife, my lady.”

  “But you know something of childbirth, do you not?”

  “Very little,” he replied, with a shudder.

  Chapter 11

  Anvrai’s reply did not bode well for the girl in the bed. Isabel knew naught of infants or how they came to be born. ’Twas not something one learned at the Abbey de St. Marie.

  She released Anvrai’s arm and watched him stalk through the door of the cottage. He should have been pleased to find shelter even though ’twas occupied, but something about the place made him restless and uneasy.

  Isabel did not blame him. ’Twas filthy, with dust upon every surface, and rank with an odor that defied description. She wrinkled her nose and leaned toward the young girl in the bed. “What is your name?”

  “Mathilde—Tillie.”

  “I am Isabel de St. Marie. How do you come to be here?”

  “The Scots stole me from Haut Whysile last Christmastide. They killed the lord and his la—” Her belly hardened, and she moaned in pain, and there was naught Isabel could do to ease her suffering. Tillie was younger—years younger—than Kathryn, and Isabel shuddered to think of her sister being held, being raped and impregnated by some barbarian Scot. Would Kathryn find a way to escape Tillie’s fate the way Isabel had?

  She could not think of her sister, not while Tillie was in such dire need.

  The cottage door opened, and Anvrai returned. His shoulders and hair were damp with rain. He picked up a three-legged stool and set it beside the bed for Isabel to sit upon, then stood towering over both of them. “Where is the Scot—the man who brought you here?” His voice was impatient and gruff.

  Tillie’s eyes grew huge in her small, freckled face.

  Isabel pushed back the bright red hair from her forehead. “Do not fear Sir Anvrai. He is not as fierce as he seems.”

  Tillie’s throat moved convulsively, and she swallowed before answering. “Dead.”

  “Was he the only one?”

  “Aye. No one else is here—” Another pain struck her, and she squeezed Isabel’s hands so tightly that Isabel nearly cried out. When Tillie finally released her, Isabel blinked away tears that had formed in her eyes.

  “Forgive me for hurting you,” Tillie said to Isabel. “It’s just that when the pains come…I was so afraid before you came.”

  Isabel nodded. “I’m here now.” She turned to Anvrai, and placed her hand upon his arm. “We’ll help you through this.”

  When another pain had come and gone, Isabel asked Anvrai to go out and collect some water.

  He seemed relieved to have a task to occupy him, though Isabel felt a moment’s panic when he left the cottage. Anvrai always seemed to know what to do, and she had come to rely upon him.

  She glanced at Roger, who had taken a seat at the rough table on the other side of the room. “Will you see if there are any clean cloths about?”

  “Isabel, you should take your rest.”

  She frowned. “Not while this child has need of me.”

  “Child? This child played the whore for a Scottish barbarian, did she not?”

  Clearly, Roger did not understand what had happened to Tillie, or he would not speak in such a disparaging way.

  “I have need of clean cloths, Roger. Will you find some, please?”

  Roger grumbled, but as Tillie’s labor progressed, he gathered every cloth he found in the cupboards and set them on a low table beside the bed. Soon Anvrai returned with water he’d collected in the cook pot. He poured some of it into a bowl and handed it to Isabel, then started a fire to heat the rest—and the cottage.

  Isabel took one of the cloths Roger had found, soaked it in cool water, and placed it upon Tillie’s forehead as she rested between the pains. Then she went to the hearth where Anvrai arranged the logs on the fire. “Tell me what I should do for Tillie. She has so much pain.”

  “’Tis women’s business,” he replied. “You will manage.”

  He left her abruptly and went outside again. Uneasily, Isabel took a seat beside Tillie and gave what comfort she could as the girl’s labor progressed. She offered her sips of water and rubbed her back when the pains came. And though that seemed wholly inadequate, it was the only thing Isabel could do to soothe her.

  Hours passed, and night fell. Roger made his bed on the floor near the fire and drifted off to sleep just as the gentle rain turned into a downpour. Anvrai returned and started to prepare the food he’d caught. Then he took a seat on one of the two chairs in the cottage, leaned back, and dozed, offering Isabel no assistance.

  “Tillie,” she whispered, “it seems that between us, we must get this bairn born.”

  Something happened then. The bed filled with a gush of water, and Tillie’s pains became even worse. They came more frequently and were so intense she woke Roger with her cries of agony. “It’s coming!”

  Tillie’s cry eliminated any possibility of sleep, of remaining uninvolved in the birth of her bairn. When Anvrai looked into Isabel’s terrified eyes, he knew he had no choice but to offer his assistance. “’Tis the bag of waters.” He would never forget his mother’s two pregnancies that had
ended with the birth of stillborn infants.

  He’d been certain his mother would die when she’d screamed in pain, but the servants had reassured him and his sister, Beatrice, telling them just enough about the birthing process to keep them quiet. But those two bairns—his tiny brothers—had been born dead. He swallowed the bile that rose in his throat. He had not thought of those losses in years, yet the memories paled when he recalled the heinous murders of his mother and Beatrice. He gritted his teeth and turned his attention to the girl in the bed.

  “Once the waters flow, the bairn will come,” he said.

  Isabel gave him a grateful glance that almost made up for his horrible memories. When she looked at him, he could hardly think of the tiny bairns cradled in his mother’s arms, or her tears each time his father took one away for burial.

  “Did you hear, Tillie?” asked Isabel. “’Tis almost finished!”

  The girl’s attention was fully focused on the lower part of her body. She made a low sound in her throat and rolled from her side to her back. Reluctantly, Anvrai took hold of her ankles and pushed them back, bending her knees as he’d seen the midwife do to his mother. He’d been so young then, he had barely been noticed hovering about his mother’s bedchamber, worrying with each scream that the birth would kill her.

  “You should push now,” he said. “Push the bairn out.”

  Isabel looked up at him. “You do know what to do.”

  “Barely. Lady Isabel, take my place here.”

  He took Isabel’s arm and guided her into position beside Tillie’s legs. “Nature will take its course now.” He started to retreat, but Isabel stopped him again. “Don’t go,” she pleaded, and he found he could not refuse her. He clenched his jaw and went to stand at Tillie’s head.

  “Lift her gown and watch for the bairn’s head,” he said, resigned to staying.

  Isabel did as she was instructed while Anvrai spoke quietly to the girl. He held her shoulders and told her to push when the next pain came. That was how the infant would come out—as Tillie bore down with each pain, the infant would be squeezed out. ’Twas a miracle any bairn—or mother—survived.