The Norman's Bride Read online

  “I am ever the warrior?”

  “A warrior of some success, it would seem. Do not belittle your survival or the strength of will it took on your part.”

  “Or your part in my survival.”

  This was getting much too dangerous a way of discussing the simple topic of her scars. He needed to bring the conversation and situation under control…under his control.

  “I am happy I was able to bring you in from the forest and get Wenda’s aid for you.”

  She scrutinized his face for a moment and nodded. “You have my thanks for that and more.”

  Knowing when to retreat was as important in a battle as knowing when to fight. And William knew, as soon as he was looking at her and noticing her features, her face, her hair and her form that he was in over his head. ’Twas as if he could feel the crack in the shell of his well-ordered, well-controlled, empty life begin in his soul. Once begun, ’twould matter not if the break came from within or without.

  “If you need naught from me, I must return to the keep.”

  William waited for her reply and, when she shook her head, he searched through his storage chest for something, anything, that made it look as though he had come to retrieve it. Taking out a small wooden box, he turned to her.

  “I told Lord Orrick I would bring this to him. I shall return later.”

  He left the cottage and made it into the trees before the mocking words in his mind clarified how low he’d sunk.

  Coward was repeated but joined by another word.

  Liar.

  Chapter Six

  Exhausted from the past three days’ efforts at sitting, standing and bathing, Isabel spent most of the day on her pallet. The frustration was building within her as each new day gave her no more insight into who she was or where she had come from. Or how she had gotten here, to this lone cottage in the woods some distance from Lord Orrick’s keep. Avryl had returned for the afternoon and Isabel enjoyed the tales of those who lived under Lord Orrick’s protection.

  That would be her next goal—to be strong enough to visit the keep and the village. And then…then she would… No thoughts came to mind after that. For the one thing she wanted most was that which eluded her grasp still.

  Pushing away the not-so-pleasant reality of her life, she decided that she was done with self-pity for the day and would try to sit up in her chair to eat supper with Royce. Avryl’s very fragrant fish stew was on the hearth, bubbling and soon to be done. A small loaf of dark, crusty bread sat wrapped on the table. It was her intention to set out the bowls and cups by herself—a minor accomplishment in any woman’s day but a more monumental one for her.

  Isabel lifted the covers off her and sat up. Forcing her breaths in and out as she moved, she turned onto her side, then her knees. Using all of her strength, she grasped one arm of the chair and pulled herself onto her feet. Taking a moment to regain her balance, she shuffled a few steps until she was closer to the chair, careful not to put too much weight on her still-healing leg.

  Rather than sitting down, Isabel stood and stepped closer to the table. Reaching up to the shelf above it, she took down two pottery bowls and cups and placed them on the table. After another moment of balancing, spoons joined the ensemble. Then, placing herself midway between the table and the small cupboard, she managed to grasp and lift the jug of water and then the jug of ale kept there.

  Exhausted but pleased with the results of her efforts, Isabel stumbled over to her chair and sat down with more of a thump than she would have liked. Her leg ached, truly it ached terribly, but the sharp and burning pains were gone. She smiled, another battle won. Soon she would walk without pain. Then she could…

  Her next thoughts were lost to her as she caught sight of him outside the open door. His eyes met hers and she knew he’d been watching her for some time. There was more in his expression however than just simple curiosity. Something deep within his eyes spoke to her of loneliness and need and denial and a hunger so strong it nearly took her breath. It was something so personal and so personally devastating that it disappeared as soon as he knew he had shown too much to her.

  Her heart sped up as she watched him walk into the cottage. He took over the space of the room with his presence and his size, for he was much taller than she and had the build of a true warrior, one who battled with swords and strength of body. He wore the simple clothes of a man in the service to another, but Isabel could almost imagine him in the fine dress required at the royal courts. A deep red tunic would bring out the silver in his eyes and the darkness of his hair….

  She blinked, trying to regain control over her wayward thoughts. Royce walked over to where she sat and looked at the table she had prepared.

  “You have been busy this day. Were you not supposed to rest?”

  “I did rest,” she said, her words stumbling a bit as she spoke. “I am following Wenda’s advice of adding a new challenge to each of my days.”

  He crouched down nearer the fire and lifted the lid of the pot. The smells of the seasoned stew floated through the air and her stomach grumbled in anticipation of it. He looked back and smiled.

  “Nothing increases your hunger so much as pushing yourself to your physical limits. You must be famished.”

  Embarrassed by her noisy stomach and by a sense that a lady should not reveal her appetites, she only smiled. When she would have stood to move to one of the benches, he stopped her with a motion of his hand. Royce surprised her then by lifting one edge of the table and dragging it over in front of her. Her plan to serve the food was at an end since she was now trapped behind the table. Part of her was disappointed, but a larger part of her was grateful for his intervention.

  Royce moved the pot to the edge of the embers and ladled out two bowlfuls of the stew. He gave her the same portion as his and she thought to protest, not needing so much, but the set of his chin gave her pause. Then he reached for a skin of wine that hung from the cupboard; he poured some in her cup and handed it to her. Instead of arguing, she sipped it before tasting any of the food.

  “Wenda said that the herbs in this will ease your pain and help you sleep better.”

  “Without making me lose consciousness like her last brew?”

  He smiled. “She assures me so. She said you have no tolerance for some of the herbs she added last time.”

  Isabel nodded at him, lifted a spoonful of the thick stew to her mouth and savored its well-cooked taste. After a few minutes of silent eating, she wanted to talk to him.

  “I have been eating Avryl’s cooking, or that of her mother, for all these weeks and have yet to taste two of her fish stews or soups that are the same.”

  “’Tis true. They are good at cooking.” He shoved another spoonful of stew into his mouth and chewed it.

  “Fish is plentiful here?”

  “It is a mainstay of our diet. Even the fish-days of Lent are no hardship, as the women here lack not in ways to cook it.”

  “Because we are near the coast?” Wenda had explained where the lands of Lord Orrick were located and the general surroundings of the area.

  “Aye, and because Lord Orrick owns most of the sea lathes to the north where salt is produced. So, fresh in summer or salted in winter, fish is always on our tables.”

  “I think I like the sea.” Isabel could see an image in her mind of the ocean, with its salty scent and its waves crashing wildly onto a sandy beach. Then she could see two young girls frolicking on that beach, one with black hair and one with blond. They splashed along the edge of the ocean, their gowns dragging on the wet sand as they ran in the shallow water. They were held back from running in completely by the stern warning of—

  “Isabel?”

  She closed her eyes, knowing that she wanted to keep the scene she’d watched in her memory, for it was important in some way. But, to her despair, the sounds and sights grew dimmer until it was gone.

  “Isabel? Are you well?” Royce touched her hand and she opened her eyes.

  “
I saw…I remembered.” Her throat clogged with tears and she could not get the words out. He held her hand under his and squeezed it gently.

  “Do not fight these memories, Isabel. Let them flow over you when they happen. Grasping too tightly simply forces them away.”

  She swallowed to clear her throat. “How know you of such things?” Did he not speak of his past because he could not remember it? Was that how he could seem to understand her every struggle against this overwhelming darkness?

  “A very wise person counseled me about this. I yield to her knowledge, not my own.” He nodded at her and lifted his hand from hers. Returning to his meal, he did not speak again.

  Her knowledge. Wenda? But, if Wenda was this wise person, why had he not simply called her by name? Because he spoke of someone else. Someone in the past that he held close to him and that he shared with no one here in Lord Orrick’s estates. She was certain of it.

  They finished the rest of their meal in silence. It felt so different to her to be sitting up at the table and eating instead of reclining on her pallet. It felt wonderful.

  “So, you are happy with your successes this day?” His voice was deep, even when lightened by his tone.

  “I am. I was able to get to my feet alone, to stand and even to walk a few steps from chair to table and back again. I expect to be battle ready by the end of the week.”

  He laughed at her nonsensical boast and she looked at his face as he did. Most of the time he wore a frown, deeply troubled by something or worried over something. His manner was always intent, focusing on his duties or the activity that held his attention. The laugh altered his countenance and showed her a man much younger than she had thought him to be. Her curiosity won and she blurted out her thought to him.

  “You are a score and ten?”

  His gaze narrowed on her and she thought he would not answer, but he did.

  “Nigh to that. And you?”

  “A score and five.”

  He nodded at her words and then she began to tremble. She had not considered his question at all before answering it. The words had simply escaped from her. His hand on hers, when it happened, was comforting against the fear.

  “I have five and twenty years,” she repeated, now more sure that it was true when the words came out.

  “And?” he asked.

  She tried to search her memory but it was dark. Nothing came to her. She shook her head.

  Royce stood and moved the table back to its place by the side of the hearth, near the cottage’s lone window. She watched as the task was accomplished with little effort on his part. The strength of a warrior. Then he pulled a bench next to her chair and sat on it, leaning down and closer to her.

  “Tell me what you remembered before. We spoke of the ocean and you were watching something in your thoughts.”

  She was almost undone by the kindness in his manner and tone. She felt the tears gathering in her eyes when he took her hands in his and held them.

  “Fear not, Isabel. Simply close your eyes, take a breath and tell me of your ocean.”

  She did as he told her and thought once more about the ocean and its waves. Soon the scene from before filled her mind and she watched as though she were on the shore. Isabel saw the two girls with their gowns growing wetter as they ran along the length of the rocky beach. Darting into the water and out again, they raced each other, always laughing and screaming at the coldness of the water on their bare legs.

  “Tell me what you see,” he whispered.

  “Two girls, one with black hair and one with pale, running on a beach.”

  “How old are they?”

  “They have not ten years yet.” She watched as they darted among the boulders that crept up to the ocean’s edge. She smiled. “They run like the wind.”

  “Tell me of the day.”

  Isabel looked around the scene before her and noticed that the sun was hovering above the sea, gaining strength. “’Tis only after dawn, for the sun just now rises over the edge of the sea. We sneaked away to play pretend on the beach.”

  Royce noticed the change in her view, for now it was “we” and not “the girls.” “What do you pretend you are?”

  “Maidens running from Viking warriors. We pretend that we can see far out to sea and watch their ships approach from the north and east.”

  She was on the east coast of England. And, if she was correct, she had a blond-haired sister, although many people whose hair was light as children darkened with age. He suspected that it was her sister who played pretend on the beach.

  William nearly let out a laugh of his own when he realized that his own Viking forebears would have licked their lips over such a prize unguarded on an English beach.

  “Who is with you on the beach?” He watched as her eyes moved behind closed lids. He still held her hands in his.

  “My sister and our maid. See her there?” Isabel turned her head to one side.

  William marveled at her ability to see these scenes. ’Twas then he noticed her empty cup on the table. Were Wenda’s herbs causing this? Could this be a way to encourage her memory to return?

  “Isabel, what is your sister’s name? Call out to her now.” William waited for a response. If he discovered the name of her sister, it might be possible to trace her family after all.

  Her face lightened first as she began to call out a name, but none came, no words were said, no names called. She turned her head from side to side as though seeking someone.

  “They’re going!” she shouted. “They’re going away,” she whispered mournfully. Tears glistened as they rolled down her cheeks. “Please…”

  Her sorrow and frustration tore at him. He had thought to help to guide her to some memories, but had only caused her more pain. William released her hands and let them fall to her lap. Taking her by the shoulders, he called out to her.

  “Isabel. Open your eyes, Isabel.”

  Her eyes fluttered and then slowly opened. Her gaze was vague, as though lost in some other place. He was not certain she even recognized him.

  “Isabel? Can you hear me?” He shook her gently to rouse her. A look of resignation filled her now.

  “Royce? What happened?” She put her hand up and touched her forehead. “I feel so dizzy.”

  “Here,” he said, putting his arms around her and lifting her from the chair. “I think you pushed yourself too far today. You are overwrought.”

  William carried her the short distance to her pallet. Kneeling down, he gently placed her on it and stepped back. As he watched, she shifted on the blankets and positioned her leg before lying back.

  “Try to sleep,” he told her. “And on the morrow, try to pace yourself.”

  “Yes, commander,” she whispered, calling him the name he had used for her just a few days before.

  “I did not mean to give you orders, Isabel. I but sought to suggest…”

  She reached out for his hand, stopping his words, and when he leaned down and gave it to her, she squeezed it. “I thank you for your care of me, Royce. I know I would have been dead without you.”

  He reached over her and took another blanket from the pile next to her. Shaking it out, he placed it over her. He did not trust himself to say anything, for her gratitude had caused a strong reaction inside his soul. She did not know, could never know, how much her presence brightened his sorry life. Never know how much life she had brought into his existence even as close to death as she once was. She could never know that she had made him think about a future in spite of the fact that she certainly could not be in any future of his.

  William was not as strong and aloof as he would have wished at that moment, for before he stood and went about cleaning up the cottage for the night, he allowed himself to reach out and touch the smoothness of her cheek. And he allowed his thumb to brush over the softness of her mouth as he enjoyed, for a single second, the guilty pleasure of imagining that he could kiss her lips. When she turned into his palm, as she had many times during her d
ark, unconscious nights of pain, he knew he would remember it for years after she was gone and when his life was as it was before her arrival.

  Before going too far to turn back, he asserted his control and stood up. “Sleep well, Isabel.”

  She must have seen his struggle or recognized it and been frightened by the desire in his eyes, for she simply nodded and turned on her side. ’Twas a good thing, for his hard-won self-control was waning and any sign of welcome from her would be his complete undoing.

  He followed his routine without thought, gathering up the dishes, covering and moving the pot for the night, hanging the wineskin back on the cupboard and putting everything in order. He needed some distance to regain his equilibrium and decided to walk to the stream while she fell asleep.

  “I will return anon, Isabel. I need to fill the jug of water for the morning.”

  She did not reply and he had hoped she would not. Escaping with the jug under his arm, he snapped his fingers to call the dog to follow him. This time, the mutt heeded his call and ran at his side through the trees.

  Sometime later, after tearing off his clothes and swimming in the frigid water, after cursing himself for the fool he was becoming, he returned to the cottage to find Isabel asleep. He watched the even movements of her shoulders for a few moments and then, convinced she was soundly asleep, he brought in the small leather-covered box he had taken from his storage chest. It had all been a ruse that day, an attempt to make her think he’d been there for a reason other than to see her. He would never show anyone, especially Lord Orrick, the contents of this box, for it exposed his secrets in a terribly painful way.

  But he kept the papers inside, for they strengthened his resolve when he faced a weak moment like this one. When he thought that mayhap he should seek a life, or seek to share his existence with someone else, he was drawn back to this collection of parchment.

  Passed from Gilbertine convent to Gilbertine convent by way of messengers and travelers, the letters had made their way from near Lincoln to the place where Lady Margaret’s sister was prioress. He knew not if his lord’s wife was aware of the letters passed on to him by her sister, but they never spoke of them or of his need to receive packages from the prioress.