The Norman's Bride

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 dark, 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.

William lit a candle and placed it on the table. Sitting with his back to Isabel, he opened the box, took out the top letter and, with the greatest of care, smoothed it open. The reverend mother’s words of greeting gave way to a report on the status of his sister Catherine. Although her physical recovery was wonderful news to him, the rest of the letter tore him apart, for he was the one whose actions had destroyed Catherine’s life and made her the target of the evil machinations of a dark prince of the realm.