“’Twill not be necessary, Sir Roger. Her majesty ordered that a chamber be made ready for Lady Isabel.”
They finally reached a small, comfortably furnished bedchamber, and one of the maids pulled open the bed-curtains so that Anvrai could place Isabel gently upon the mattress.
“I knew you’d…” Roger frowned as he looked down at Isabel. “What is amiss? She seemed well enough yesterday morn when I last saw her.”
“The wound, Roger.” Anvrai had no patience for Roger’s stupidity. If he’d ever wondered what battle experience the boy had had, the question had just been answered. None. Else he would have understood the danger of infection when he’d left them the day before.
He turned to the servingwoman. “We’ll need hot water and clean cloths for bandages.” She curtsied and left them as Anvrai covered Isabel with a light linen sheet.
“How long has she been like this?” asked Roger.
“The fever came during the night,” Anvrai replied. “She has been ill since then.”
Tillie sat down on a chair near the bed, holding Belle, who remained awake but quiet, and when Anvrai went to the door to look for Desmond, he saw Lady Symonne approaching instead.
“I heard you’d arrived, Sir Anvrai,” she said. She was a golden-haired beauty, a few years older than Isabel, wearing garb that was much more ostentatious than that of the queen. For a disaffected Norman, it seemed her wealth had not been compromised.
Desmond arrived and evicted everyone but Anvrai and Tillie. Roger protested being asked to leave.
“Surely the lady’s betrothed should remain, Desmond,” said Lady Symonne, looking pointedly at Anvrai.
Anvrai’s hackles rose at the lady’s words, but Desmond paid no heed and Anvrai said naught until all the rest had gone, even Roger. He told Desmond of the cool baths and willow bark he’d given Isabel, and the poultice he’d placed upon the wound.
Desmond examined Isabel, even going so far as to press his ear against her chest to listen to her heart, then touch the pulse points in her neck, arms, and feet.
“I would bleed her,” said the physician, “but she already lost a great deal of blood, and there is a delicate balance to be maintained.”
Anvrai nodded, relieved he would not have to assist Desmond in draining Isabel’s veins, glad the physician had forgotten he’d asked everyone to leave.
The old man heated a decoction of tormentil leaves and managed to get Isabel to drink it. A few minutes later, she was sound asleep, and did not react when Desmond unwrapped her wound and packed it with a strange, pungent mixture.
Even in illness, Isabel was the most beautiful woman Anvrai had ever seen. And she was no empty-headed snob. She had as much courage and strength of purpose as the bravest Belmere knight.
He kept her well covered but for her injured leg, unwilling for her to be exposed even to Desmond’s eyes, even as he forced himself to remember that she could never belong to him. He was not likely to become lord of a grand estate anytime soon, making him acceptable to Isabel’s father.
’Twas an impossible situation. He could not take her to Belmere or to live in the king’s garrison at Winchester. Nor should he. If she survived this assault, ’twould be no thanks to him. Time and again, he’d proved himself incapable of keeping her safe.
When Desmond left, Tillie was taken to the servants’ quarters, leaving Anvrai alone with Isabel, pacing, worrying every time she moved or whimpered in her sleep.
He knelt at her bedside and took her hand in his, touching his lips to her fingers, pressing her hand to his face. “It can never be, Isabel,” he whispered, even though she did not hear him. ’Twas as if the words, when spoken aloud, could convince him of their truth. Just the sight of her pallor should have been enough to sway him. This was his worst nightmare.
A rustle of noise made him turn to the door, where Lady Symonne stood watching him. “’Tis an unfortunate circumstance for the godchild of Queen Mathilda,” she said.
“Roger’s mouth is as overactive as ever,” Anvrai replied, standing and walking to the window. Isabel’s relationship to England’s queen would have been better left unmentioned while they were there in the Scottish king’s domain.
“Have no fear of me, Sir Knight,” said Lady Symonne. “’Tis my husband who is out of King William’s favor. On the other hand,” she lowered her voice, “I still have…cordial relations with William.”
“Meaning?”
Symonne clasped her beringed hands at her waist and came closer. “I find occasion to provide useful information to the king from time to time.”
“Such as?”
“Even now, I know what force King Malcolm leads north to meet our king. How many swordsmen, how many archers.”
Anvrai raised a brow. Such information could be invaluable. “And do you know where King William is…and how to get this information to him?”
Isabel moaned in her sleep and whispered his name. Symonne turned and looked upon her. “She does not care for Roger,” she observed.
Anvrai let her statement go unanswered, and Symonne looked up at him, quietly assessing him, and he wondered how long the lady had stood watching him, listening.
“I sent a messenger—my cousin—to observe the Scottish king’s army. Fortunately, his absence from court was not noticed. ’Twould not go well for him if the queen learned of his sortie.”
Anvrai’s mind raced. ’Twould be a great advantage to know the enemy’s strength and location before going into battle. Mayhap Lady Symmone’s cousin could return to the field with this valuable information. If she’d gone to such lengths to gather the information, ’twas likely she had a plan to get it to King William.
Isabel’s eyes felt dry. Scorched. Her mouth tasted sour, and her tongue felt thick. She pushed herself up in the bed. Where was Anvrai?
The bedchamber was different. It took her a few moments to realize she was not in the priest’s quarters; nor was she alone as she’d first thought. Tillie lay upon a pallet near the bed with Belle at her side. Mother and child were both asleep.
When had she come here, and why could she not remember?
She pushed strands of damp hair away from her face and realized she’d been perspiring. Her entire body was damp with it, and uncomfortable. Every movement hurt the wound in her thigh. She remembered unending pain searing her flesh, but it was bearable now.
Yearning for a bath of the kind Anvrai had last provided, Isabel contented herself by washing with the warm water standing in a pot on the hearth. She cleaned her teeth, rinsed her mouth, and began to feel refreshed.
Against the far wall was the same trunk that had been sent to the priest’s rooms. Isabel opened it and removed the linen chemise, replacing her damp one with it.
She limped to the fire and added more wood, careful to keep from waking Tillie and the bairn, and wondered where Anvrai was. They had not spent a night apart since their escape from the Scottish village, and ’twas Isabel’s fondest wish never to be apart again.
She had only to convince him ’twas right.
She returned to the bed and lay down again, dozing until a watery daylight streamed through the narrow windows, and Belle awakened, demanding a feeding.
“Tillie, where—?”
Isabel’s question was interrupted by Roger, who came into the room without knocking first.
“I heard your fever had broken,” he said. “Desmond says the worst is over.”
Where is Anvrai? she wanted to ask, but she pulled the blanket to her chin and watched Roger approach. He was dressed much as he’d been at Kettwyck, his face clean-shaven and hair nicely trimmed. He was well-groomed and handsome, and she should have felt pleased to see his face. Yet she was not. She knew now that his comely visage hid a hundred faults.
As Anvrai’s fearful one hid a hundred virtues.
“The housemaids will bring you a bath,” he said. “And food soon thereafter.”
“We are at Dunfermline Tower?”
“Of cours
e, Isabel. You were too ill to stay at the church. Anvrai had not the skill to tend you.”
“When?” she asked. “When did he bring me here?”
Roger gave her a sideways glance. “You truly don’t remember…Four days, Isabel. You’ve been feverish and delirious the better part of a week.”
Isabel trained her eyes upon the sky beyond her window. From her bed, she could see no ground, nor trees, and she swallowed a wave of queasiness when she guessed she must be in a high tower room. ’Twas a gray day with a light rain, if she was not mistaken. And ’twould remain gray until Anvrai came to her. Had it been four days since he’d shared her bed, or more? She had vague memories of Anvrai in this room, holding her hands, touching her brow, speaking softly to her.
And the Saxon physician had come, too. He’d hurt her leg—burning the wound somehow, speaking impatiently as he held her down.
“Tillie will help me to bathe,” she said.
Roger gave a shake of his head. “Isabel, there are other, more experienced maids who—”
“I want Tillie to stay.”
Roger took the few steps to the fireplace. “You are a stubborn woman, Isabel.”
Isabel turned away. Her faults were not Roger’s concern.
The maids entered with a tub, and footmen followed, carrying steaming water into the room. Roger took himself out, and Tillie placed Belle upon the pallet where she lay upon her back, happily kicking her legs and waving her arms.
Isabel raised the hem of her chemise and began to remove the heavy bandage wrapped ’round her thigh. Tillie came to assist. “Sir Anvrai had to cut the threads that bound your wound.”
Isabel pulled off the last layer and saw the angry red wound. She shuddered.
“The old man with the beard warned Sir Anvrai that you would not survive.”
“The physician? Desmond?”
Tillie nodded. “He used many potions on you, each one worse than the last.”
“’Twill be quite a scar.” Though she did not really care. Mayhap Anvrai would see that she was not as fragile as he thought.
“Aye,” Tillie whispered, her voice choked with emotion. “But you are alive, my lady.”
Isabel pulled her close for a tight hug. Tillie clung to her, her small body shaking with emotion. Isabel would never forsake the girl whose fate was likely the same as Kathryn’s. She cleared her throat. “Test the bathwater, will you, Tillie?”
Once they were assured that the water temperature was right, Isabel peeled off her chemise and climbed into the tub. “Where is Sir Anvrai?”
Tillie shrugged her shoulders. “Likely sleeping,” she said. “He’s been here—at your side—the whole time you were insensible.”
The girl’s words reassured her, but Isabel’s confidence waned when the entire day passed, and Anvrai did not appear. Tillie was pleasant company, working on small sewing and mending projects as she sat with Isabel, but Anvrai’s absence grated upon her.
The next day, Tillie came into Isabel’s bedchamber without Belle. She’d been given a bed in the servants’ quarters, and some of the other women helped to look after the bairn.
“My lady!” she said with excitement. “I am to help you dress!”
“I am already dressed,” Isabel replied, out of sorts.
“Your hair, then. I’ll comb it and arrange it for you. You’re to meet with the queen!”
Isabel had little enthusiasm for going to the hall, but she let Tillie fuss over her hair and gown and felt disappointed when Roger was the one who arrived to carry her down the stairs. “I can walk, Roger.”
“There are a good many steps, Isabel,” he said.
“I’ll manage, albeit slowly.”
At the abbey, she’d learned to avoid her usual dizziness at heights by hugging the stairway wall as she descended a flight of stairs. She did the same now, keeping her eyes averted from the view beyond the gallery even though she was anxious for the sight of Anvrai. Surely he would be included in her audience with Queen Margaret. She reached the bottom of the stairs and hesitated when she did not see Anvrai in the crowded room.
“The queen awaits you,” Roger said. He guided her to the great hall, where a number of well-dressed ladies and gentlemen stood near the fire, talking quietly among themselves. When the crowd parted, Isabel saw a vacant chair placed across from the fire. Opposite it, the queen sat holding a very young child. Her gown was plain but of good quality. She wore a soft woolen shawl, pinned together at the shoulder with a striking circular brooch of etched gold and a row of dark red garnets across the center.
“Lady Isabel,” she said, smiling beatifically. “I have been praying for your recovery.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty. I am fortunate your prayers were answered.” She attempted a curtsy, but the soreness of her leg prevented it.
“Pray, be seated.” The little boy on the queen’s lap put his thumb in his mouth and leaned back against his mother’s bosom. “My son, Edward,” she said.
“A comely boy.” Gratefully, Isabel lowered herself into the chair. She felt dizzy from her long walk and wished she’d had Anvrai’s strong arm to lean upon.
At least twenty Normans hovered nearby, men and women of all ages. Queen Margaret smiled at Isabel, then spoke to all who were gathered nearby. “Come…Introduce yourselves.”
Roger seemed to be on friendly terms with everyone, and with two comely young ladies in particular. All the Normans introduced themselves and spoke to her, but she barely heard them as she wondered where Anvrai might be.
Had he left for Belmere without telling her?
Panic seized her, and she could barely concentrate on the questions asked. Roger appointed himself her spokesman and answered for her, and Isabel vowed she would find out where Anvrai was, as soon as this audience was done.
“’Tis so dull here in the weeks before All Saints Day,” Margaret said, finally. “We will honor your recovery with a celebration. Cuilén,” she called to a man who stood outside the circle of Normans, “arrange it. Tomorrow, we shall have food, music, wine. ’Twill brighten the dreary days.”
Anvrai watched from a far corner of the hall as Isabel paled and sagged in her chair. She was weary, and Roger should know enough to take her back to her chamber.
The boy hadn’t matured in all this time, after all that had happened. Anvrai had assumed that the experiences they’d shared would cause him to grow up. Yet there stood the same Roger as the one who’d courted Isabel in her father’s garden.
Mayhap he was pleasing to Isabel again. He looked good, especially since putting some muscle upon his soft frame. And the value of his estates and his alliance with King William had not changed. He was exactly the kind of husband Lord Henri would want for his daughter.
“Sir Anvrai.”
He turned toward the voice and saw Lady Symonne approaching. Wearing a dark cape, she took his arm and covered her hair with the hood. “Come with me.”
Anvrai took a last look at Isabel and went out with Symonne. He followed her across the grounds and ended at the stable. They went inside, where grooms were sweeping and brushing down the animals. “I have something to show you,” she said, leading him to the farthest stall.
A magnificent red roan gelding stood inside. Its nostrils flared when it saw Symonne, and Anvrai reached in and rubbed its muzzle.
“He was bred for covering long distances, swiftly,” Symonne said.
“Aye. His legs are long and powerful.”
She lowered her voice. “He will carry you north, where King William’s forces will meet those of Malcolm. Deliver my message to the king and return before anyone takes note of your absence.”
Anvrai raised one brow. “I thought you had your own messenger.”
She shook her head. “My cousin is not known to William. He is as likely to be killed as he approaches the king’s army as he is to get through with my message. Those are unacceptable odds, now that I have you.”
“Who is to say I would not be just as readi
ly killed?”
“Sir Anvrai, they will know you,” she said. “Even I recognized you, although your appearance is certainly not as repulsive…aye, it’s been said your scarred face is terrible.” She brushed aside her insulting words and continued. “You are far more suited to this task than Sir Ranulf.”
Anvrai ran his hand down the supple equine muscles of the horse’s neck, back, and flank while he considered Symonne’s proposition. ’Twas hell, staying there, maintaining his distance from Isabel. She was safe and her wound nearly healed. Within days, she would be well enough to travel again. Whatever happened next was not his concern.
“I’ll need a map,” he said.
Chapter 21
Another day passed without Anvrai. Isabel dressed carefully for Queen Margaret’s fete, donning a kirtle of crimson with gold trim, and a bliaut of the same gold color. Tillie made intricate plaits in her hair and arranged it into a chignon at the nape of her neck. Surely when Anvrai saw her, he would not wish to avoid her any longer.
Her hopes sank when Roger came to escort her to the hall. Without Anvrai, Isabel had no heart for celebrating.
The music started as they descended the stairs, and there was much laughter and frivolity in the hall. Isabel escaped the dancing because of her injury, and sat beside the queen, watching Normans and Scottish courtiers socialize together in the hall.
Anvrai was not indifferent to her, yet he had abandoned her, leaving her entirely to Roger. His unspoken message could not have been clearer. He’d said it often enough although Isabel had hoped—
“Doesn’t the meal meet with your satisfaction, Lady Isabel?” the queen asked. She sat upon Isabel’s right, and Roger was on her other side, though he was engaged in lively conversation with the young noblewoman seated beside him.
“I apologize, Your Majesty, I…” she replied. “My appetite must have been affected by my illness.”
Margaret nodded. “At least you find our wine tolerable.”
Isabel looked into her goblet. It had been refilled at least twice, but she could not recall tasting it. “I’m afraid I am not good company this eve,” she said.
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