The Norman's Bride. Terri Brisbin

kind or another arrived when requested, the king and his brother bothered them not. With King William of Scotland and King Richard’s agreement some years ago, the north of England lay in relative quiet while chaos in the kingdoms to the south, on the continent, held Plantagenet attentions.

      “How may I help you, my lady?” William dropped the tent flap behind him and stepped closer.

      “I rely on your opinions, as does my lord husband, and have a question for you.” The lady changed from the rough English tongue and now spoke to him in Norman French, their native language.

      He nodded and waited for her question. She played this game often—speaking in a language not heard in the mostly Saxon northwest. If she had revealed this practice to Lord Orrick, he knew not, for Orrick never mentioned it to him and she did this only in private, with her maid as the only witness.

      “While at the convent, should I mention or seek out information about a woman having been beaten and left on our property? So many people pass through its gates that surely someone may have heard or known the woman you harbor.”

      William thought about her words. Since the prioress of the Gilbertine Abbey was her sister, Lady Margaret would have no problem seeking out information about such a woman. But he knew, just as surely, that someone did not want the woman now called Isabel to live. And that someone might very well still be in the area or be waiting to hear of anything that could link him to the attack. No, until Isabel had some sense of herself, the danger to her life still existed.

      “I would listen, my lady, but ask nothing at this time.”

      She smiled and nodded. “I understand, though what bothers me is the harshness of this. ’Tis easy enough these days to rid one’s self of an unwanted wife by putting her aside and placing her in a convent or other religious community. Having her killed is a bit excessive.”

      “One would think so, my lady.” He had enjoyed her irreverent sense of humor since he’d been introduced to her. She was very different from Lord Orrick in temperament and upbringing, but it seemed that opposites did attract in their case.

      “Then, unless words are offered, none will be given about this woman. Has she spoken of her life? Know you anything yet?” Lady Margaret motioned for him to sit in a chair next to her and he did so. Her maid offered him a cup of ale.

      “She continues to live without knowledge of her past, or at least, none that she can speak of.” Lady Margaret nodded at him.

      “But you suspect what?” Another thing he respected about the lady—her intelligence.

      “She speaks as one noble-born. She has fleeting memories that speak of wealth. She knows of knights and squires and she knows our Norman French.”

      Lady Margaret’s eyebrows rose at those revelations. “Is she aware that you know these things?”

      “The French, yes. We exchanged a few words in it when she realized I understood it.”

      He waited for the Lady Margaret’s reaction, for no one but she and her maid knew this about him. He’d sheltered his past from all in Silloth. She chose, and he recognized it for the conscious decision it was, to ignore this weakness on his part and offer her own suspicions.

      “A lord’s bastard or leman? Both could have that same background—raised or living near the noble-born, exposed to the wealth and privilege of those in that rank.”

      It was his turn to raise a brow. Never had she come so close to speaking of her truth to him before. He knew it, of course. He had heard the story many times both in his homeland of Anjou and at the court of Eleanor—although no one would have ever spoken of it in the queen’s presence. Then called Marguerite, she was the bastard of one of Henry’s closest allies in Anjou and her beauty and wit drew him like a bee to honey. She’d been Henry’s mistress for a number of years before overstepping her bounds and demanding marriage of the king.

      Henry had, in his own way, said yes. But he’d married her off to Lord Orrick, in thanks for services rendered in his service in the north of England and Marguerite became Margaret. So far as he knew, she’d been the perfect English wife to the powerful lord. Her tale had been used for years to caution those women hungry to gain the royal gaze and attentions that, regardless of his volatile relationship with his queen, Henry would never voluntarily give up anything Eleanor had brought to their union.

      “That is a possibility, of course. Until she remembers more, there is no way for us to know.”

      Lady Margaret stood and handed her goblet to her maid. “Tell my husband when you return that she should be moved into the keep and placed in my care. When she is able, that is. Let Wenda guide us on that. As my sister would say, she has been delivered to us for a reason. We should be responsible in our care until we discern the Almighty’s reasons.”

      “Aye, my lady.” He rose as she did and handed his cup over as well. “We will break our fast and be ready to leave anon.”

      “I shall be ready, Royce.” When the last words were spoken once more in English, he knew their discussion was over.

      There were no more private meetings during the rest of their two days of travel through Thursby and into Carlisle. William and his men delivered Lady Margaret to her sister’s abbey outside Carlisle and left the next morning to return to Silloth. If he forced the group to travel more quickly on their return, no one remarked on it. All knew that their pace was faster due to the lack of women, but William also knew he wanted to get back to see how Isabel was progressing. As Lady Margaret had said, he needed to be responsible in his care of their injured stranger.

      They arrived later than he had planned and he was drawn into several hours of discussions with Orrick about the news from Carlisle and the building of the new stone wall around the keep. He accepted Orrick’s standing invitation to stay the night, but the dawn found him awake. In spite of Orrick’s assurances that a man had been sent to guard her, William could not fight the urge to return to his cottage and see to her safety.

      It was an hour after dawn when he approached his home. As he dismounted from the horse that made his arrival sooner rather than later, he heard voices from inside. A man’s and a woman’s. No. Two women’s voices—Isabel’s and Avryl’s. William walked to the door and opened it.

      The first thing he noticed was that she stared at him with wide, jade-green eyes and did not look away. Then he realized she was sitting up, on a chair in front of the hearth. And after nearly three years of taking notice of little and having even less interest than that in the way of things, he saw that her black hair reached to her hips.

      The silence rose between them and he was aware of Avryl and young John who stood and watched. No words came to him. He searched for something to say and nothing happened. Except that he felt the rising tension in the room and knew he must stop it. Finally he took a breath and blurted out his first thoughts without censoring them for the others present.

      “By the look of things, your bath went well.”

      He watched the blush spread over her face, down her neck and below the collar of her gown. Isabel blinked several times and looked away from him. He listened to Avryl’s sudden intake of breath and tried to ignore the choking sound that young John made. The gangly youth with the scruffy growth of a first beard on his face stood protectively near Isabel. With a sinking feeling in his gut, William realized the personal nature of his words.

      Inappropriate and personal. Well, they would be if he had not been taking care of her for weeks. Confused by the reaction in the room and the change from cheery to uncomfortable, William sought to explain himself.

      “I did not seek to embarrass you, Isabel, and meant only that you look well. How are you feeling?”

      He moved across the room and crouched in front of her, focusing on her. When closer to her, he could see the results of her injuries. Wenda had removed the numerous stitches from Isabel’s face, but the angry scar still outlined her from scalp to chin. More of the redness and bruising would go away with time; however, the area looked sore right now. Her nose carried a bump