The Norman's Bride

“Eat.”

“Do you need something? Water? Broth?”

“You eat.” Her focus turned to the table and the bowl of hot stew sitting there.

William nodded and sat on the bench next to the table. It placed his back to her, but he did not move it. He concentrated on the meal and finished the thick stew, chunk of bread and cup of ale in a few minutes. Then he cleaned out the wooden bowl and cup and placed them up on the shelf in the corner. Lifting the pot from the hearth, he placed it on the floor to cool. Covering it with a battered lid, he knew that there were at least two more meals left within it.

When no other tasks lay before him, he paused before facing her. Nervousness grew inside him and he knew not the cause. This was the feeling that usually accompanied a new challenge or going into a fight, but he had neither planned. He only needed to face this unknown woman who was in his care. In his home.

Aye, that must be it, he thought. No other woman had spent the night here since he first moved from the keep. And he had not slept beside a woman in a very long time. Especially to sleep only. He had done that last night and now confusion over the way he felt about it filled him.

Finally he turned to his guest and found her watching his every move. He pulled the bench from the table, placed it next to her pallet and sat down. How do you begin when someone has lost all memory?

“Catherine?” He paused to see if she reacted. None. “Alyce? Emalie? Mary? Eleanor? Margaret?” None of the names elicited more than the lifting of her brow and a blank stare as she listened.

“I do not remember,” she whispered. “None sound like my own.”

“What do you remember? Any faces? Anyone else’s name?” How did you go about helping someone regain their memory?

“Would you help me up? I want to sit for a while.”

Her voice was soft and refined. Once more the suspicion that she was noble reared itself in his mind. The dog roused and moved away as he reached down and supported her head and shoulders to help her to sit. After packing the blankets behind her to keep her steady, he moved away and let her settle.

She clearly battled pain, for she held her breath and bit down on her lip. He watched her hands clutch and release the blankets over and over again. Since he could do nothing for her, he waited for her to gain control. A minute or two passed in silence as she gained some measure of relief in not moving.

“Voices?” He tried again to focus her thoughts.

“I know only you and those who were here today,” she replied.

For a moment, his heart threatened to stop beating. She knew him?

“Me?” He must know. An icy chill shivered through him as he waited. Had they met before?

“Royce. Last night, you told me you were called Royce.” She frowned as she spoke and he realized that all was well. Had his panic shown? He pushed his hair from his face and nodded. He must move away and focus the attention back on her.

“Shall we try a few more names? Mayhap one will trigger a memory?”

“I do not think so. Avryl has been doing the same thing each time I wake.”

“Really?” She nodded slightly, pain still clear on her face. “Would you simply like to pick a name you’d care to be called until we find out who you are?”

“Isabel sounded nice when Avryl mentioned it.”

“Well, then, Isabel is it.” He smiled and let the name settle in his mind. “Isabelle.” He repeated the way he used to say his mother’s name.

“You speak French?” she asked.

He cleared his throat and nodded. No use denying he spoke the language of the court. Many did, not just the nobles who existed within its hierarchy. He gave away nothing by admitting the truth. Then she shocked him by speaking to him in that language.

“Have you always lived here?” she asked in flawless French. Then she blinked several times, surprised at the words she’d spoken. “I speak French?” she asked in English once more.

“Apparently.” He turned the conversation back to her instead. “Do you remember traveling there or speaking it?”

She—nay, Isabel now—closed her eyes and sat quietly. Myriad emotions crossed her face, none staying for more than an instant. She shook her head. “No.”

William felt the disappointment as she uttered that single word. Surely, when her injuries healed, her memory would return. Surely.

“Do not dwell on that. For now, rest and regain your strength.” He stood and prepared the cottage for the night. She said nothing as he moved from spot to spot, placing his sword and sharpening stone on the floor next to his sleeping place and wrapping a rope around the knob on the door.

“Would you like to sit or should I help you lie back down?”

“I would stay up for now. Will it disturb your rest?” she asked.

“Nay. Sit as long as you’d like. I have to work on my sword, so I won’t go to sleep right away.”

He sat down and gathered his tools closer. Wrapping the well-oiled cloth around the blade of his sword, he wiped it clean. Then he picked up the stone and began to smooth away any roughness caused in the day’s practice. Over and over, he slid the stone down the length of the sword in even strokes, putting a fine edge onto the steel of the weapon.

The movements tended to soothe her as she watched the motion of his hand and the sword in the shadows thrown off by the hearth’s low flames and allowed her thoughts to roam more freely. She had many questions she wanted to ask him but feared interrupting his work. He had already done so much for her and the last thing she wanted was to annoy him.

“I am not tired,” she whispered across the room. Her black hair fell over her shoulders as she shook her head.

Royce looked over at her and nodded, his movements never slowing or altering. “You have slept much in these last weeks. I am certain that some restlessness must be expected as you heal.”

Restlessness? Was that what she felt? Although she knew he would not hurt her, a measure of absolute panic ran through her. How could she not know her own name? Could someone survive in this state, never coming back to themselves? The shiver of fear ran deep and threatened her hard-fought-for control.

“Are you cold?” he asked, putting his weapon aside and beginning to stand. “Let me build the fire up.”

She raised her hand to stop him. It took all her strength to move it, but she was pleased to know her body was coming back under her power.

“I am not cold. And I do not want to disturb your work.” Her movement was not without a price to her for it caused the pain to flow and ebb through her. She waited and took another breath. “I am fine.”

“Not fine, but not cold is more like it,” Royce said, settling down on his pallet. “I suspect you will not be fine for some time more.”

He inspected the blade and checked its sharpness with his thumb. He moved the stone over one side and then the other, repeating the action and checking every few minutes. The silence in the room was not uncomfortable and she watched the muscles in his arms ripple as he worked.

“Will you tell me of this place?” She, Isabel as she would call herself now, had many questions to ask.

“This land belongs to Lord Orrick. His family has been here for decades and descends from the Norse invaders who took control of this land many years ago.”

“We are near the coast?”

“Silloth is a small holding on the south end of the Firth of Solway. How did you know?” His hands never slowed as he spoke.

“I did not know,” she answered. “It was more of a feeling of the air around me being different.”

“So you come not from the coast but from inland?”

“I…do…not…know.” The terror welled from its place deep inside her. It was building stronger and soon would be unmanageable. Not knowing, not recognizing, not being someone. It was too much.